Notes from a Mystic

“Mr. Rhys…Mr. Rhys, sir!” a voice said startling Richard from his hypnotic state.  “Are you all right?”

“Yes, Mr. Watkins.  Yes, I’m fine, thank you.” Richard replied.  As he looked around he discovered that they had found shelter in the old livery stable near Court Street.  He looked down to see Mr. Watkins with his fingers threaded ready to be a human stirrup.  Victoria was nestled against his chest half asleep. 

“Dear.  We have arrived in some form of civilization.” He whispered.  A delicate smile curled about her mouth as her eyes slowly adjusted to the stable’s lamplight.

“I thought for sure that mare had perished in the blizzard.”  Ned, the stableman said astonished.

“She’s been living in our kitchen.” Richard replied.

“And Mr. Jones?” He inquired.

Mr. Watkins turned and shook his head ‘no’.

“’Tis a pity.” Ned said as he helped Victoria down from Michelangelo’s back. 

“Not really.” Mr. Watkins whispered to himself.  It did not go unnoticed by Richard. With Henry’s help Richard slid down and felt his feet hit the dirt floor of the stable.

Victoria sat with her arms around Mrs. Hopkins who had taken to the comforts of a bail of hay.  She shivered under her black wool coat.

“Would the Inn have a room to let for this evening?” Mr. Watkins asked.

“T’was full earlier today.  I’ll inquire for ye.” Ned said as he led Michelangelo to a warm stall and regular feed.  The two women moved close to the barrel with the crackling fire.  Mrs. Hopkins unlaced her boots as Victoria gently pulled them away.  Her stockinged feet were wet and dreadfully cold. As Victoria rolled down the tights, Mrs. Watkins’ toes had turned blue and her feet stark white identical to Nell’s, the dead maid’s pallor.  An Irish stable boy looked down on the scene from his perch in the hayloft.

“Boy.  We need a bucket of water to heat.” Henry directed.  The boy got up and fetched the needed container and dipped it into the trough at the back of the building then brought the icy liquid to Mr. Watkins.

Victoria and Richard blew on their hands and rubbed Mrs. Hopkins feet in an effort to warm them up, but the pain of frostbite nullified their actions.

“The only room available next door is the attic.” Ned said as he re-entered the stable.

“Are there beds?” Henry asked.

“Two.” Ned replied.  “But there is no fireplace up there.”

“Hot water bottles?” Victoria asked.  Ned chuckled.  The Inn next door catered to the service industry and did not have amenities the upper class had grown accustomed to.

“I could pinch one for ye, sir.”  The boy said mischievously. Henry took the boy by his shoulder and led him to a corner where they could speak privately.

“If you can secure a hot water bottle then I will give you this.” Henry whispered and his hand revealed a coin worth more than the boy’s entire week’s wages. 

“Leave it to me.” The boy said and he disappeared into the shadows of the barn.

“We’ll take the attic.” Henry told Ned.  Ned nodded and disappeared to make the arrangements.  Henry pulled an old horse blanket from one of the stalls and held it close to the fire.

“We’ll wrap your frostbit feet in this until we get to the room upstairs.” Henry said gently.  Ned reentered the stable and nodded, signaling them to follow him.  Henry wrapped Miriam’s delicate limbs in the cloth and then both he and Richard carried her the five flights upstairs to the dusty attic. The gabled window looked out over a peaceful, sleepy Manhattan.  Firelight could be seen from the river and the faint glow of gas lamps and candles made the skyline seem warm and festive. The white tempest of a few days before was rendered a distant memory.  The sky was a brilliant deep Indigo and the stars twinkled calmly in their firmament.  The entire universe was spread out before them through that small window.  As Richard looked deeper into the constellations he could feel himself moving at a faster pace than the current time.  He could sense the future and yet it was now.

There was a soft tap on the door.  Henry opened it and the boy slid inside.  Under his shirt he revealed the hot water bottle filled with heated liquid.

“You have done a great thing.”  Henry whispered and placed the coin in his hand.

“Sir?  May I fetch the water bottle at dawn?  I pinched it from the bartender downstairs. That’s when he wakes.” He confessed.

