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?”

 

The Cosmic Diving Bell

 Mrs. Hopkins gathered her strength and resolve to climb to the third floor of the Grove Street house.  She moved into the servant’s quarters and turned into the small sparse room that Nell had called home for almost a year.  She slowly pulled open the drawers to the simple pine bureau.  She felt like she was prying somehow, but someone had to gather what little personal effects Nell had and either give them to charity or find someone who knew her and her family in Ireland and post the belongings overseas.  She gently pulled the petticoats and chemises, step-ins and stockings and laid them across the bed.  The top drawer was usually filled with papers and a small Bible, a diary or other beloved objects such as letters or a pressed dried flower, ribbons, a lock of hair, an old timepiece or, perhaps the only piece of cheap jewelry a servant could afford to own.  Mrs. Hopkins gently pulled the drawer open and found a small leather bound Bible, an address book of family in Ireland, a small leather wallet with wages saved and a piece of paper showing the accounting.

Nell’s family was from County Clare on the rugged west coast of Ireland.  Nell was twenty at her last birthday and should have been married by that age.  Domestics had a hard time of it especially in England but Nell came directly from Ireland to New York City.  American servants were required to adhere to strict rules but the rules and customs in Britain were most certainly more draconian.  Mrs. Hopkins’ entire life had been spent preserving the structure of this hierarchy.  She had attained a certain level of authority and knowledge and enjoyed relaying and advising on all matters pertaining to the running of a household and the managing of domestics among her American counterparts. And although she did not mind suitors for the hired help it was strongly discouraged.  Nell was an attractive girl with auburn hair and gray eyes, freckled skin and voluptuous form.  There were, however, no notes of adoration or even of interest from the opposite sex.  Nell was a good girl and extremely Catholic and she took her duties seriously.  It was her livelihood after all. Tucked neatly inside one of the folds of the old wallet was a yellowed piece of paper folded up quite small.  As Mrs. Hopkins unfolded it and read the contents it seemed to take her breath away.  The writing on the aged letter had faded to such an extent that it was a challenge to make out some of the words.  The Irish spelled English a bit differently since they were forced to learn the language and give up their native tongue.  She pulled the old straight-backed chair around and sat with the lantern close by. 

Liam Connelly had been a fisherman it read.  Liam and his wife Aine had six children.  And they were listed by age:  Mary 14, Mollie 12, Deidre 10, Brian 8, Michael 7 and Malachy 5.  It said that Liam had been Nell’s great uncle, a brother to her maternal grandfather and they lived near the Bay of Ballyvaughan not far from the great Burren.  One day, and it listed the date as 1869, Liam put the entire family in the small fishing boat for a daytrip to Inishmore.  He had told his brother that he was learning to sail and that he could sail around the southern part of Ireland faster and cheaper than trying to walk across it only to have to pay seven fares to cross the Irish Sea to England.  The famine had ravaged the western area for a quarter of a century and there seemed no relief from bitter poverty.  Liam was willing to risk everything to work in the Liverpool shipyards.  But as Mrs. Hopkins read on the entire family disappeared into the Atlantic.  It was speculated that a storm rose up and the small vessel capsized in the raging swells.  An old Irish legend recounts that people on the seas are sometimes snatched from their boats and taken down into the depths and turned into merrows, dark creatures similar to mermaids but with a preternatural power.  Or that the souls of victims drowned in the breakers reappeared in the seals that swam just offshore.  Mrs. Hopkins sat for some time in the silence and the stillness gazing over Nell’s possessions. She was perplexed by the familial mystery of an entire line of this girl’s family.  Whoever these poor Irish people were they were welcoming Nell into the kingdom of God.

 

