There Comes a Reckoning

Bi·lo·ca·tion: Spelled [bahy-loh-key-shuhn]–noun, The state of being or the ability to be in two places at the same time.

Dop·pel·gäng·er: Spelled [dop-uhl-gang-er; Ger. daw-puhl-geng-er]–noun, a ghostly double or counterpart of a living person. Origin: 1850–55; <>

Richard wandered the modern London streets trying to remember how to get to his East End Studio. He had a morbid curiosity to revisit his last place of residence before he fled with Victoria from Whitechapel and the Metropolitan police to the reasonably safe shores of America. As he walked at a clip he could not help but let his eyes drink in the marvels of motor vehicles, the lights that flashed seemingly everywhere and the intense cacophony of modern existence. London was a noisy place when he lived there more than a century before, but now the shrill sounds of contemporary life were deafening. They were the same sounds that seeped into his vivid dreams as he visited the New York Public Library in his delirious state. Large screens displayed moving pictures for the masses to see. It was hypnotic and not unlike the first kinetiscope he witnessed at an exhibition in the Cooper Union building. A gigantic Farris wheel rose up from the shores of the Thames like an iron cloud or all seeing eye. As he walked he could still feel Michelangelo undulating underneath him. It was a strange experience and he wondered if he looked like a drunk ambling through the neighborhood. He stopped and steadied himself against a light pole. It vibrated with power and sizzled with electricity. He looked up the thin aluminum monolith and found yet another eye gazing down at him. The gas lamps had been replaced with state-of-the-art almost science fiction looking halogen bulbs. He closed his eyes and breathed deep letting the air rest in his belly for a moment.

He was physically riding Michelangelo with Victoria wrapped in his arms. He could feel the winter air as it stung his nostrils but the bison hide kept them warm. Clip, clop, clip, clop, her hooves went creating a hypnotic rhythm that put Victoria and Richard into an extremely relaxed state. He opened his eyes for a moment and noticed the saffron colored scarf Victoria wore about her neck and shoulders. As his hands pulled her ever closer to him she stirred in the silence of the snow-covered landscape. The scarf radiated heat. He let his fingers move to the parts that made no contact and still the silk was infused with the warmth of summer, the warmth of a human body, the heat of the sun.

“Where did you get this?” He whispered in her ear.

“The old Indian.” She replied sleepily.

Suddenly it was amazingly clear to him. ANSA.

“The Statue…in the corridor. When it toppled I found the scarf in its base.” She added. “I think it is absolutely beautiful, don’t you?” She said half asking and half stating a fact.

“It suits you.” He said softly while his mind began to run through the potent images of his dreams. She settled further into his chest and closed her eyes. He thought that they could just as well be reclining in their parlor before a large fire. The cold and the wind did not affect them whatsoever. He looked down at Mr. Watkins as he struggled with the snow and ice-covered road leading Michelangelo to much needed shelter. Poor Mrs. Hopkins leaned into the wind to avoid being blown away altogether. She had wrapped herself in her wool outerwear so thoroughly that only her black eyes caught the sparkle of snow beneath the scarf and shadows of winter. They shivered and quaked as they made their plodding tracks and Richard realized that was exactly how he had felt on his journey in the blizzard only a few days before to find Victoria. He wondered what had happened that he did not experience what Henry and Miriam were experiencing now---in this challenging moment. Was it a state of mind or a state of grace? He looked down at the bright orange cloth and spied a small thread that had become disengaged. He pulled at it slightly until the minute string was completely in his hand. He stuffed it in his pocket and then took in another deep breath letting it rest in the pit of his belly.

As he opened his eyes again the loud sounds of London town crashed in on him. He felt dizzy and disoriented. His stomach tossed and he felt queasy. He held onto the light pole and breathed deeply once again and counted slowly in his mind reaffirming that he was on firm ground. He took his hand out of his pocket and the small thread of orange fell to the ground. In another place and time he would have dismissed the tiny fiber and walked on but that little orange string was his anchor somehow. As he bent down to reach for it he could feel his weight increase. The light of midday dimmed and a fog of brown and gray seemed to overwhelm him. Down around his knees he could see people standing on yet another plane reaching for him. They cried and whimpered and moaned. Others screamed familiar obscenities and threats in his Victorian lingo. Still other flitted in their dark morning coats and deerstalker hats for cover in the ever-darkening shadows. He felt as though he was momentarily existing in one of Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings of hell. Richard’s chest hurt and he felt as if he were full of lead. As he tried to straighten himself and stand erect he could feel the weight of a hundred or more people pulling at him to stay down. Ne’er-do-wells and malcontents he had seen when he lived in that neighborhood. Some were common thieves and gamblers, others were grifters and murderers and still others existed on a steady flow of evil. Were they specters? Were they just remnants of negative energy? Or were they, too, traveling he wondered.

A dark complected man with a full beard passed by and leered at Richard over his shoulder. He was dressed in the modern clothes of the twenty-first century and appeared Egyptian to Richard’s eye. Then another kindly man in a turban passed by.

“You all right, mate?” The Sikh asked in his working class English.

“I’m feeling a little sick.” Richard replied as he reached for the orange thread without success.

“Ah. Have you come from the absinthe bar?” The Indian chuckled.