“Certainly.” Henry said as Victoria took the apparatus and slid it next to Miriam’s feet under the blanket.

“Oooooooo.” She moaned.

“I know it is painful but you have to warm it up slowly.” Victoria said.  Richard took the blanket from the small double bed, fixed a twine clothesline and draped the blanket there for privacy.  Mrs. Hopkins assumed because of the close quarters that Victoria would sleep with her and the two men would bunk together.  Her face registered surprise when Richard held out his arm to fetch his wife.

“But…” Mrs. Hopkins began.  Then Henry slid in next to her.

“I won’t bite, Mrs. Hopkins.”  He said smiling.  Victoria kissed her governess goodnight and disappeared with Richard behind the curtain.  Snuggled deeply underneath the bison hide Richard let his hands slip beneath Victoria’s bodice and touch the skin of her belly.  She giggled when the baby moved and Richard could feel his heart jump.

“She is all right.” He said needing confirmation.

“She is just fine.” Victoria smiled and she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him deeply.  He could feel his child move inside of her and all the mysteries of life and the universe seemed to cascade down around him.  Even amid this dusty old attic he had found paradise and heaven had found him.  He pulled the orange thread from his pocket and wound an end about his finger.  The exhaustion of the day’s trials sent him tumbling into a deep sleep.  And as his mind weaved through his thoughts he recalled that Ansa had told him that she was him and he was her.  If she had sacrificed her existence in an earlier time, and given her force to ensure Victoria’s life…then…something inside of him had been sacrificed.  A small part of who he was had died in order to keep his wife and child alive.  The stars swirled above him in the midnight sky and he was part of that infinite, slumbering, deeply intuitive blue.  Turned upside down he realized he had been liberated from a part of himself in order to love more deeply.  

 

 

Chelsea Thornton Rhys had been born in 1913 to her mother Chelsea Victoria Rhys on October 25^th, the same day as her grandfather, in Manhattan at their home on Fifth Avenue and Thirty-sixth Street.  Her father was Junius Spencer Morgan of the J. P. Morgan family. Her earliest memories are of her Grandfather Rhys working in his large studio on Fifth Avenue and Twenty-fifth street.  Canvases had been stored and easels dotted the room but she had never actually seen him paint.  On his worktables were spools of celluloid, cogs, wheels and various tools, springs and gears.  Heavy Victorian curtains, racks of costumes and black velvet to cover the windows.  Her grandfather took a keen interest in the magic lanterns of the day and in Edison’s Kinetiscope.  Moving pictures, flickers or nickelodeons as they had been called fascinated Richard even as he lived in London in the 1880’s and was introduced to the photography of Edward Muybridge.

She was four years old and the Great War had been raging for three years.  She had not known a time of peace.  It was in that same year that Charles Chaplin had made The Tramp. On a trip to New York he stopped in to see Richard Rhys and their lunch with cigars and brandy lasted for hours. To see the great Charles Chaplin in person was a thrill.  He only existed on celluloid to her child's mind.  During this visit she came face to face with the real man. It was one of the first memories Chelsea had of her grandfather.  When she was older her mother took great amusement in recounting her and her father’s first meeting with the silent film star.  Richard and Victoria had gone to see the Fred Karno Troupe perform their act in one of the vaudevillian theatres in Manhattan.  Richard was so taken with the young actor that he invited the whole troupe back to his studio where the young men laughed, drank, smoked and talked for hours.  And when the young Chaplin asked to see her grandfather’s paintings he was shown the exact group of large sea works that currently hung in the Tate.  When Chelsea was a young lady and invited to the New York Premiere of City Lights in 1931 she recalled that Mr. Chaplin spoke very highly of her grandfather and remarked that as a young man standing before those amazing works of art, the alchemical effect of the work inspired him and gave him enough courage to seize his own power and creativity to become the incomparable silent legend that he was.

