Chapter 8
New York City is directly connected to the Jersey side of the Hudson River by invisible streets of water on which steamboats glide back and forth eight times a day during the summer. Standing on the deck of one of these boats, Ollie is mesmerized by the play of sunlight on Mary’s face, the sensuous curve of her bonnet, the stray wisps of black hair flickering in the wind. She squints into the sun, which makes her look sleepy. She watches the approaching shore with a purposeful gaze, as if something there awaits her.
“You’ve never been to the Elysian Fields before, then?” The voice, like a rusty hinge, startles Ollie. He turns to see Phebe Rogers standing to his right. The short, plump woman has been uncharacteristically silent until now. Always friendly and even ‘motherly’ to Ollie when the two of them are alone, she becomes tense and tight-lipped when Mary is present.
“I’ve never been across the Hudson,” Ollie replies.
“Beautiful spot,” Phebe says. “Don’t get there as much I’d like.”
“Then I’m very glad you could accompany us today.” Though Ollie would have preferred to have Mary, his angel, all to himself, he likes this old woman and feels comfortable with her company.
He misses Mum terribly.
The steamboat lands near a hotel that serves travelers who are staying on for a visit to nearby Hoboken. Ollie, Mary, and Phebe disembark, carrying baskets of food. A short walk down a well-traveled path leads them to a peaceful clearing—five acres of cool breezes and green grasses surrounded on three sides by trees and on the fourth by the river.
The Elysian Fields.
The stony path continues upward past large oak trees and locusts. On its winding route beneath one of the high cliffs that oversee the Hudson it passes a quaint tavern, Nick Moore’s House. The clearing is furnished with swings and other amusements for use by the hot and tired inhabitants of the city who have come here for healthful relaxation.
“Over here,” Mary says, taking Ollie’s hand and scrambling to a plush grassy spot by the river. “It’s perfect here. I’m famished, how about you?”
“I’m hungry, yes.”
Mary releases Ollie’s hand—
he doesn’t want her to let go
—and opens one of the baskets, removing a folded tablecloth. After unfurling it into the breeze, she gives it a saucy snap and drops the square cloth onto the grass.
“Our table!” she announces proudly.
Phebe is out of breath when she catches up to the younger ones. She sets down her considerable bulk next to the tablecloth and pops open a parasol, providing instant shade. “I burn easily,” she explains.
Kneeling almost reverently in front of the larger basket, Mary teasingly rubs her hands together and says, “I wonder what we have for lunch today.” She begins removing the packed food. Two loaves of bread, one white and one dark. Baked cod and sliced beef. Butter, apple jelly, pears, and grapes. “Lunch, anyone?” she says.
“There’s nothing to drink, dear,” Phebe says. Her words are said curtly. She barely softens them with the tangy tone of that final endearment.
“I didn’t forget, mama. It’s so hard to carry beverages all this way—so heavy! I’ll run up to Nick Moore’s and get us some beer.”
She stands, and Ollie stands with her. “No, let me go,” he says.
“Don’t be silly.”
“Then I’ll go
with
you.”
“Ollie, I want you to enjoy yourself here. This spot on the river is my gift to you. Look after my mother. I won’t be long.”
Before Ollie can object she is racing up the path alone.
Ollie looks down at Phebe, who is already biting into a torn slab of white bread smeared with apple jelly.
“I hope I didn’t give you the impression that I am trying to avoid your company,” Ollie says.
“I’m an old woman,” Phebe replies. “My daughter is young and beautiful. I’m not offended by your preference. Mary is
everyone’s
preference.”
Ollie sits down next to Phebe. “May I ask you a question?” Phebe nods. “Arthur Crommelin…”
“That’s not a question, but I know what you mean.”
“He’s very keen on Mary.”
“Everyone is keen on Mary, but Arthur more than most. Mary and he were engaged. For almost six months, seems to me.”
The words stun Ollie. “Engaged!” he says. “But what happened?”
“Some things Mary keeps to herself. But I suspect that she never really loved him. The man has no humor.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“He’s so—intense. I think his intensity finally just wore her out.”
“If she didn’t love him, then why’d she agree to the engagement?”
“We were new to New York. She was flattered by his attention. And I think she needed an excuse to escape the overwhelming attentions of John Anderson.”
“Her employer?”
“The very same. John was obsessed with her. Still is. But he’s practical as well, a good businessman. He learned that she’s more valuable to him as a cigar girl than a lover.”
“I know I’m prying, but—I don’t really know how to ask this…”
“Then don’t,” Phebe says. “Unless you’re prepared to answer sensitive questions about your own love life.”
Ollie considers this, decides to change the subject. “If you don’t mind me asking a different question—I’ve noticed that you and Mary seem rather distant lately. Does it have to do with me?”