It was late afternoon by the time Chelsea had finished interviewing Julian Schnabel.  Julian had been an art star of the eighties making bucket loads of money painting large abstract works with pieces of broken dishes incorporated into them.  Rumors circulated by art buyers who purchased Schnabel’s plate-paintings as long-term investments much like traders moving stocks and bonds, were faced with porcelain pieces falling off the paintings rendering them almost worthless.  This hearsay was most likely spread by jealous artists wishing they could spin lead into gold as Julian seemed to do.  Schnabel put those lies to rest for Chelsea and she appreciated his candor.  He was an interesting man filled with rebellious bravado and yet a quiet intelligence that mingled with eccentric thought-processes.  She was simultaneously fascinated and repulsed by him.  He was gruff and sensitive, hard and refined. Just as she was about to move to her next round of questions Schnabel proceeded to talk about his film career.  He had written and directed the critically acclaimed Basquiat and Before Night Falls.  His latest achievement residing in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, a wonderfully executed story of a man trapped in his body by a horrific stroke and only able to communicate by blinking one eye. When she saw it she wept copiously and felt withdrawn for days afterward.  The films were absolute artistic accomplishments obviously made by a seasoned artist.  The colors and composition of each shot and sequence became paintings in and of themselves. She wondered why a painter might turn to the camera as a mistress.  Art was so visceral and tangible and sometimes thick and oftentimes not. It was earthy and authentic.  It was one-of-a-kind and you could stand in front of it and study the manipulation of paint on canvas.  You could learn how the artist expressed him or herself. You could watch how light changed the various layers and textures.  It was so subjective.  Paintings were endlessly interpretive and wonderfully historic.  It was the preferred format of cultural preservation for a millenia. Film seemed removed to her, several steps away from the public.  Not that cinema was not an art form, but it required lots of people and technology and chemicals and a darkened room with speakers and a crowd of people to watch.  It required an investment of time.  Art was timeless.  One could stand in front of a painting for a minute or two days or years depending on the beholder’s eye and heart.  It was achingly intimate.  Film was social. You had to invest at least and hour and a half of time and emotion to get through a film and by the end you may not be satisfied.  A painting is immediately satisfying or not.  And that was Chelsea’s truth. She seemed to fall for artists and they were a selfish breed.  And so everytime she found herself enthralled by a painter or a sculptor she would immediately remember the times she had been burned.  Not that she had a lot of experience with relationships but the ones she had been involved in required a lot of work and sacrifice on her end.  Her first love had been a long haired Jim Morrison type unsure whether to paint or be a rock-star.  He was talented but he could not resist the temptation and allure that a Jim Morrison look alike might get.  Relegated to the sidelines, she called it quits.  Her next beau was the exact opposite.  He was a quiet nerdy type with a crew cut and glasses.  As vanity crept in she knew she could do better in the looks department but he was so damn smart and a wildly talented abstract painter drifting into the realms of Anselm Kiefer.  However, he was an obsessive compulsive that could never be satisfied.  That included her.  So she walked away.  She had a crush on a girl once who was a scenic painter for the college theatre department but there wasn’t enough of a spark for it to bloom into anything. She was brave enough to pursue the girl but found that a lot of talking was involved and personal information up front that seemed to kill the mystery and so it never got physical and she lost interest.  She plunked her digital recorder and notepad in her bag and jumped the Shuttle from Times Square to Grand Central.  The city morgue was on the east side of town near Bellevue Hospital.  She hoped someone there could direct her to the archives. As she wandered through the sliding glass doors and toward the information desk she felt like a reporter.  Like a real investigative reporter.  The nurse turned and looked at her blankly. “yes?”

“I’m here to research the archives.”  Chelsea said matter of factly.

“Archives.” The nurse said a bit confused.  At that moment another nurse walking by holding files and a clipboard interjected.  “The morgue archives.  They’re not open to the public.” She said and she started to walk away.

“Yes, I know, I’m with the New York Times.”  Chelsea said surprised at her blatant lie.  “I called earlier.  I’m the one investigating the pandemic of World War I.” She continued.  She held her breath for a moment knowing they would ask for her press pass and several forms of ID.  The nurse with the files eyed her for a moment.  “Oh wait.  Letitia?” she said and it seemed like eons before Chelsea decided to go with the fib.

“Yeah.” She replied. 

“I talked to you this morning, right? On the phone.  Girl, I though you were black.” She said in her slightly Jamaican lilt.  Then she waved Chelsea to follow her.

“Down the hall to the right and then ask for Jedediah.  You tell him Minerva said to take you to the basement.” Then she turned on her heel and disappeared.  The corridor was cold and long and uninviting.  Restless spirits roamed the area Chelsea thought and even though the day was somewhat warm she felt a chill as she moved down the hallway. 

She was ushered into an expansive underground warehouse with Home Depot-like steel shelving housing files upon files of records and death certificates and autopsy reports.  Bellevue had been established in 1736, the first hospital in the United States before the colonies became a union, a separate country.  It blew her mind.