At five years old the death of Richard Rhys was one of the most memorable moments of her young life.  They had been called to the house on Grove Street.  Her grandmother Victoria had passed away only months before and Richard spoke to his daughter as if she were Victoria.  He was in bed riddled with fever and overcome with a cough that wreaked havoc on his lungs.  The Spanish flu began with one man in an army barracks in Kansas in 1917.  By the summer of 1918 it had grown in to a pandemic killing three percent of the world’s population. More devastating than the black death it killed millions attacking adults in their prime. And although Richard was in perfect health before being infected, the microbe ravaged his healthy immune system rendering him helpless.  He never recovered.  When the end finally came with the family gathered round it was a peaceful and quiet event. He slipped away uttering the words, “A gentleman always knows when to leave…”He died September 11^th, 1918.  Two months to the day was the official end of World War I and Armistice Day had been observed ever since as the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.  It was a week after the cease-fire in Europe that Chelsea Thornton Rhys and her family relocated to London.  From the age of five until she became an adult her home would be with her grandmother’s side of the family, the Thorntons.   September 3, 1939 when Chelsea was about to turn twenty six, the British government declared war on Nazi Germany.  Chelsea immediately volunteered with the Red Cross and found herself not only in London during the air raids but also on various tours of duty in France to help the resistance and the cause of freedom.  It was during one of these tours that she met her husband, a dashing American soldier from Omaha.  They married and honeymooned on the Seine while he was on leave.  He was killed on the beaches of Normandy during the D-day invasion.  Devastated, she returned to her mother’s house in London where she miscarried. Reverting to her maiden name to try and erase the painful past, she swore never to marry again.  After peace had been declared in the spring of 1945, Chelsea’s mother had Richard Rhys’s complete collection of works shipped from a warehouse in Brooklyn by steamer to their manor house in Northumberland.  The grand parlor in the East wing housed the Sea paintings and only privileged guests were allowed to view the art.  Chelsea moved from London into the Manor house in Northumberland and studied the paintings and her grandfather’s diaries for over five years.  Her discoveries prompted her to lobby to the family that the paintings were infused with a mystical aura and that the public should not be allowed to view them. Chelsea’s mother thought her daughter had gone mad until she spent an entire spring retreat at the Manor and found the paintings to have a strange power over her.  It was nothing malevolent, only inspiring.  But the intensity of the feelings that the paintings evoked prompted the viewer to delve deeply within themselves.  Visiting the Shadow was what Chelsea called it.  The brush strokes of the waves looked like lemniscates.  Other strokes in the impasto looked very much like the Hebrew letter ‘yod’ that begins the tetragrammaton, the sacred unspeakable name of God.  Chelsea did not know if these symbols were intentional or reflections of Richard’s subconscious mind. She made copious notes and sketches in her own small notebooks and then sought the help of various professors at Oxford and Cambridge to try and demystify the math and symbology of the work.  In any case the paintings transformed the viewer.  But since there were thirteen in all only Chelsea knew the order in which to view them for a true transformation to take place.  The rest of her grandfather’s paintings she bequeathed to various museums:  The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Louvre, The Prado, Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, The Hermitage and The Nationalmuseum Sweden among others on the condition that if they were sold or auctioned that the entire proceeds of the sale of the paintings go to a trust fund set up to end poverty world wide.  Chelsea had experienced something deeply by spending those fateful years with her grandfather’s Sea Series.  Once the intention of her life had been fully formed and molded by the imagery of the work, she committed her full focus on achieving her goals.  In 60 years the foundation she had founded in 1950 had significantly reduced world poverty and, Ms. Rhys was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 1990 for her indomitable spirit and charitable work. Her mother died in June of 1970 and the entire Thornton-Rhys estate passed into her hands as executor. She traveled the world visiting the most remote areas of Africa and Indonesia trying to ease the plight of famine, disease and poverty.  Her foundation was one of the first to make large operating contributions to Doctors Without Borders. Now at 98 she was frail and delicate needing the use of a wheelchair to move more than a few steps but her mind was sharp and present. 

Ashley and Chelsea had been invited back to Ms. Rhys’ private rooms and they spent almost five hours talking and drinking tea and looking through old scrapbooks, gleaning a lifetime of information.  Ms. Rhys continually referred to Ashley as Grandfather and to Chelsea as Grandmother only occasionally remembering to call them by their Christian names. 

“Ms. Rhys---“ Ashley began.

