by T C Donivan
As the seasons turned, Mozart was unnaturally quiet, betraying none of the unsettling preternatural intelligence he had shown during the days leading up to the terrible ordeal with Rachel. His skills as a musician were mostly wasted among the permanent tenants of Fort Laramie as they were, for the most part, a surly, uneducated lot whose tastes ran to the lowest sorts of entertainment. He and Sosanna continued to live in the apartment Spencer had provided for them and Annie and I made sure they were provided for in all other things. The unspoken assumption was that wherever we went in the spring, they would accompany us. This fine notion did not bear close inspection if one began to consider the implications of their racial differences, an impairment that went unremarked in this wilderness outpost, but would not bear scrutiny among civilized peoples.
The four of us would sometimes share meals, but little conversation passed between us, other than observations of the weather and comings and goings about the fort. Sosanna missed her sister and Mozart seemed adrift without his former master. We usually dined on a blanket in front of the tent where Annie and I lived, the open air being preferable to the foul confinement of the fort. After one such meal, Mozart handed me a folded piece of paper. I opened it to find these words scrawled in Spencer’s handwriting.
“Our tiny window of history is closing Clayton. The people we loved, books we read and the things we did are disappearing and no one will remember them, or us for very long. Remember me.”
“When did he give you this?” I asked.
“I was at his camp two days ago,” Mozart answered.
“He sounds suicidal.”
“You should go see him,” he said.
“Will he allow me?”
“I think so.”
“It’s two day’s ride,” I said looking for an excuse not to go.
“It’s barely a day’s ride if you cut cross country,” Mozart said.
I looked to Annie in resignation. “We could go tomorrow morning I suppose.”
“Just you,” Mozart said.
Annie shrugged. “Go ahead, I’ll keep Sosanna company.”
****
Mozart and I started before daylight the next morning. The weather was splendid.
“It will be winter soon,” I said trying to make conversation.
“It will be fierce, but short,” Mozart replied.
I wondered what signs he read to know the weather, but did not ask, fearing he would reply with some ridiculous tale of second sight and prescient dreams.
“I want to see the Pacific Ocean, war or no war. That was my goal before I met Spencer, to go to California or Oregon,” I told him.
“Then why don’t you take Miss Annie and go?” He asked.
“It’s winter and we have you and Sosanna to look out for,” I explained.
“Don’t worry about Sosi and me. We’ll get by.”
“How?” I asked.
“Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them,” he replied.
“Matthew 6:26.”
“I prefer it in the Latin actually.” He proceeded to recite in an accent that would have made my old instructor at the Concord School proud. “Respicite volatilia cæli, quoniam non serunt, neque metunt, neque congregant in horrea: et pater vester cælestis pascit illa. Nonne vos magis pluris estis illis?”
I peered at the little African. “You’ve been short on wisdom these last weeks. But now that you and I are alone you’ve become a miniature Plato.”
“A wise man keeps his thoughts in his head until they’re of use to someone else. Do you believe in guardian angels?” He asked.
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful of another man’s beliefs, but no, it’s nonsense for little children,” I said.
“You amaze me with how casually you dismiss things you don’t understand.”
“Prove to me they exist,” I replied. He waved a hand over his chest. I shook my head in disbelief. “You are an arrogant snot.”
“But if, for the sake of argument, you were to agree that guardian angels do exist, then would you not also, have to concede to the existence of evil spirits who seek to disrupt the world of the living?” He asked.
I nodded. “Tree Owl does. He believes you’re a trickster spirit.”
Mozart threw his head back and laughed out loud. “I like that Indian. He sees the world in simple terms. If you had faith like he Clayton, you’d be a wiser man.”
“Spencer believed in you. He said you interpreted his dreams. If you’re so brilliant, why didn’t you warn him about Kingfish?” I asked bitterly.
“All Rachel’s paths led to one ending. That was my warning to him.”
I was astonished at the claim. “You are a monstrous little man, spouting evil like that. No wonder Spencer’s holed up in the wilderness, weeping by a graveside. You have it in you to release him you little charlatan. Do so!”
Mozart shook his wooly head. “I have no power over anyone Clayton.”
The beautiful day turned sour at the turn of conversation. We rode on in silence.
****
I did not find the place of Rachel’s burial as I remembered it. The lush countryside of early autumn now seemed remote and desolate. The tall grass had turned brown and the stone outcropping beneath which she was buried seemed barely a pile of rocks as you rode up from the valley. Mounds of dead wildflowers were piled all around the grave. Spencer had built a lean-to on the side of the hill nearby. The roof was half caved in and the walls would not keep out a summer mist, let alone a winter snowstorm.
Moredcai ran to greet us, wagging his stump and yapping. Spencer crawled out of his hovel at the commotion. He was gaunt as a scarecrow. His hair was matted and a wild tangle of beard covered his face. His ocean blue eyes were dull and lifeless. The once immaculate dresser wore a suit of clothes that reeked of unspeakable things. The dog was cleaner than he. The image of John The Baptist came to mind.
“What are you doing here?” He asked.
“We’re worried about you Spencer. You can’t go on like this,” I told him.