“What year?” Jedediah said.  He was an elderly black man in a dark suit with white hair.  He reminded her of Morgan Freeman. 

“1918 please.”  She said.  They walked an aisle the length of a football field when Jedediah maneuvered a metal self-standing ladder and pulled a large box from a high shelf.  He escorted her to a small area where a lunchroom table with a few stools set tucked away in a corner. 

“Hope you find what you’re lookin’ for, Miss.”  He said and then he disappeared down one the aisles leaving her completely alone.  The place was outfitted with the best surveillance so she knew she was being watched by several eyes.  She began filing through the documents running through the ‘R’s’ first.  She had a hunch and she aimed to affirm it.   

World War I began in 1914 and she was well aware that the end of the war was not so much from resolving differences as it was from disease.  The Spanish flu spread through the trenches killing thousands upon thousands of servicemen.  It was the Spanish Flu that ultimately ended the Great War and tensions that were left over reared their ugly head and brought about World War II.  The Spanish Flu was a pandemic of epic proportions killing 50 million people in nine months.  That was three percent of the entire world’s population in 1919.  Astounding.  After hours of pouring over documents and all the ‘R’s’ she could find she was about to give up.  Yet, there, crumpled between two sheets of paper were the typed notes of Richard Rhys’ death.  There was no autopsy because Chelsea had been correct.  He died of acute pneumonia due to the Spanish Flu. She held the notes in her hand and she realized she was trembling.  It pained her for some reason. She did not know why as she was not even alive when he passed.  There were fifty-four years in between his last breath and her first.  An entire lifetime and almost three generations and yet there was an odd closeness that overcame her. The notes stated that Mr. Rhys had been a healthy robust man of fifty-seven with no prior conditions or ailments.  He was still young, she thought.  And that made her ever more melancholy.  He was still enjoying life and participating fully in that experience when fate whisked him away taking his final gasp.  And it dawned on her that he had drowned.  Poor Mr. Rhys had succumbed to the ocean that resided inside of him.  Could the sea paintings have foretold his end, she thought?  Satisfied with her investigative work she decided she needed to find these paintings.  Even if she had to fly to London to do it she would find a way.  And although he was a mystery she felt like she was getting to know him, like being reacquainted with an old friend. 

 

Richard woke up suddenly to find Nell hovering over him.  Her young nubile face flushed with embarrassment as she fumbled with a wet rag.  She averted her eyes and Richard realized he was not wearing a night shirt.  He pulled the quilt up over himself and as he did he realized he did not have any underwear on either.  Oh God, he thought.  He hoped he did not do anything foolish or humiliate himself while asleep.  Things happened to men while they slept and he hoped Nell had only just walked in to tend to him.

“The Missus is very worried.” She said in her thick brogue. “You’re not supposed to be here.” She kept her face turned away from him and her voice low.  He looked around and realized he was in a room he had never been in before.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Brooklyn.” Nell replied and she quickly laid the wet rag across his forehead.  He noticed he was in a parlor and he recognized the paintings that scattered the room but he could not for the life of him remember painting any of them.  It was his style.  It was definitely his work, the colors, the strokes, the subject matter mostly.  His eyes rested on a large sea painting and he remembered creating several works on that particular subject.  It was dark and the swells were turbulent and pieces of wood seemed to float on the surface, tell tale signs of a shipwreck.  Looking at the painting made him want to cry suddenly.  But he did not.

“When did I do this?” he asked.  Nell squinted and her grey eyes seemed blank.

“I don’t remember, sir.”  She said obediently averting her eyes.

“Where’s Mrs. Hopkins?” He asked growing a bit more tense.

“Ye shouldn’t move or get excited, sure.  Mrs. Hopkins is at the house on Grove Street.  I’ve been told to keep ye quiet.”  She said nervously.  Suddenly there was a loud knock on the door.

“Ashley!” a voice called out.  “Ashley!”

“Who the devil is Ashley?”  Richard asked and he tried to get up.

“You’re not supposed to be here, I say.” Nell said and she stood up with her finger to her mouth just as a half naked young woman went to answer the door.  Richard pulled the quilt up around him as if it could hide him from view.  His eyes grew round like saucers completely disoriented.

“Who is that?” he mouthed silently.  But Nell only whispered “Shhhhh.” And then she faded away like a fine London mist.