“Please call me Chelsea.  ‘Ms. Rhys’ sounds so old and formal.” The old woman interrupted.  Ashley exchanged a look with Chelsea Barrett.  It all seemed so surreal.

“I was wondering why the estate has stipulated that the Rhys paintings never be reproduced photographically or otherwise and why they are not open for the public to enjoy?” Ashley asked.

“Why, you told me yourself once that some of the imagery is potent.  I feel I have to act with discretion and responsibility.” Ms. Rhys replied forgetting herself.

“Was Richard Rhys a Freemason?” Chelsea asked.

“Oh, no, no, no.” Ms. Rhys chuckled.  “No.  Grandfather was not part of any brotherhood or fraternity.  He was simply a mystic.” She beamed.

“Are you a mystic?” Ashley asked.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know about that.  All I know is that I have tried to fulfill my highest potential.  That’s what he did. That’s what you would have wanted.” Ms. Rhys said enigmatically.

“Yes, yes.  That is exactly what I would want.” Ashley said playing along.  Chelsea shot her a look.

“You mentioned that there is an alchemical order to the paintings.”  Ashley began.

“Yes, yes.  Don’t you remember?” Ms. Rhys asked a bit incredulous.

“No.  I seem to have forgotten.  I’ve been away so long.” Ashley replied.

“Yes, you have!  I guess that is par for the course. You see, Grandfather, I wrote down everything you told me and I studied your very own notes about the paintings.”  She began. “Anything is possible.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Ashley concurred.

“That includes phenomena that we do not understand on this physical plane.” Ms. Rhys said guardedly. Her eyes sparkled and pierced with knowing.  “That includes things like levitation, bilocation and even…immortality.”

There was a long silence as the seriousness of the moment hovered over them.

“You must commit your belief one thousand times one thousand percent…You understand?” She instructed and her voice changed as if she was aware she was talking to a young woman.  Ashley nodded her head.  Chelsea took in every nuance.

“I shall give you the order.  But…You must spend at least three days to a week in front of each painting in their correct order or the magic of your work will only be superficial.  They are exquisite paintings and important works of art in their own right, but the spiritual qualities will only be revealed in meditation.” She instructed.  Then she wrote down the titles in order of viewing and handed the slip of paper to Ashley.

“Thank you very much for this.” Ashley said.

“I was wondering who else has seen the work in the order you suggested?” Chelsea asked.

“Oh, my…lots of people.  Let me see.  Winston Churchill, President Roosevelt, The Queen, of course.  Eh, John Logie Baird—the original inventor of television, you see.  Sir Laurence Olivier, The Great Sarah Bernhardt, Sir Alexander Fleming and John Lennon.  Those are the most memorable ones.” She answered.   Just then the antique clock struck ten.

“We should really be going---“ Ashley said as Chelsea rose simultaneously.

“Oh, no.  Must you?” Ms. Rhys said deflated.

“Yes, yes, we have quite a ride to get back to our hotel.” Chelsea said softly.

“Why on earth are you staying in a hotel when the residences are on Hyde Park?” Ms. Rhys inquired confused.

“It’s been arranged that way.  Thank you so much for a wonderful evening.” Ashley said. as she took Ms. Rhys’ hand and gave it a heartfelt gentle squeeze.

“You’ll come back and visit me, won’t you?” Ms. Rhys asked reluctant to release Ashley’s hand.

“Of course.  We shall be delighted.” Ashley replied and she was taken aback by how her Southern accent shifted spontaneously into perfect British.  Chelsea studied Ashley for a moment unsure of what was happening.

“Perhaps next week we shall have proper tea?  I shall make the arrangements.” Ms. Rhys said as she slowly released Ashley’s hand.

“Good night.” Chelsea said as she led the way across the threshold.

“Good night.” Ms. Rhys said as she peered from her apartment door down the long elegant corridor.

“You know we have to make good on that promise.” Chelsea whispered as they walked.

“Yes, I know.  I plan to fulfill my obligations.” Ashley said and her speech was exquisitely British.

“You don’t have to keep doing that.” Chelsea added.

“I’m not doing it on purpose. I swear.”  Ashley said and her speech slowly resumed its characteristic Southern drawl.

