Chelsea was alone in the Tate for quite sometime daydreaming and perhaps meditating on the Rhys masterpieces. She was still seated in front of painting # 7 watching the ouroboros swirling in her imagination. The Sikh that had quietly slipped out to answer a phone call had not returned. Ordinarily it would not be of any significance or even cross her mind, but somehow she was intrigued by what he had whispered and wondered that if she shadowed him he might reveal more clues to the inner machinations of the great works. She looked at her diagram and the next painting in the sequence was # 3. She moved out of that gallery and quietly tiptoed down the hall peering into the various galleries looking for the next sea painting. The works had regular titles similar to Whistler, titles like “Nocturne in Blue and Gold” or “Harmony in Gray and White”. It was in the description card next to the painting where the curators identified that which was a precursor or sequel. She sat down quietly having identified the current painting as third in a succession of thirteen. The canvas was enormous and the demarcation between heaven and sea almost obliterated. The heavens seeming almost darker than the surface of the water painted in an almost expressionistic way. The brush strokes hinted at cresting waves and yet could have just as likely been the swirling formations of a tempest. Chelsea even considered that the circular patterns might be the sooty ashes of a subterranean fire burning hot and deep underneath the ocean floor. Somehow the art provoked thoughts of complete conflagration. There was no orange in this canvas that she could see and yet the image evoked fire. The number three did not go unnoticed either. Its significance conjured the trinity as well as mind, body, spirit. Virgin, mother, crone. Infant, Adult, Senior. It invoked ideas of family: Man plus woman equals child. She let her mind wander on that particular equation and realized that a child would either be male or female thereby creating imbalance either way. There would either be two males and one female or two females and one male. Those would be the outcomes. She heard someone step into the space quietly. She did not turn around immediately but continued studying the canvas. She could hear footsteps moving lightly across the floor. Then he came into view. The Sikh had returned and he moved close to the painting in order to scrutinize the strokes and the variations in color.
“Calcination.” He whispered and made a quick note in a small moleskin diary.
“Do you know the combination?” Chelsea asked and the sound of her voice crashed through the silence like a runaway train. Not only did it startle the man but her own voice made her jump.
“I’m sorry.” She whispered. The man moved to the metal bench and sat on the edge.
“That’s all right.” He whispered in reply.
“What is calcination?” Chelsea asked still whispering.
The man smiled kindly and moved a bit closer to her in order to explain.
“The substance is burned until nothing remains but ashes.” He replied enigmatically.
“Substance?” She said.
“Yes. False roots. False beliefs. Anything that limits possibility. Fear must be burned.” He said and he gazed at the painting as if he were looking at a long lost relative. “What is it that you fear?”
The question resounded through Chelsea touching her at her core. It rendered her silent, for if she spoke about her fears there would be a torrent of emotion and one would beget another until the entire Pandora’s box might engulf her. The Sikh’s translucent brown eyes penetrated her.
“Is it love? That is usually what keeps people enslaved to the mundane. The fear of fully experiencing it.”
“No.” Chelsea interrupted. “ I mean, I love my mother…and father.” Chelsea said and her voice trailed off knowing that he meant something entirely different. The Sikh smiled kindly like a teacher.
“I am talking about the powerful combination of eros and agape.” He said. “You have known it…embrace it…open to it.”
“How do you know the combination?” Chelsea asked after a moment deflecting his inquisitiveness.
“It is not important how I know. It is only important that you know.” He smiled. She cocked her head still puzzled.
“There is a man at Ye Olde Cock Tavern that showed me once. I have never forgotten. And to him I shall be forever grateful”. He smiled kindly then his smart phone went off again.
“What is his name?” Chelsea probed.
“Dr. Pepys---Excuse me. It seems a baby must be born today.” He said cheerfully and jumped up and quickly left the gallery to answer his call. “Dr. Singh here.” His voice echoed through the empty corridor and in a moment he was gone and the space was silent again. At that moment her phone vibrated. She pulled it out to find Ashley on the other line.
“Hello?” She whispered.
“Hey, it’s Ash. Are you okay?” She said on the other end.
“Yeah---yeah, I’m fine.” Chelsea whispered as she tried hard to navigate the quiet corridors and move into a public space where cell phone conversations could take place without reprimand.
“What’s going on? Where are you?” Ashley said and she sounded concerned.
“Um…I---I’m at the Tate,” Chelsea confessed.
“I thought you weren’t feeling well.” Ashley replied.
“I’m not---not really. But I felt well enough to sit and study at the Tate…I’m sorry.” Chelsea added.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Ashley replied cheerfully. “The butler is sending the car at 7:30 so we need to pack all our stuff and be downstairs. Dinner will be at 8:15 in the Hyde Park residence.” Ashley explained.
“Oh---well, should I meet you back at the hotel now?” Chelsea asked.
“I think I have a little time to make one more stop but I will be there by 6:30”. Ashley said.
“Okay.”
“Okay then. Love you.” Ashley said and for some reason the words frightened Chelsea. She was silent and tongue tied and unsure how to respond.
“Um…I’ll see you there---Bye.” Chelsea stuttered and then she almost threw the phone to the concrete floor.
“Idiot!” She whispered to herself. “Love you.” She said to the phone almost imperceptibly, but the connection was broken. “Fuck.”
Ashley parked the rented Vespa on the corner of Middle Temple Lane. After strapping the helmet to the bike she wandered to the Thai restaurant to see if Ansa was there. It was late afternoon and a variety of working people crowded outside the eatery for sustenance on their way home. Ashley politely weaved her way through the crowd and into the packed interior where the Asian cooks took short orders and filled requests at lightning speed. She tried hard to get the attention of one of the women she had met before, Bayarmaa. Finally the woman caught Ashley’s eye and waved excitedly.