Richard looked over and across the street was ‘Ye Olde Cock Tavern’, a place he had spent many drunken evenings in his youth. As his eyes studied the place from the height of his knees, the façade was grimy and dirty the way he last remembered it. Drunkards and sailors stepped in and out with just as many whores hocking their wares. Rats, horse droppings, vomit and general refuse littered the area. He could feel the Indian man helping him to stand upright and as he rose, the façade of the pub morphed into its present condition, a respectable public house with college students and businessmen stepping in and out. There was no garbage, no human waste, only diffused light from the cloud cover overhead.

“I, I dropped something.” Richard said breathlessly and pointed to the jumbled string on the ground. The Indian man picked it up and placed it in Richard’s hand. As he held it he could smell Victoria beside him and his heart grew buoyant and full.

“You are traveling far.” The Sikh said knowingly. Richard nodded out of habit

“Come. I shall take you to a little place where you can find nourishment.” The Indian said as he took Richard’s arm. They walked about the London streets and everywhere Richard gazed the ghettos and poverty of his memory had been erased. People walked about in American dungarees and undershirts with advertisements or words printed across them. Strange shoes and no head cover. Jackets made of the union jack and dark glasses. The buildings were new glass and steel facades. Gone were the dilapidated row houses and condemned brothels where thirty to fifty people might take shelter in a night.

“This place is a vegetarian restaurant---the best in the whole city!” The Sikh exclaimed. They moved toward an old storefront that had no sign.

“It is Mumbai cuisine. You will love it, my friend!” He added. The patrons were crowded around the simple wooden counter.

“You! What you like?” An old woman in an orange sari yelled.

“She’s talking to you, mate.” The Sikh said and gave a Richard a little nudge. As the woman came toward him parting the long line of customers in her wake he realized he had seen her before.

“What you like? What you order?” She said in her broken English. She was extremely old and her hair stark white. Richard unfurled his fingers and noticed the thread from Victoria’s scarf was the exact same color as the old woman’s sari.

“Something to settle the stomach.” He said weakly.

“You travel long way.” She said and her face was stony. She took his hand authoritatively and began to lead him down a long corridor. Odd Eastern style music played electronically through boxes mounted on the walls. Patrons crammed against the edges all sipped Thai tea or dug furiously into their take-out boxes with chopsticks.

The hallway opened up into a small dining area filled with Asian customers.

“Sit.” The woman said. Then she pulled a chair up to his table and sat down with him.

“You having baby.” She said and her stoic visage melted into a cheerful smile.

“Yes. Yes, my wife is expecting.” Richard replied.

“You in here the other day.” She said.

“No.” Richard countered.

“Oh, yes, you were. Only it look like Green-wood.” She said softly and her eyes were piercing and deep. As the words sunk into Richard, an awareness bloomed as epiphany through him.

“Ansa,” He said making the connection on more planes than one.

“The Sleeper Wakes.” She said laughing and she plucked the orange thread from his palm. He could feel a wave of panic rush over him for a moment. She untangled the thread and pinched one end. She motioned for him to pinch the other end. It was about eleven inches long. She pulled it taut like a tightrope.

“This the way.” She said enigmatically. Then she pointed to the sky above. “You awake now.” She chuckled.

“Am I awake here? In London?” He said nervously. “I was in New York…In America.”

“You in both places. Just like me.” She said and her eyes glinted with mischief. “I make you soup. Like I did before. It good for you.” She added and she clapped her hands and a bevy of cooks and kitchen help all moved in tandem to create the potion.

“I called to you.” Richard said softy.

“Yes.” Ansa replied.

“You appeared in a bison hide. You were American Indian.” He continued.

“Yes.” She nodded and smiled.

“But…now I see you and you are Hindu.” Richard observed.

“I am half Tibetan and half Lakota Sioux.” Ansa clarified.

“Ah. I see.” Richard said not really knowing what either culture was. Ansa studied him for a moment and her eyes seemed to puncture him to his core.

“When you call out to me from the snowy house.” She began.
“Yes?” Richard said with anticipation.

“I let that life die…for her. For you.” Ansa explained enigmatically.

“What are you saying?” Richard asked a bit uneasy.

“She…your wife….buried alive…in that house…under snow. She die.” Ansa said softly.

“No, no, no, no---She’s alive. She’s with me now. If I close my eyes and breathe deep she is riding with me. We’re on our way home.” Richard began to explain.

Ansa nodded in agreement to everything.

“But…you call me. I sacrifice that life so you can have Victoria. She alive. I give her my qi.” She said. “She alive with you now.”

“But that means you would be dead.” He said.

“In that life. I alive here.” Ansa tried to explain. “I am you.”

Richard was completely baffled. The old woman smiled knowingly. “You Ansa, only later.” She said and then she laughed. The aroma wafting from the kitchen was delicious. It was infused with coconut and spices.

“You come tomorrow and I show you who you are today.” She said.

“What?” Richard asked incredulous.

“I show you. You having baby.” She giggled. The woman from the kitchen moved around the counter and brought the plastic take-out bowl filled with soup.

“It make you feel so much better.” Ansa said.

As Richard pulled the container from its white paper bag the room lit up from the light emanating from the elixir.

“Am I to eat this?” Richard asked stunned. Ansa nodded. He took a plastic soupspoon, studied it and then dipped it into the concoction. He took a small sip and immediately felt better. He continued to sip at the soup while trying hard to understand the riddle Ansa had presented to him.

“If you gave your life so that Victoria could be with me. Then how am I you and you me? How are you here?” He asked.

“Because your love for her is all encompassing, you have unknowingly released me from samsara. I have reached enlightenment. I am everywhere. I am one. I am all.” She explained. “I am you.”