“You know she is one of the richest women in the world.  She ranks just below J.K. Rowling.” Chelsea commented.

“Well, with the Thornton fortune it’s no surprise.” Ashley replied.  Chelsea took her arm.

“Her fortune is self-made.  She only had a small allowance against her inheritance when she began.” Chelsea said.  “I did some reading on Wikipedia and Google.” She shrugged her shoulders and exited the building.  Ashley looked back and locked eyes with Delilah.

“We’ll be back.” She said sweetly.

“Over my dead body.” Delilah hissed.

“If that’s the way you want it.” Ashley demurred as Chelsea pulled her through the doors into the parking lot.

The Deep Blue Sea

Ashley stood transfixed. Invigorated. Inspired. Overwhelmed. Transported. Encompassed. The blue wrapped around in thick swirls. Impasto in places, thin and translucent in others. They were large. As large as the walls themselves. The crests of the waves, delicate and dangerous. The expanse of sea and sky, foreboding and liberating. She was in the water. She was under the water and at times gasping for air. It was if she was on Gericault’s Raft of the Medusa, yet abstract and personal. A kind of history was evident in the brush strokes. A memory of blue. A complex variety of hues. Aquamarine, turquoise, prussian, colbalt, indigo, azure, misty, cerulean, periwinkle, royal, robin’s egg, and all the other variations in between. Like a Rothko, the paintings held significance in deep places, a bit more representational like Anselm Kiefer and yet a series of canvas monoliths to rival Whistler and Picasso. Ashley was aware that the paintings were extremely important to art history and yet no one knew of them. Why?, she wondered. The pieces had numerous contemporary ideas and yet they were painted before the dawn of the twentieth century. They were masterpieces before their time and rendered Picasso’s revolutionary style and aesthetic as almost passé. They held the same importance as Manet, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Bonnard and Vulliard combined.

The private gallery of the Tate was eerily silent. In that space Ashley heard no traffic or outside noise. No hushed whispers of museum employees or the far off shuffle of museum patrons quietly moving from one room to another. After a moment the silence was broken as Chelsea, stepping lightly, wandered in and stood next to Ashley.

“How did the interview go?” Ashley whispered.

“Fine. Mr. Hirst is a gracious subject.” Chelsea replied.

“How are you?” Ashley continued.

“I, I actually feel great. Thank you---How are you?” Chelsea asked a little tentative.

“That soup was amazing.” Ashley replied and fixed her gaze on the canvases again.

“They’re…really…overwhelming.” Ashley said softly.

“Uh-huh…Do you realize that you have the same depth, the same gestural strokes?” Chelsea asked. “The same use of color?”

Ashley just nodded her head in silence taking in the expanse of the work. Chelsea walked over to the title card. It read, “Tempest, 1895 New York Harbor.”

“It’s the Irish Sea.” Ashley said.

“No. It’s New York Harbor, says here on the card.” Chelsea corrected.

“It’s the Irish Sea.” Ashley reiterated confidently. Chelsea pulled out her notepad and scribbled something in it.

“Why are these hidden from view? Why aren’t they public?”

“I don’t know.” Chelsea answered. “Maybe they’re too big to guard…Maybe they’ve had incidents where a patron tried to deface or destroy it.”

“No…There’s something in these paintings.” Ashley said as she tried hard to deconstruct them in her mind.

“Like what?” Chelsea asked.

“Something sacred.” Ashley said and it was as if she were in a trance, her eyes fixed on the movement of the water.

“Here’s something I bet you haven’t seen yet. Look at the horizon---or horizon line.” Chelsea directed. “What sets the sky from the ocean?”

“Looks like a slightly different shade of blue.” Ashley answered.

Chelsea shook her head and looked around. “Don’t let the guards see you, but get up as close as you can to the line.”

Ashley stood up on her tiptoes and moved within inches of the painting. There, about the width of a human hair was a fine, straight line painted in brilliant cadmium orange.

“It’s an optical illusion.” Chelsea said.

“It makes sense. They’re complimentary colors. I do that often when I paint. It’s a part of theory.” Ashley said matter-of-factly.

“When have you ever seen orange in the ocean?” Chelsea asked.