“Ansa not here!” She said smiling brightly.
“Where?” Ashley asked.
“She at well.” Bayarmaa yelled back over the din.
“What well?” Ashley screeched back.
“At big church---St. Bride.” Bayarmaa screamed and pointed in the direction of the building.
Ashley nodded and then screamed back, “Someone is coming to place an order for Coconut soup at 8:00.”
Bayarmaa smiled and nodded then made the ‘okay’ sign with her fingers before returning to the chaos of take-out.
Ashley decided she was close enough to St. Bride’s church that she’d walk the few blocks over. The church had been built on top of a Roman shrine to the goddess Diana. It had been destroyed by early Christians and then razed again in the Great fire of London of 1666 and rebuilt by the master architect and Masonic magician, Sir Christopher Wren. She could see the beautifully lyrical spire as it pierced the London sky. The doors to the church were open and as Ashley walked through the narthex into the nave she saw the brilliant saffron robes that Ansa wore. The old woman was alone and no one else seemed to be in the building. And as Ashley drew closer to the altar she could see a brilliant blue pool of water there in the middle of the church. It was odd and breathtaking and she stopped and remained silent as Ansa chanted her prayers and let lotus blossoms float on the surface of the crystal clear pool. She noticed there was a sweetness in the air, a fragrant scent of roses mixed with sandalwood. Ansa nodded and the sound of wings flapping permeated the entire church. There were no birds just the faint sounds of flying away. Ansa turned and her white hair beamed with the clearest brilliant white light. She illuminated the church. And as her face broke into a smile the affect seemed to be levity.
“I know why you here.” Ansa said softly.
“She’s not pregnant.” Ashley replied. Ansa shook her head as if to correct a mistake.
“She’s not. The Doctor said so.” Ashley reiterated. “But she wants to be.”
Ansa smiled broadly at Ashley and waited for more information.
“With me…” Ashley said a little sheepishly. She waited for laughter at the absurdity of it, a daydream, a fantasy, an unfulfillable wish.
“If you want? You have.” Ansa said simply and directly. “Nothing impossible. But…you must be pure.” Ansa instructed and she stretched out her hand for Ashley to join her. As Ashley grasped the old woman’s bony fingers she felt as if she were floating. Hovering at the edge of the sacred primordial well in the middle of a renaissance church she was stunned by the clear turquoise water.
“She must be pure.” Ansa continued. “And…there is sacrifice.”
“Yes, I know.” Ashley said reverently.
“When we up there…in Bardo.” Ansa began and she pointed to the sky. “We seek nothing. Then a question come and desire to learn answer make us grow heavy. Weight make manifest as Prana. And just there---just at etheric plane we tip one way or other. It is the place of duality. We choose male or female. You must find your way back to that place to become the seed. It not far, but just out of reach. Just above Kether, the crown.” Ansa explained.
“And Chelsea?” Ashley asked.
“She not have to go as far as you. But she must go through purification.” Ansa continued.
“How? What purification?” Ashley asked.
“Not for you to know. The Sikh will guide her.” Ansa said cheerfully. “And the paintings…” Then she pulled a small orange thread from Ashley’s scarf and wrapped it about her finger.
“This…this is the lifeline. You make agreement…with him…But sacrifice is this: you will not remember him or anything about him.” Ansa said cautiously. Then she spread her hands out over the holy well and as she brought her hands together the well disappeared as the stone floor rebuilt itself. Amazed and breathless, Ashley stepped on the stones that had only moments before were water. And she was supported.
“I make you soup.” Ansa said as she motioned for Ashley to follow her out into the street.
The revelry from the Saint Patrick’s Day celebrations drifted up from the dining room below at the Court Street Livery and Inn. Victoria gathered what few things she had in the small attic room that she and Richard had made their own the night before. She clasped her small leather bound Bible. It was given to her by her friend Rosalind Howard, Countess of Carlisle, a very close London friend when Victoria was with Charles before she had met Richard. She found herself compelled to open the good book and read whatever passage might appear at the moment. She took a breath and then quickly flipped the small book open.
Genesis 6:1-4
1. When men began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them,
2. the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose.
3. Then the LORD said, "My Spirit will not contend with man forever, for he is mortal; his days will be a hundred and twenty years."
4. The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went to the daughters of men and had children by them. They were the heroes of old, men of renown.
At that moment Richard entered and startled her from her quiet meditation.
“I’m sorry, darling. Did I surprise you?” He said softly. There was a fatigue in his voice and he moved as if exhausted. No wonder. He had nearly given his life for her in pursuit of rescue. He sat down on the flimsy mattress and pulled the bison robe around him.
“I shall be glad to finally be home.” He whispered. She noticed the small orange thread tied about is finger. And then she recalled the reason it was there. So that he would remember her one hundred and twenty two years later...in the future.
“You are my guardian angel.” Victoria said plainly and she kept her gaze constant to see if he might reveal something that would confirm her suspicions. Richard grinned in his charming way and then bowed his head and replied, “If I were an angel I could have whisked you away back to Grove Street in the blink of an eye.”
“It feels like a blink and yet an entire lifetime.” She replied and her voice bent at the weight of her words. He rose and in the Shaman’s robes he seemed a giant standing as tall as Lincoln and towering over her as if she were a small child. His dark eyes a translucent copper color and his temples sprinkled with white.
“Take me home.” She whispered. “Take me home.”
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