The smell of meat cooking and fresh potatoes stewing over the fire permeated the air. Richard was so hungry that he could taste the smell. He kept his eyes closed and thought a few more minutes of sleep would preserve his strength and when supper was ready he would get up and eat.
“Wake up---wake up.” He heard a man’s voice whisper. Richard was disoriented by the sound. In that liminal state between sleep and consciousness he thought perhaps someone had finally found them and came to take Victoria and himself back to Grove Street where they could recuperate under a physician’s care.
“Wake up, man.” The voice insisted. Richard opened his eyes slowly and he saw the visage of an Indian hovering over him. He was gnawing on a piece of meat, the melted fat dripping down his chin.
“It’s me, Uncas. Come.” The man said as he grabbed Richard’s hand and attempted to pull him up. Richard rubbed his eyes for a moment as he sat up.
“You’re not Uncas.” Richard said. The man laughed heartily.
“No, but I interpret him on stage.” Booth said. “Come, we’ve got to hurry.” He urged. Richard stood upright and felt lightheaded. As he caught the sunlight through the window he could see that the snow had melted and that Spring had returned. Everything was green and lush.
“Where’s Victoria?” Richard asked.
“She’s waiting for us. Come.” Booth insisted. They wandered out into the yard where Michelangelo was tethered and saddled. Booth laced his hands and bent over.
“You’ll need some help.” He said. Richard began to insist he could mount himself but then felt a wave of weakness and steadied himself with the fence post. He slipped his boot into Booth’s hands and the assassin hoisted Richard up and onto the animal. Then in a split second he acrobatically swung himself up, over and behind Richard and adjusted comfortably behind the lip of the saddle.
“Hand me the reins, if you please.” Booth instructed. Richard, feeling as though he might pass out, followed orders. In a moment Booth clicked and they were trotting at a quick pace through the yard and into the farmland of the flatlands. The air was crisp and fresh and temperate. Michelangelo was amiable with her adventure. It had been awhile since she had stretched her legs. Richard reached down in his trouser pocket and he felt Chelsea’s card. Somehow it reassured him that he was someplace real and not in the midst of a dream. They moved along the perimeter of Prospect Park. People were out in their carriages or strolling along the walkways enjoying a day of leisure. It reminded Richard of only a few days prior just before the storm moved in. It seemed as though every New Yorker was out taking in the fine weather. Booth navigated Michelangelo into the park and they moved quickly through the brambles. Gunshots suddenly pierced the quiet day. The wooded area filled with smoke and the smell of burnt powder. Unseen men shouted out commands as others in red coats darted quickly through the brush.
“Shouldn’t we take cover?” Richard said startled.
“Remnants.” Booth replied. As they moved out into an open road they passed a military brigade of Englishmen fighting for the crown. Wide-eyed and confused Richard took in the spectacle like a small boy.
“Washington is just over that ridge.” Booth pointed out as they passed a large boulder in the woods. The place no longer resembled a park but a dense woodland area and battleground. Suddenly Booth halted the horse and pointed to a tall thin man standing just to the left of earthen breastworks, Flatbush Pass.
“That’s him.” Booth said. “That’s our first president.”
“I feel like I’m in a Dicken’s novel.” Richard replied. “If there is something I need to know please tell me so that I can go home.”
“Ah. That won’t do. I could tell you lots of things but you will not understand until you experience them.” He replied enigmatically.
“This is a dream---I, I know it must be a dream. And you’ve made me Scrooge and I must say I’m too sick and far too tired to do this now.” Richard pleaded.
“Ah, but that is when the greatest knowledge can take effect.” Booth laughed. He clicked and Michelangelo moved along unfazed by the gunfire, cannons and screams. A cloud of smoke cloaked the woods and as they navigated the trail it seemed as though they were floating through a thick bank of fog. Then something within Richard made him shrink at the thought of being in London once again. Something about the dankness and desperate lives existing there made him shiver. He felt the undeniable pains of hunger just like when he was a child on the streets. The dampness made him cold to his bones. He forced himself to think of happier times with Victoria and the fog faded and the trail in the park resumed its familiar topography. As they approached a tunnel Booth handed the reins to Richard and in an instant he was alone. The horse ambled to a stop. Everything was quiet. It seemed as if no one was in the area. Peace had been restored. The trail led into the tunnel and Richard was familiar enough with the landscape to know where he was and so he clicked and Michelangelo hesitated. The sound of horse hooves approaching in the distance made her antsy and she tried to turn the other way. Richard pulled hard at the reins to keep Michelangelo from reversing. The horseman barreled through the tunnel and Richard could see that it was an apparition. He reasoned that it was a figment of his imagination or that perhaps the fever had returned and he was hallucinating. The hooded figure on a black steed aimed right for Richard and although Richard clicked and kicked and then shouted at Michelangelo she would not budge. Richard ducked into the saddle as the collision would be imminent. A tingling rush of air passed through him and as he turned to see the horseman go there was nothing. He could hear Booth laughing from his hiding place in the woods. Richard angrily wheeled the animal about, kicked hard and began to retrace his steps.
