The Owl in the Milky Way

Tamanend sent half a dozen Lenape braves to scout the territory around Fort Orange.  Fort Orange was the leading trading post with the Dutch West India Company led by van Rensselaer. It was Tamanend’s mission to find a solution to the tensions between the Mahicans---their brothers, and the Dutch fur traders whose colony had begun spreading as more and more Dutch settled the area and usurped the land.  He also sent an emissary to Schodac the council place where the chief of the Mahicans resided to let them know that a meeting was eminent.  As the old women in the peace party began to make camp and prepare an evening meal, Tamanend sent for Unega who was out gathering firewood with the other girls.  As she broke through the tree line with an armload of kindling an older woman took the wood and gently nudged her in the direction of the great chief.

“Come, sit.” He said, his voice resonant and gentle.  She sat beside him once again her white hair picking up the saffron color of the small campfire.

“I should like to thank this ‘Ansa’ you speak of.”  He added.  She sat silently taking him in.  He was asking her who ‘Ansa’ was without speaking.  So she took a breath and began. 

“The Owl.” She said softly.  He seemed puzzled.  “The owl will show you if you let her.”

He smiled and contemplated the night bird for some time. Then his smile faded as Owls usually foretell death and misfortune. “Don’t be afraid.”  She whispered and a slight, knowing smile crept over her lips. The owl is the messenger of the psychic realms and strong medicine if handled by a medicine man or woman. The owl sees in the dark and maybe even through the dark.

“She is like the corn maiden.  Every year we plant the seeds.  Some grow strong, others remain weak and die.  Then the cold moon comes and everything dies.  When the sun comes back the seeds are already there waiting to be born.” She explained. “My father taught me that it is a wheel.  He called it samsara.  Our deeds go before us.  When our debts are paid we can choose to come back.  Sometimes we come back for those we love.”  She said and her dark eyes remained steadfast.  These beliefs were not foreign to Tamanend.  It was another way of explaining the Great Spirit and the ways of the unseen worlds above. 

“Ansa”. He repeated.  She sat for a moment trying to find the right words.

“Where I come from the Lakota believe that the world has been destroyed four times.  The great purification is at hand.  Time will speed up as we move closer to the center of the corn path---the Milky Way. We are moving quickly from the third world into the fifth.  In the fifth world we will be more like spirits.  We will be closer to that place that we originate from and we will be free of time and space. We will be like the owl.  We will be wise.” She said and her words were laden with truth and change.  Her face crinkled up and then she began again.  “White men will come and they will spread across the land as plentiful as grass and as quickly as the wind.” Then she stopped and gazed out over the lush forest.  The leaves were beginning to change color.  Oranges, reds and yellows filled her eyes. That hue between yellow and orange, that brilliant saffron color reminded her of her father and his Tibetan robes and she missed him terribly.  As the trees moved in the wind she could feel him speaking, his robes lit by the dying sun as the leaves rattled and fluttered communicating in their own language.

Tamanend studied her and he felt so close with this strange girl that he had just taken in.  He was transfixed.  He could take her as a wife if he wanted but she was more than just a young woman.   He could feel his life force intertwining with hers and yet there was no physical element to it.  He felt rather fatherly and protective of her and he knew she was not meant for procreation, although she most likely would bear children.  His heart swelled when he was near her and as she walked about camp or followed along with the other women on the path he would periodically look back and see her stark white hair and it would ease his mind and comfort his anxiety as he led his people through these challenging times.  He was a leader and a diplomat and he would lead by instinct and not by power.  This is what his mother taught and he listened.

“There will be an Englishman who will come to you and you must welcome him.” She said suddenly.  “It is a grand design that Ansa has planned.” She added and there was a kind of finality to her voice.  Then suddenly she grasped his hand and held it to her heart. Tamanend was taken aback by her earnestness and fervor.  Her face revealed a deep passion and her eyes welled up.  “You will know this Englishman and yet he may not remember you.  Make him remember. Then you will know Ansa.” She got up quickly and let her face bathe in the dark blue of twilight.  He watched her walk away and rejoin the women as they cooked.  The warm wisps of tobacco smoke formed rings that moved like wheels through his field of vision.  The wheel of samsara turned like the sacred circle that has no beginning or end and there before him he could see the snake swallowing its tail.