He stared off at the grave. “It keeps Rachel alive for me. This is the last place she breathed life. There is still something of her here.”
The wind had begun to pick up. I had to place a hand upon my hat to keep it from flying away. Mordecai ran away to the meager shelter of the lean-to. Mozart stood by, quiet as the Sphinx.
“Please stop it,” I implored him.
“I’m sorry if my grief offends you Clayton.”
“It has nothing with me,” I argued.
“Doesn’t it? I’m not behaving like a normal person. We’re supposed to get over our pain and continue with our lives, be good little productive citizens. I’m upsetting our homely slice of society. There’s nothing wrong with me Clayton. I’m functioning perfectly well, but you can’t stand it that I’m not living by your standards.”
“You’re wrong. We’re only concerned with your well being Spencer.”
“Then why did you let your woman kill Kingfish? If you cared about me at all, you’d have let me have my revenge.”
“What you were doing was inhumane,” I said.
“How does it feel sleeping with someone who kills so easily? Aren’t you afraid she’ll do the same to you some night if you annoy her?” He asked.
“Annie is a good woman. I only wish I’d had the courage to do it before she did,” I said in her defense.
“I can’t live without her,” he replied sounding like a man standing in his own grave.
I was at a loss, finally burbling out the first banality that came to mind, “God has a grand purpose for everything, you must believe that.”
Spencer chuckled, humorlessly. “To look for purpose in such a tragedy is to assume the universe is ruled by a benevolent entity with a vision of amazing complexity.”
“God,” I answered.
“It’s why we created Him, to explain away the capricious nature of d
eath.”
“Must we talk about this standing out here in the wind?” I asked.
“Where better? Besides, my house has no walls.” He picked at his ragged suit. “The emperor has no clothes either.” He tilted his shaggy head at me and peeked from beneath his brows. “I know we’ve talked about it before, but you’ve always skirted the issue. Do you truly believe in God Clayton?”
I bristled. “There’s a mocking tone in your voice that’s meant to intimidate my answer.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“You do.”
“I remove the inflection. Do you believe in the geriatric, white bearded Christian God who rides on a cloud casting lightning bolts and favors down with equal abandon upon his unknowing children?”
I couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of his description. “You can’t help yourself can you? You really should have been a lawyer. All right, no, I suppose not, at least not as you describe Him. I have to admit, it’s all become a bit muddled. Do you believe in God?”
“No,” he answered simply.
“I suppose you prefer the nonsense Mozart preaches?”
“I believe in my dreams. I’ve seen the other side Clayton. The spirits have visited me. I’ve seen Rachel and me together in another life. We have lived before and we will live again. We are soul mates who travel through the ages together. I know it. If not for that, I’d have faith only in the worm.”
“Then why can’t you let it be? Accept that Rachel is in a better place.” I saw him visibly shudder at the over used expression and quickly moved to amend it. “Or if not a better place, then at least not suffering and maybe born into a new life if that’s what you believe.”
His voice became a whisper. “That’s the problem Clayton. I can’t see her anymore. I’m afraid she’s lost.”
“You believe she’s in purgatory?” He nodded. “If Mozart is such a seer, can’t he divine something that would allay your fears?” I asked. The self proclaimed little seer made no comment.
“You reduce this to a charlatan’s parlor games. Mozart and I have revealed miracles to you, but your mind is closed,” Spencer said with disgust.
“I’m sorry if you feel that way. I don’t mean to be judgmental, but it’s all too fantastic. I do think the boy runs a game on you. He may be a clairvoyant of some small abilities, but he plays on your own, preconceived notions of the metaphysical. You want an explanation for Rachel’s death, a reassurance that she’s well and happy, but you won’t find it on this hillside. Except for Lazarus and Jesus, few have claimed to come back from the dead and even they said little of what they saw on the other side. Try and find some comfort in the life you have left. You’re an intelligent man; study the ancient religions and philosophies. Commune with nature. Seek knowledge. You’ve crawled into the grave with her. Be a man!” I challenged.
“You’re no use to me,” he said and stalked off.
I looked at Mozart. “What are we to do?”
“Spend the night. It’s too far to start back now. I wasn’t wrong to bring you though was I?’ He asked.
I stared after Spencer as he returned to his post by the graveside. “No,” I said.
Chapter 22 – Ghosts
Mozart and I pitched our bedrolls in the shelter of pines on the east side of the hill below Spencer’s lean-to. We built a small fire for warmth and satisfied ourselves with dried venison for supper. Spencer came round after, sketchbook tucked beneath his arm, Mordecai at his heels.
“I’d ask you to dinner, but Mordecai and I are dining on a rabbit he brought two nights ago and there’s not enough to go around,” he said.
It’s all right, we have our own. We’ll share if you like?” I offered.
“I have no interest in food. My belly aches most of the time.” He knelt by the fire and laid his sketchbook on the ground.
“You’ve been working” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, flipping open the book.
I leaned forward eagerly, remembering the magnificent works he had presented us with time and again on the trail from Independence. Instead, a scene of monstrous depravity greeted my eyes. Seeing my expression, he turned the pages to offer scene after scene of torture and death. My eyes fixed upon the graphic horror in bewilderment.