“There is no return.” Booth shouted.
“You’re bloody mad.” Richard retorted and rode back down the trail. Booth followed hopping along the brush that grew at the sides of the worn path.
“You must admit that was a fantastic trick.” Booth laughed. “Do you know who the headless horseman was?”
“No and I’m certain I don’t care.” Richard said angrily.
“Lincoln.” Booth snickered. Richard grew enraged and he looked for something to flog the insufferable actor. He gazed down at the saddle and found a piece of leather tied to the saddle. It was for attaching a bedroll or some kind baggage. With a little effort he slipped the leather thong from its place and wound the end about his wrist. He moved the reins in a hard right angle and Michelangelo reared up for a moment and turned. Richard whipped Booth as he fumbled for cover in the brush.
“Leave me be!” Richard shouted. “I’ll hang you with it next!” Richard had moved beyond containment. His anger was so inflamed that he kicked the poor horse hard. He felt that if he could gallop back to the manor house at top speed the air would calm him down.
As he rushed through the woods he found himself engulfed once more in the thick fog. The terrain changed and something about it was familiar. The scent in the air and the dampness reminded him of his midnight ride to the estate in Northampton to reunite with Victoria a few years before. The sunlight filtered through the mist and created a dappled effect. Then suddenly another figure appeared. It was a man and as he moved closer Richard was aware that it was yet another Indian. Booth had disappeared slipping inconspicuously into the brush. The man was regal and graceful and elegant. His hair was shorn at the sides in Mohawk fashion even though the Mohawks were his mortal enemy. Richard noticed that the Indian emanated light and calm. And as he drew near he smiled amiably. Then he raised his arm and pointed to a large field. Perhaps this is the direction to go but it was not the way home. He clicked for Michelangelo to move closer and as he drew nearer he could see the soft doe eyes that were once Victoria’s.
“I will not tell you wrong.” The Indian said softly and his voice was familiar like a father’s.
“Who are you?” Richard asked softly and he felt his heart begin to lift and a wave of emotion rush by.
“Tamanend.” The man said and his warm smile touched Richard so profoundly that he could feel himself begin to weep.
“I know you.” Richard said earnestly and he dismounted his ride. It felt like a reunion of a long lost family member.
“And I, you.” Tamanend said as he held out his arm to shake wrists in the familiar aboriginal way. “There is much to learn.” He added. Richard nodded as he wiped his eyes on his coat sleeve.
“You have found me once again in this life.” The Indian smiled. “And so you will again in the next.” And he pointed to Richard’s pocket. Richard pulled Chelsea’s card out and gazed at it. Then Tamanend placed his finger on the card and slowly moved his finger to his chest smiling kindly. Then he faded into the mist with only his soft brown eyes visible and as the sun burned the moisture away the Indian’s eyes melted into the verdant landscape. Richard realized he had been presented with a riddle and as he pulled himself up onto Michelangelo’s back and began to ride in the direction that Tamanend pointed out, his mind opened up and thoughts and memories from other times began to rush in. He passed a few farmers that were old enough to be his great-great-grandfather’s age if he had one. But they appeared young and virile like him. They wore the familiar tricorn hats of the time and breeches. He realized he was witnessing the birth of his beloved America. But he was born in England in 1861. And he knew that the American revolution had taken place just under a century before. It was confusing and his head began to hurt. He moved through the fields with ease and it seemed as though Michelangelo knew the way. She crossed a small canal that then opened into farmland. A Dutch stone house stood alone in the fields. Vechte Cortelyu had been carved into a fence post. A young boy ran out excitedly speaking Dutch and guided Michelangelo to the trough in the front of the house. “feestelijk inhalen!” Richard let the animal and the boy guide him. His energy was seeping away and he felt as though he might pass out. He slid off the horse and the boy grabbed hold of his hand. “Da! Da!” He exclaimed and an older gentleman stepped across the threshold and his face betrayed his concern. He took Richard by the arm and led him inside. A woman sat at the table snapping beans. She got up suddenly and the couple helped Richard into a straight-backed chair. The woman fetched water quickly and the man offered fresh oysters from the canal outside. It had been a long while since Richard had oysters. They were seasonal and the winter had been harsh. As the woman took her knife and broke open the shells the man passed them to Richard and gestured for him to eat. They slipped easily down his throat and the taste reminded him of summer and champagne and evenings along the boardwalk strolling with Victoria on the beaches of Long Island Sound. He noticed another man in a top hat and great coat sitting in the corner. He blended into the shadows of the house So well that Richard almost overlooked him but the glass of green liquid caught the sunlight and Richard’s attention. By his looks and his dress the gentleman was a contemporary of his and he slowly brought the glass to his lips and took a slow easy pull. For a moment Richard wondered if he was in a stopping place for the dead.