“At sunset.”

“Then why not paint a sunset. That’s not a sunset.” Chelsea said.

“Maybe it was ‘his’ sunset…or moonset or, or maybe it is what it is. An orange line.” Ashley replied. “Sometimes a painter makes marks just because it satisfies something.” She stopped and stared at the tiny straight edge. It pierced her thoughts with more questions than answers. “I want to know why they’re hidden from the public. These need to be studied and written about and taught in textbooks and on the web. There’s a chunk of information missing from that entire humanity.”

“I agree.” Chelsea said softly.

“Whom do I talk to?” Ashley queried.

“I guess the Rhys Estate.” Chelsea offered. “That’s what you told me when you found the old pictures at the Frick.” Ashley turned back to gaze at the paintings. Again something flickered across her face and she pulled the orange scarf from her pocket.

“Where’d you get that?” Chelsea asked a bit surprised.

“The Indian woman…at the restaurant. She made the soup.” Ashley replied. She studied the scarf and then analyzed the tiny painted line. They were amazingly close in color. They may have even been the same color at one time but age and dust had altered the hue on the canvases over the ages.

Chelsea reached for the scarf and as her fingers made contact there was something so comforting in the fabric that it made her inhale deeply. It was like recovering a long lost baby blanket. The sensation, the smell, the color all brought about a sense of peace and joy. Ashley still held onto one end of the scarf and she felt oddly peaceful in a foreign place. She felt as though she was riding horseback even though both feet were planted firmly on the ground.

“Do you feel a little woozy?” Ashley asked.

“Yeah. A little drunk, almost. Do you think it was the soup?” Chelsea replied.

“I don’t know…I don’t feel bad…or ill. Do you?” Ashley asked.

“No, not at all. I feel…wonderful.” Chelsea said and her eyes melted into softness. Ashley thought for a moment that Chelsea might kiss her right then but her eyes revealed a sense of restriction and propriety.

“We should get you to a doctor.” Ashley said breaking their silence. “You should be properly examined to see if you really are pregnant.” Chelsea nodded and they moved to the entrance of the grand exhibition space.

“Before we leave we should find out who the executor of the estate is.” Chelsea said. They made their way into the grand hall and through the atrium. A busty woman of about fifty wearing horn rimmed glasses from the sixties greeted them on their way out.

“I trust your experience with the Rhys paintings has been fruitful?” She said in an odd British accent remarkably similar to Julia Child.

“It was an absolute treat and will round out my article for the magazine, thank you.” Chelsea said sweetly. The woman smiled proudly.

“He is one of the best kept secrets in London. We’re very proud of him.” The woman replied.

“Who is the executor of his estate?” Chelsea inquired.

“Oh, my. Well, em…let me see now…I believe it is the Rhys’s granddaughter. Chelsea Thornton Rhys.” The woman answered. Chelsea’s mouth nearly fell to the ground.

“Does she live here in London?” Ashley asked.

“Yes, well, just on the outskirts of London in Essex. But she is ninety eight and residing in a very exclusive assisted living home. It’s very hard to see her. She does not take many appointments.” The woman said.

“Do you have the name of the residence?” Chelsea asked.

“In my office.” The woman said cheerfully as she waved them along with her hand.

“I’ll drive.” Ashley said as the rental car official handed her the key.

“Remember stay to the left.” The man said pleasantly.

“Y’all do it the other way around, don’t ya?” Ashley quipped in her southern drawl. The man stared at her blankly. “It’s all right. We’ll make do.” She added.

“You think we can just show up without an appointment? Seems like a waste of time and money.” Chelsea said.

“Never know until we try…Just feed me the directions from your iphone.” Ashley replied. She turned the key, shifted the mini and off they went.

As they walked down the corridor of the very exclusive residence they both knew that the woman they wanted an interview with was probably worth millions. She had most likely been presented to the queen or may have even been an acquaintance in her youth.

“May I help you?” A snobby woman dressed in heels and Gucci glasses asked from behind the curved concierge island.

“Are you the nurse in charge?” Ashley asked innocently and she could feel Chelsea’s elbow in her side.

“Whom do you wish to see?” The woman purred.