“What have you done?” I asked.
There were tears in his voice, “I’ve tried to imagine what it must have been for her, what she went through. I want to know. I have paintings as well.”
“But how can you draw such things.” I shut my eyes. “Please burn them Spencer. They are unholy.”
He gathered the pages and stood up. “You are an artist of words. I thought maybe you would understand.”
Nothing more was said. He marched back to his shelter.
“Did you know about the pictures?” I asked Mozart.
“He showed them to me when I was here before.”
The images were seared in my mind. “He is insane. We must help him.”
“There’s nothing we can do Mr. Clayton, not now anyway. But you had to know. You are his best friend. We’ll go back in the morning,” he said.
I lay down in my blankets as close to the fire as I could, shivering uncontrollably at the memory of the drawings Spencer had shown me. Exhaustion, blessedly, overtook me and I slept.
****
I was awakened in the night by a banshee’s howling. The fire had burned down to cold embers, but the hillside was alight in an eerie glow. The long ride and sleeping on the ground had stiffened me to the point of near immobility. My bones creaked as I rolled and looked upon the sight. A ball of pale, yellow light danced above Rachel’s grave. Every point on my body tingled in horror, the short hairs standing on end. My voice felt frozen in my throat. Struggling, I called out to Mozart.
“I see it,” he said.
Neither of us moved from our blankets. The ball of light moved away from the grave and down the hill. Within its glow I thought I could perceive the shape of a human, but it was ill defined and I could not say if it was male or female. The thing moved slowly toward us. The horses became restless. I heard Elijah whinny and pull at his hobbles. The light stopped before us and I stared into its maw seeking desperately to discern its origin.
“Rachel?” I whispered.
The light seemed to flicker and I heard the whisper of a feminine voice in my head that sounded familiar, but I could not be sure. It moved again, starting up the hill toward Spencer’s shelter. It floated above and then engulfed it, throbbing in colors of blue and orange before settling back to its original shade. Finally it drifted off into the sky, fading into nothingness.
“What was it?” I asked.
Mozart lay huddled in his blankets. “It was her,” he said.
“Rachel?”
“He calls, but he cannot see her. He’s enslaved her with his grief. Now do you believe me?” He asked.
****
I awoke with a start. Spencer knelt before us with a steaming pot of coffee and a wan smile upon his face, the dog by his side. His state of barbering and haberdashery were in no better repair than the night before, but a degree of coherence seemed to have returned to him.
“The last of my coffee. I thought I might share it with you,” he offered.
We sat up and got out our tin cups and joined him. I began to speak, but Mozart anticipated my line of questioning and waved me to silence. I respected his wishes. We drank the coffee and within it found a temporary restoration of the fellowship we had lost. Thus braced, Spencer began to speak.
“I have a book in my bags, a slim volume called Nature. It was one of a limited edition of 500 copies. The author claimed anonymity, but I’m told that Emerson of the Transcendental Club in your hometown of Concord wrote it. I thought you might like it,”
“Ralph Waldo Emerson, yes I’ve met him,” I answered in surprise. “He caused quite an uproar with a lecture at the Harvard Divinity School during my freshman year. He denounced Biblical miracles and said that Jesus was not God. I
wasn’t there, but those who were, said it nearly erupted into a riot!”
Spencer was grinning now. “Do you know him well?”
“No, only in passing. I attended one of their meetings, the so-called Transcendentalists. I’m not sure I’d call it an actual ‘club’. It was hardly the Masonic Temple. The thing was held in Emerson’s sitting room. They served stale buns and warm lemonade. It seemed all murky tidewater to me. They actually called it The Brotherhood of the Like-Minded, which I found to be rather cliquish. They had a journal you know, the Dial. There were a few good articles in it,” I said.
“I can’t believe you lived in the same city as Emerson and his bunch and dismissed them so easily!” Spencer replied.
“I’m not as sharp as you in picking up such things,” I said.
“No, that’s not what I meant at all. In fact, I admire the fact that you did not fall in with them. It makes you an original thinker,” he declared.
“Or just a fool who couldn’t understand what they were about,” I said glumly.
“So then, you’ve already read Nature I take it?”
“No,” I rejoined, feeling rather foolish at the admission. “There was a copy of it back at the newspaper offices lying around, but I never got round to it. The editor of the paper recommended it highly.”
“As do I dear boy, as do I,” Spencer seconded. “It’s a good read and opens your mind to the world in an entirely different way. I expect it’s a distillation of the meetings you found so clubby. Sometimes it takes a summation to define what a roomful of fools are aiming at.”
“Maybe this will enlighten me. To be honest, they thought me an intellectual novice, that my work with the newspaper was, in their words, ‘so pedestrian’. It wasn’t that they threw me out, but that they were so goddamned condescending,” I admitted.
“I can just see it, Clayton Donegal, man of the people, battling the forces of intellectual snobbery.”
“Thank you for the book,” I said.
“I have something else for you, some sketches.” He caught the look in my eye and quickly added, “Not those, these are the books I collected on the way from Independence and before that. I’d like you to keep them for me, put them in a safe place at the fort until I ask you for them.”