 

His skin was so pale she thought she could almost see through him.  His hair was ringing wet and the sweat rolled off of his body as if he were lying in the rain.  She was beside herself.  He was disappearing before her very eyes.  She stoked the fire nervously and the flames licked high in the hearth and the room was once again hot.  Even she perspired in the intensity of the heat.  She had completely forgotten that they were in the midst of one of the harshest blizzards in New York’s history.  The pop and hiss of the snow-laden logs fought with Richard’s shallow labored breathing creating a discordant din. It seeped into her mind and made her uneasy.  Her emotions swelled and then ebbed between her desires to hold fast to him and even lay down her own life for a miracle, and the practical aspects of nursing. She had covered him with the great buffalo robe to try and break the fever.  The coarse hair held in the heat and was the perfect covering for his malady.  She knelt down and slipped her hand over his chest as he shivered uncontrollably.  She could still feel his heart beating.  He was alive…for now.  She let her hand rest on his smooth skin.  He was not hairy.  His chest seemed more like that of a strong, muscular boy.  Her fingers moved over his breast and she realized just how young he was.  He was only twenty-seven at his last birthday.  To die at twenty-seven from a fever seemed like such an unfitting end for such a passionate, talented life.  He had so much to offer the world and he was only beginning to mine his brilliance and his gifts.  The thought made her weep again and she could not stand to witness his demise.  It was excruciatingly painful.

She moved to the next room to collect her Bible and perhaps to pray once again.  She was born into the Anglican Church as most nobility is, but she felt a kinship to the Presbyterians, as their words were passionate and personal while the Anglican Church seemed to preach by rote and tradition, an ecclesiastical formal dogma.  She had developed a taste for service from her time spent with the queen.  Queen Victoria was interested in reform and change must come through example.  From a very early age Victoria Thornton committed herself toward charitable goals and her achievements could be seen and felt in the orphan’s asylums throughout London and the east coast of the United States.  As she entered the hallway she decided to peek out and survey the weather.  She moved into the grand parlor and pulled back the great velvet curtains.  The snow had stopped.  The night sky was crisp and blue and a crescent moon hovered just above the tree line.  Everything seemed magical in that liminal state somewhere between night and day.  The powdered snow caught the moonlight and twinkled like earthly stars sprinkled across the ground.  The land undulated like a great white animal still in hibernation.  It lay quiet sensually beckoning for life to reemerge.  Hooo, hooo.  She heard the faint call.  She gazed over the frozen mounds and the gray trees. Hooo, hooo. She heard it again. A horned owl had perched high in the tree across the yard.  She watched it as it hooted and swooped down and vanished in the white landscape. Something in her wanted the sky to open up and let it snow once again.  She was familiar with the hardship of snow and perhaps if it kept snowing he would not die. The snow to her represented the sky breathing. It was silly and completely illogical but her mind was grasping at strange synchronicities and ineffable relativities.  Then she remembered that she had fallen asleep for a few minutes as she read her scriptures earlier in the day. She recalled dreaming of someone coming to help her---to help her tend to Richard.  And the woman promised to come back.  It was so vivid that she felt as though someone had actually arrived at the manor.  She felt slightly disoriented and she chocked it up to extreme fatigue.  It had to be a dream.  No one could have trudged through the high snowdrifts and limited visibility to even find the manor house, let alone stop by.  She moved the curtain back over the window and turned to rejoin her husband in the smaller parlor.  As she lay the cool rag over his forehead his eyes fluttered and she could see that he was conscious.

“Richard---Richard.” She whispered.  He mouthed the word Brooklyn.

“Yes.  Yes, dear, we’re still in Brooklyn.”  She said smiling and hopeful.  He kept his eyes open for a long moment and gazed at her as if taking in every nuance.  Then his lids flickered again and it seemed as though he might lose consciousness.

“Richard!---Richard---Stay with me---please.  Stay with me a little longer.”  She pleaded softly.  He fought against his own body and tried to keep his eyes focused on her.

“I’m afraid.  I’m so afraid.”  She said and her whisper trailed into tears and soft sobs.  She quickly peeled away her bodice and skirt and slipped under the bison robe next to him.  She placed his hand on her pregnant belly and held it there as the baby inside rolled and moved.

“Remember?”  She whispered.  His eyes had closed.  She laid her head on his chest and she could hear his heart beating strong and steady.  “You must remember.”  She calmed herself with a deep breath and then silence flooded the room.  Even Michelangelo stood staring as if in disbelief.  She moved his hand up to her heart and let it rest there as her beats raced half in fright and half by sheer will and the distress she felt jolted him back into the ‘now’.  The wheeze of his congestion returned and the familiarity of the surroundings began a slow churn.  She took another tack.