“I hear you were accused of murdering Shakespeare, Mr. Rhys.” The gentleman said softly. A shiver shot up through Richard’s spine. He had thought for sure that the rumors had been put to rest. It had been almost a year ago and the police constantly kept their eye on him. He even noticed that plainclothes men wandering the streets in the village might actually be working for Scotland Yard. The New York Police made no secret of their interest in Richard as an ongoing suspect. The only reason he was not hauled into the Tombs every other week is because he was married to Victoria. He also had an ironclad alibi.
“We have not been properly introduced.” Richard said softly.
“Oh. Yes…we have.” The man replied. Then he took another slow pull of the neon green elixir and pulled away his top hat.
“Mr. Jones.” Richard exclaimed. The gentleman smiled amiably. He looked tired and pre-occupied. “But…I found you---“ Richard started.
“---Indeed.” Mr. Jones said.
“Frozen.” Richard added. Mr. Jones nodded in agreement.
“There is no possible way that you could have been alive. You had been frozen solid in the snow drift.” Richard said more for himself than as an explanation.
“I concur.” Mr. Jones replied gently sipping the absinthe.
“Did you know the prostitute they called ‘Shakespeare’?” Mr. Jones asked.
Richard took a moment and thought carefully. Victoria had changed his life and his beliefs of right and wrong and so he wondered what she might do if she were in his situation. She would tell the truth.
“Yes. Yes, I did.” Richard replied. Mr. Jones smiled.
“Are you Jack the Ripper?” Mr. Jones asked pointedly.
“No.” Richard said without flinching. “No. I am not. I was not one of her customers. I was simply a very small benefactor.” Mr. Jones laughed heartily and took another sip of his drink.
“Charity is for the church. Money is never given freely without some sort of obligation. After all when the alms are distributed Christ comes for the heart. There’s always a trade.” Mr. Jones said.
“Perhaps.” Richard replied. “I did not fuck her if that is what you’re on about.”
“Ahhh, there are other methods of satisfaction. No one ever suggested that the Whitechapel murderer engaged in sex.” Mr. Jones explained. “As a matter of fact he never did.”
“How would you know?” Richard asked. Mr. Jones smiled knowingly.
“Mrs. Hopkins sent me out one day to the Chinamen.” He began. “Apparently the scullery maid, and washwoman had come down with Typhoid and she did not want the laundry infected. So I was sent out with several items of your clothing. Mrs. Thornton—
“Mrs. Rhys.” Richard corrected.
“Yes. Well she certainly bought you some very well tailored suits.” Mr. Jones smiled. “I couldn’t resist, you see.”
Richard’s head began to spin. All that time in London that he had been accused and hounded by the authorities made sense. It began when he first met Victoria on that snowy night in the East End.
“My father was a butcher by trade.” Mr. Jones said quietly. “I wanted a vocation that was more refined and respected. But then if it’s in the blood…”
“Why? Why did you do it?” Richard asked. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted to hear the answer.
“Something about time.” Mr. Jones mused. “Something about the summer and the fall…The warm air and the fair sex. The fragrance of flowers on the misty evenings. The soft glow of lamplight on bare skin at Cremorne Gardens. The music and the flesh. The smell of drink and perspiration and cheap cologne.” Then he stopped and stared out at some unseen dream and for a moment Richard thought he could hear the faint notes of a string band playing popular music.
“In the wee hours. Just before dawn…something dark would come over me. And the soft murmur of a woman’s voice would compel me to own my power. God would cease to exist. Not that I ever believed in God. I was aware of the strength within me and to use it to destroy felt invigorating. I could let life exist or I could extinguish it with no more thought than a bug.”
“And you paid them.” Richard began “So that made it right.”
“Oh, no. I never allowed myself the pleasure. They were helpless and weak. They weren’t clean. They might get too close. They might have lice…or worse a disease. They weren’t perfect, you see. So I had to make room for perfection.” Mr. Jones explained.
“Why ask if I am the murderer when you were all along?” Richard said getting angry.
“I wanted to allow you the opportunity for confession.” Mr. Jones smiled.
“Why in God’s name would I confess anything to a blackguard like you?” Richard began.
“We’re not so very different, Mr. Rhys. You’re indignant righteousness might land in my place.” Mr. Jones warned.
“Dead.” Richard said.
“Precisely.” Mr. Jones said and in an instant he disintegrated into thin air and the old stone house bustled with familial activity. Richard grabbed the sleeve of the Dutch boy that welcomed him.
“Have I died?” He asked desperately.
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