“I’m so sorry to bother you but my name is Chelsea Barrett and I recently paid a visit to the Rhys mausoleum in Green-wood cemetery in New York.” Chelsea began.

“Do you have an appointment?” the woman interrupted.

“I have some information for Ms. Rhys.” Chelsea replied.

“If you do not have an appointment I’m afraid Ms. Rhys cannot see you.” The woman said and she turned away to resume her computer work.

“The bill for the perpetual care is overdue. Now I’m sure it is an oversight by her accountant but I thought I’d handle the matter myself.” Chelsea said. The woman did not reply or even acknowledge Chelsea’s presence.

“Excuse me?” Chelsea said as Ashley moved around the island slowly. “What if I do have an appointment.?”

“I know you do not. Please leave.” The woman said without ever turning.

“Oh my God, you’re on facebook!” Ashley squealed. The woman fumbled to clear her screen. “You were on facebook and it is 4:42 London time. Gawd, I bet your supervisor might want to log on to see what you’ve been doing.” Ashley said sweetly.

The woman jumped up. “I’m very sorry but if you do not have an appointment I cannot let you in.”

“I seem to recall that these places like to start serving dinner round about five, you know for the sun-downers.” Ashley said in her thick accent. The woman stood silent and sheepish. “Why I think it is right nice of you to invite us to dinner on your break in the cafeteria. Thank you so much! We’ll just wait over here for fifteen minutes while you write out the passes and make sure we’re legit.” Ashley grabbed Chelsea’s arm and they sat down in two huge puffy chairs decked out in toile.

“You…are brilliant.” Chelsea whispered.

“I just cannot abide rude people.” Ashley stated. “There’s just no excuse.” And she threaded her fingers thru Chelsea’s as they listened to big band music being piped through the building.

Delilah was her name. She quickly wrote out the building passes for both Ashley and Chelsea. Then cleared her throat. As she handed the stickers to the women she said, “The story is we went to school together in the states. I was the foreign exchange student.”

“You look way older than us.” Ashley said.

“I was the ‘foreign exchange’ student.” Delilah replied emphasizing each word. “I will conveniently excuse myself to go to the loo for five minutes. You will get the information you need. When I return I will escort you from the building. We all understand?” She said in a snotty tone. Ashley and Chelsea nodded and they sauntered down the long elegant hallway to dinner.

After ordering a shank of meat---beef roast, roasted potatoes, overcooked vegetables and Yorkshire pudding Ashley and Chelsea took in the atmosphere. Gentlemen dressed in fine suits, some in wheelchairs, others on walkers and still others with excellent mobility drifted in an out of the elegant cafeteria dressed to look like a posh restaurant complete with wait staff and busboys. Elderly women wore their finest gowns and jewelry as if competing in a pageant, their hair ‘done’ in-house by the beauty shop as part of the compound.

“I feel woefully underdressed.” Ashley whispered to Chelsea.

“You are.” Delilah said pointedly. “That’s why you’re my ‘American friends’.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ashley asked defensively.

“If you take offense by it then you must know.” Delilah said sweetly.

“Look. If you got something to say then say it ‘cause I won’t think twice about givin’ you a fat lip.” Ashley replied.

“Calm down.” Chelsea advised. “We’ll get what we need and then leave.”

At that moment an elderly woman was wheeled in and parked at a small table with another grand dame and gentleman. The waiters hustled by quickly and brought out their evening meal, complete with fine china, the most stunning silverware and pomp and circumstance to rival the Queen’s supper.

“That is Ms. Rhys.” Delilah whispered. “She will look about the room for me, wave and then continue her meal. After she waves I shall excuse myself. Please be brief and then get the hell out of my building.” She smiled. The old woman took in the room and when her eyes rested on Delilah she smiled kindly and waved as predicted. But something caught her attention and she gazed at Ashley for sometime. Her eyes registering recognition and confusion. Then she looked over and saw Chelsea and something made sense in her history. Her napkin fell to the floor as did some of her silverware. A waiter rushed to her table to inquire what the matter was.

“Did you know my grandmother and grandfather were coming tonight?” She said and her voice quivered with upset.

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.”