“What shall we name him?...What shall we name our son?”  She said and her voice evened out and there was comfort there.  “Hmmm?”  She moved his trembling hand back down to her abdomen.  His breathing seemed less labored for the moment.

“Malachy.” He barely whispered.  She was surprised that a name like Malachy would be his choice.

“Malachy?” She repeated.

“My brother.”  He said and his eyes struggled to remain open.  She was stunned.  She thought he was an orphan.  All of his memories that he had recounted were of him alone in the dirty streets of London.  She had no idea that he had a sibling or, perhaps, many. 

“Was Malachy in the orphanage with you?” She asked.  He shook his head and his eyes closed again.

“He drowned.” He said barely loud enough for her to hear and he wheezed loudly and a croupy viscous cough emerged that rattled him fiercely. She pressed herself against him hoping that her own body would ease his suffering.  He shivered so intensely that she felt as though he was experiencing a seizure.  Then once it was over he was quiet and calm and his breathing evened out and became shallow and she laid her head against his chest again and the heartbeats that felt strong only minutes before were weak and slow. 

“It stopped snowing.”  She whispered.  “They will be coming for us soon.”  He did not respond.  She kept his hand firmly on her belly.  “You will know him.”  She commanded.  Then she kissed him softly and moved his hair from his face.  His chest rose and fell again over and over.  After a while she got up and placed another log on the fire.  She put her bodice and skirt back on all the while repeating the name ‘Malachy’ in her mind.   Malachy.  T’was an Irish name.  Malachy Rhys.  The room was stifling and so she moved out into the hallway and the cool air felt refreshing.  There in the empty corridor it was silent.  She climbed the stairs to the second floor.  At the end of the hallway stood the wooden effigy of Tammany.  The blue of the night sky cascaded through the windows illuminating the floorboards just underneath him.  He looked like a grand wizard in the odd illumination, his face stark and sculpted, angular and stern.  She had forgotten her Bible and she wondered what made her stop there on that spot just in front of him.  The faint sound of drumming began.  It was in rhythm to her own heartbeat.  And for the first time she imagined the unthinkable.  She could see herself delivering this child alone.  Without her husband.  And she could see herself managing to move through the rest of her life.  The remaining years on earth would pale compared to the ones she had spent with Richard, but the child would bring joy and a part of him would live on.  That is what children are for, she reasoned.  And she would love this child the most and provide for it with everything in her being.  She might even spoil him, but she did not care.  She would survive the storm and her child would be born healthy.  She could see it as if projecting her dreams and musings on the wall.  And it brought a kind of peace to her.  Who was she to question the workings of the universe?  Perhaps suffering was all part of her arrangement with her soul in this place.  And maybe, just maybe if she looked at it from another perspective it did not include suffering of any kind.  Maybe, if she looked at these few years that she had spent with Richard as a blessing and a gift then maybe there is no grief or agony at the loss only gratitude for the opportunity to have known him, to have loved him beyond all else.  And to know that he loved her in return more than anything on earth. The feeling lives on even though the mortals must pass.  And those left behind are free to experience ever-greater love.

“Richard!  Don’t go. Not yet.  Please!  Please stay.  Make him stay!”  She beckoned to the wooden chief.  “I’m not ready for this yet.  Call him back.” She cried.  Just then the drumming stopped and she heard the sounds of footsteps below.  She remained still holding her breath.  Maybe it was just Michelangelo shifting in the kitchen.  The house remained silent for a moment then the footsteps resumed.  Victoria thought maybe Richard had felt well enough to get up.  It would be a miracle!  She moved quickly down the stairs and onto the landing.  Then she heard someone say, “Hello?”

 

Drawing Down the Moon

A Chinese war ship was docked at the end of the island known as Manhattan an Indian name that means ‘the island of little hills’.  It was used mainly as hunting grounds by the indigenous peoples.  No permanent Indian villages existed there and so the local tribe sold it to the Dutch settlers for goods amounting to sixty guilders. A man known only as Rimpoche climbed aboard the ship.  He had finally met up with his own kind and longed for the rugged mountains of Lhasa.  Refusing to leave her native land a young woman waved goodbye and wept.  She would never see her father again.  The Lenni Lenape Indians also known as the Delawares had adopted her as their own, but she came from a distant land.  Rimpoche was a sherpa with grand dreams.  He had met Jan VanDerSpool after he had sold all of his possessions and set out for the West along the silk road.  Vanderspool regaled him with tales of a foreign land where the natives built cities of gold and there was more than plenty to be had even for a large family.  Rimpoche possessed great skill at handling oxen and skinning reindeer.  Fur trading could make a man wealthy in the new world he was told.  So he had emigrated on a Dutch ship landing on the very new settlement of New Amsterdam.  From there he set out as a servant to a party of French and Indian trappers.  After many months of nomadic existence Rimpoche had traveled through what would become Canada and then into the great lakes area.  This is where he met his wife.  She was of the Lakota Sioux nation and together they had a daughter.  Rimpoche blended in almost imperceptibly with the tribe and became accustomed to their culture and ways.  He earned eagle feathers that he wore proudly in his long hair and he fought valiantly to protect his new ancestry from warring neighbors.  Then one summer day when the rains came his wife and daughter were out gathering berries a storm rose up off the plains.  The women ran to find cover when suddenly lightning struck Rimpoche’s wife killing her instantly.  His daughter had been unconscious for some time before she awoke to find that her hair had turned completely white.  She was only ten years old.  Grief stricken and inconsolable, Rimpoche left the Dakota Territory with his daughter yearning to return to Tibet.  When they reached the Delaware River they waited and waited and Rimpoche prayed every day and every night that some of his kinsman might bring him home. When the great Chief Tamanend saw the woman child with white hair he thought she was a prophet.  They spoke different languages but were able to communicate through sign.  She had caught a lightning bolt from the Great Spirit and survived and so she was revered among the Lenni Lenapi people as a medicine woman.  After living three years with the Delaware Indians his daughter felt she was home and told her father that she would stay.  She watched the ship sail off from the harbor and out into the Atlantic Ocean.  Her new family began their way up the old Indian trail that cut through the center of the island to the north country.  They were meeting with the Mahican tribe for peace talks and trade.  The image of the ship sailing away invaded her thoughts and she wept for days.

 

The wind howled and blew with such a furry that it sounded as though the house might fall down around them.  The bay tethered to the old iron stove grew restless as the night gave way to the wee hours of the morning.  Its iron horseshoes clacking against the slate floor mingled with the low moan and whistle of the gale as it penetrated the window sashes and chimney flues.  The snow piled up so high that it began to press against the glass on the grand windows in the large parlor.  Richard had kept the fire stoked and burning with fury until the room grew almost unbearably hot.  Before long he would have to find more wood to keep the blaze alight. He knew he would have to tend to more mundane chores in a little while but for now he did not let the sound of the tempest distract him nor the state of the fuel supply to worry him.  He was building the foundation to something far more lasting and profound.

Richard hovered above his wife leaving only an inch or two between them.  He surveyed her landscape as a hawk might oversee its domain.  With a penetrating gaze he memorized her peaks and valleys touching down to bestow a kiss on her ivory skin.  He would drink her in for long silent moments and light on her neck, her lips, her breast or thigh lingering there until she could not contain herself.  He was careful not to make her bear any of his weight so as not to crush the tiny life inside.  He was skillful and attentive and magnificently erect.  She let her hands read him, every inch.  A soft, gentle caress and then at times an aggressive directive to move him close to her and against her.  Their perspiration made gliding easy.  They would have to be careful not to catch a chill and so the buffalo robe would provide ample warmth once they climbed under it for sleep. The hide possessed a kind of aboriginal magic and it fed the passions of the two lovers with a blessing from the earth.  Breathlessly he heard her say, “Only a little bit?”  He gazed at her for a moment with a look of caution and had decided that no matter what he would not enter.  He did not want to cause any undue harm to his wife or his child and so he would finish another way.  She was so exquisite, though that his will power and promise seemed to waver in the moment.  She took his face in her hands and pulled him close and kissed him long and hard.  As one hand grabbed hold of his neck the other disappeared and began a rhythmic stroke that surprised and awakened him.  He took a moment and remembered the first time he had ever experienced the sensation.  He had met a French girl who worked an apple cart near Piccadilly.  Claire.  She was a bit older and a lot more knowledgeable than he.  Martin warned that she was just a common whore with the blight and that he should stay away.  But she was sweet and exotic and he loved to hear her speak in broken English. She had a low raspy voice like a woman of fifty but it did not match the round freckled face of her youthful appearance.  She was the first girl he had ever been with and she taught him things, not just sexual things but a kind of understanding of the female mind. 

“Women are always in control.  Remember that and you will be a Cassanova.”  She advised.  “Satisfy them first and they will be yours forever.”

She meant satisfaction not just in fornicating, but in a romantic sense.  Fulfillment resides in rapt attention to detail.  “Let your gifts have deep meaning and your letters witty.  Never make fun of her.  And never ever, suffer the fool.”

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“Do not let a woman take advantage of you.  This is where you must be in control.  If she takes you for granted then give her the cold shoulder and find another.” Clair counseled.  Then she touched him and kissed him in that place that made him a man and he let the rush take him and he spent himself quickly.

“I will teach you.” She said laughing.  “This will never do.  You need to hold back as long as possible otherwise there is no pleasure.  Comprendre?”

For weeks Richard would let Claire do things to him and he was able to train his mind into restraint.  Each visit lasted longer until once she was satisfied once, twice multiple times then he could finish.  She taught him the art of kissing and petting and for hours they would be intertwined in a passionate embrace never going beyond a cursory fondle.  It taught him patience and perseverance and longevity in lovemaking.  And he fell in love with her.  He had gone so far as apprentice himself to long hours of cotton ginning, combing out the stray fibers from the moving mechanical teeth, an extremely dangerous job.  He was going to marry her and take her away.  But in one of their last nights together as he kissed her he began to reveal his plans: that he would make enough money to take care of her so she would not have to sell apples on the street any longer.  A darkness moved across her face and she said, “I will not be possessed.”  He was confused.  He did not understand.  He loved her so and wanted to take care of her.

“I am independent and I like being the center of a man’s attention.”  She said.  He knew what she meant and all his planning and affection seemed to unravel at that moment.

“So you would rather be a whore.” He said quietly.

“Yes.”  Claire replied cheerfully.  He never saw her again. Following her advice he would not suffer a fool. Unfortunately Claire’s need for attention resulted in her untimely death.  Jealousy is a dangerous monster and a few months later she was found floating in the Thames with her neck broken.  He quit his apprenticeship and resumed his normal grift on the streets.  He never spoke of her again.

 

Richard let Victoria stroke him until she was unbridled with anticipation.  He kissed her and began to move down her body but she pulled his face close to hers and she gazed at him intensely.  He looked away for a moment and closed his eyes and kissed her again and again.

“Now.” She whispered breathlessly.  And he hesitated.  “What if we never leave?” And her hushed voice echoed with the reality of the moment.  If the storm raged and the city paralyzed, the chances of them perishing together in the cold rose sharply.  Eventually they would have to burn the furniture and kill the horse to survive.  She reminded him of the present.  Life is spent living in the moment.  Tomorrow may never arrive and the past may be laden with regrets.  And so he touched her and found that place and plunged himself inside and she moved in tandem with him and he felt himself starting to lose control and as they rocked and the fire burned and storm blew and the snow fell he lost himself inside of her.  It was almost as he if he had been born into a different kind of consciousness.  In this watery world of motion he could ‘see’ beyond the sun, beyond the tenth emanation.  There, like a silent sentinel was the glowing orb of the moon and it was within reach.  It was her and she was the reflection of the great divine. 

“Let go.” She whispered and he let himself explore his own pleasure and he sat upright lifting her onto him and they coiled about each other and she moved in ways that drove him wild until finally he was spent and she held him in her arms like the newborn she was about to have.

 

Mr. Watkins had dozed briefly as he was trying to focus on the arcane texts.  Margaret held another book and was thumbing through the pages looking for some kind of explanation.

“Perhaps, it is a simple apparition that has no answer.”  Mr. Watkins said softly.  “Sometimes when spirits materialize their communications make sense only to them.”

“No…ye’re mistaken.”  Margaret said curtly.  Then they dove into their respective pages and continued their search.  The fire crackled and popped and the soft sounds of pages turning mixed with the wind bearing down on the old townhouse.

“mmmm…” Mr. Watkins murmured. 

“What?...What is it?”  Margaret asked.

“The rings of Saturn are referred to as Ansa.  Handles no doubt, when looking at an illustration straight on.”

“Saturn, ye say.  Well what the sam hill does that mean?”  Margaret said a bit cranky.

“We’re both tired and we need rest and so maybe it will be made clear tomorrow.”  He advised.

“What do you think of when you read about Saturn, Mr. Watkins?”  She replied not even acknowledging his last request.  He sat for a moment to ponder the question. 

“Time.”  He replied softly.  “Father time.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere!”  Margaret said excitedly. “The auld woman is a ghost, dead and gone for who knows how long.” she said speaking aloud to no one in particular. 

“On the other hand she may not be a ghost at all.”  Mr. Watkins said coming to life.

“If she is Indian as you’ve described then she may be a spirit.”  He said as he stood and gazed into the fire.

“A ghost, a spirit.  Aren’t they the same?”  Margaret asked.

“Not necessarily.  Ghosts are the residue of a life that has passed on.  Died.  A spirit could be the manifestation of an intelligence that was never incarnate.”  Mr. Watkins said.  And his discovery filled him with excitement.  Margaret looked a bit confused.

“A spirit could also be an angel or guide or demigod, if you will.”  Mr. Watkins said.

Margaret threw herself to the floor and clasped her hands tightly in prayer, “Jaysus, Mary and Joseph please deliver us from a demon if that’s what she is!”  She exclaimed.  “Save poor Nellie’s soul!  She was a good Catholic girl and I can attest to her attendin’ the mass every Sunday.”  She cried.  Just then Mrs. Hopkins burst in cloaked in her nightgown and robe.

“What is all this racket?”  She demanded.

Margaret clutched at Mrs. Hopkins who was not fond of personal contact.  “I saw a ghost, sure.  Downstairs in the cellar praying and babbling just on the other side of poor Nellie.” She said close to tears.  “I hope she’s not got the devil in her.  I hope that the auld woman was not out collectin’ souls for the cauldron.”

“Remember yourself, Mrs. McBride.”  Mrs. Hopkins admonished.  “And, you, Henry.  I am disappointed that you have found yourself caught up in her hysterics.”

“Mrs. Hopkins, I assure you I was trying to calm the cook---“ He replied with an air of resignation,

“She told me to say thank you Ansa.  Thank you Ansa, please---Now why would a ghost say such a thing?  Why would a spirit go and get me all worked up into a tizzy if there wasn’t somethin’ important to be conveyed.  I hope she’s not after the souls of the living! Sure.” Margaret blabbered on.

“Cause and effect!”  Mr. Watkins said emphatically.  The two women stared at him blankly.  “Cause and effect, Newtonian science.  That’s it.”

“Mr. Watkins, it is too late, or rather too early in the morning to be discussing mathematics and ghosts.  I implore you both to go to bed at once and cease disturbing the rest of this house.”  Mrs. Hopkins commanded.  She turned on her heel and was out the door in a flash.  Margaret started to giggle and tried hard to conceal her amusement.  Then Mr. Watkins began to giggle and the whole bedroom was awash in laughter.  Big belly laughs that rendered them asthmatic and sweaty.  They wheezed and turned red and doubled over with hilarity.

“Shhhhh.  Shhhhh.  She’ll be in here again with a strap, sure.” Margaret said whispering.

“Margaret, don’t you see?  Cause and effect.  Fate.  Destiny.”  He alluded.

“That Nell died?”   Margaret said soberly.

“Perhaps.  But you described the old woman putting her hands together, yes?  Clasped like so?”  He continued and he threaded his fingers so his hands became a woven ball. Margaret nodded.  “And then you said you knew that Mr. Rhys had reached the manor.” He added.  Margaret nodded again. 

“And I felt warm.  As if a someone had safely wrapped themselves about me,” She said softly.

“Ansa means a handle, right?  And what do we do with a handle, we hold.”  Then he put his hands together.  “Fate.  Destiny.  Holds Time to a commitment.” Then Mr. Watkins sat down on his bed stunned by his own discovery.  Margaret was spellbound still trying to grasp the concept. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Rhys.” She murmured.  “Fated?”

“And that is why the old crone asked you to thank Ansa.”  Mr. Watkins said.

 

Victoria had fallen asleep in Richard’s arms.  The Bison robe draped over them keeping them warm in each other’s embrace.  She was so becoming at that moment that it made his heart swell.  He could hear it beat in rhythm with hers.  If there ever was a moment to be taken up in the rapture this would be it, he thought.  If they died in each other’s arms this night then the world would know no greater love.  He let his hand rest on her belly and he could feel the shape of a tiny being resting there suspended within waiting for a breath, waiting to open its eyes and see the world.  Richard recalled that his musings were not that different from those he had earlier that day when the sun was rising and he gathered the yellow flowers for his wife.  So much had happened in such a short period of time.  Hours had been held in the balance between life and death, his and hers. And the intensity of holding onto the dream of survival and reunion and the invisible forces that brought them together.  Today they had spent their lives in the shadow of the moon.  And the shadow only strengthened what was already there.  It defied words and can only be held in the heart with a knowing pierced with understanding.  He closed his eyes and let the flicker of the firelight dance against his eyelids and before he knew it he had settled down into a deep slumber.