“You?” Phebe seems genuinely surprised at this suggestion. “My dear Oliver, I can truly say that you are not the problem. I wish you had come to us a month earlier.”
“Then what is it?”
“Oliver, you are a generous, well-educated young man with wonderful manners. You’ve brightened the life of my Mary, who unfortunately is prone to making unwise personal decisions. At the present time we are having a—well, let’s call it a disagreement about one of these decisions.”
“She wants to move away from home?” he guesses.
“Oh, eventually that will happen,” Phebe says. “But no—that’s not it. I’m afraid that Phebe has become engaged again, this time to Daniel Payne, one of our borders.”
Ollie rocks backward and catches himself on his elbows. “Payne?” he asks, hoping that he has misunderstood.
“Yes, Daniel Payne, the corker.”
“He was in the house the evening I moved in, but he’s been absent since. I thought maybe he had moved out.”
“I pray to God that he will
never
return—though he owes me money. Has a problem with the sauce, that one. Gets awful mad and abusive when he’s drunk. Problem is, when he’s sober he’s a real charmer. Especially with the ladies.”
“But why—?”
“Why did she hook up with this boozer? Because he asked, I suppose. And because she needed a way to brush off Arthur Crommelin, who could not believe that his relationship with her was over.”
Ollie thinks about his encounter with Crommelin this morning. “He still believes that he has a chance. So you’re angry with Mary because she’s engaged?”
“Because she’s engaged to a scoundrel who will ruin her life. But she won’t listen to reason—not from me, that’s for sure. Makes my blood boil to think of her marrying that lunatic.”
“Where has he been?”
“Said he was going to visit his brother, but I’d wager he’s in a drunken stupor somewhere sharing a bed with some harlot from Five Corners. The man has no scruples, but Mary can’t see the lies. He’ll be back one of these days and…” Phebe stops suddenly.
“And then what?” Ollie asks, sitting up and leaning toward her.
Phebe avoids his gaze. “Forgive me for being a selfish old woman. I’ve never seen Mary as happy as she’s been the past few days. By coincidence or not, that happens to be when you came to us. I would like to see that happiness continue.”
Ollie is reeling from the sudden impact of Phebe’s tale. His emotions are snarled and he can’t untangle them. Disappointment, yes. He is profoundly disappointed that his precious angel is engaged to another man. Saddened, too, as well as disillusioned. The illusion of Mary’s purity and innocence has been exposed.
What more is there to learn about her sordid relationships?
But Ollie feels a tingle of excitement, also—that such a worldly woman would be interested in him, a man of meager experience. And he is becoming intoxicated with the mystery of Mary Rogers, sensing that there is far more to her than what Phebe has explained. The more unattainable Mary becomes, the more desirable she is to Ollie.
“You said that she’s been happy since I arrived at the boardinghouse,” Ollie says, fishing for more details.
“My, yes. Everything is ‘Ollie this,’ and ‘Ollie that.’”
“You believe she fancies me, then?”
“That’s an English way of saying it. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Do you believe that she loves this Payne fellow?”
“No, quite the opposite. I think she’s even taken to disliking the brute. But he has some kind of powerful hold over her.”
Ollie leans over and kisses Phebe lightly on the cheek. Her perfume—the fragrance of lilacs—reminds him of Mum, and suddenly he feels close to this old woman. He wants to tell her his own story, for he has at least as many secrets as Mary, but he holds his tongue and only says, “I love your daughter, Phebe.”
With suddenly moist eyes, Phebe looks at this young man. “Of course you do, Ollie,” she says. “Save her, then.”
Ollie lies back on the grass. A massive white cloud passes in front of the sun. Ollie sees in this cloud the image of something familiar.
The Prophet Muhammad.
“There you are, dear!” Phebe cries out. “Did you get the beer?”
“Yes, mama.”
Something in Mary’s voice concerns Ollie. He sits up as Mary kneels down with a basket full of brown bottles.
“Just what the doctor ordered,” Mary says. But her voice is thin and brittle. She looks pale. The sparkle in her eyes is gone. She guiltily avoids Ollie’s eyes.
“Are you all right, Mary?” Ollie asks.
“Oh yes, just fine. I believe the heat may have gotten to me, though. I was a little sick up there, but I’m feeling better now.”
Ollie can sense it—she is lying. He is challenged now to solve the mystery of Mary Brown. And to save her.
“My, my—look who’s here!” This sarcastic tenor voice belongs to Jonathon Fury. Ollie turns his head to see the bright red mane of his employee flashing in the summer sun.
“Jonathon—what are you doing out here?”
Jonathon lugs two satchels and the large wooden camera box over to the table cloth and wipes a river of perspiration from his forehead. “My employer had no work for me today, so I decided to make some pictures out here. The light is wonderful. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Well have some food, will you?” Ollie says. “We brought enough for an army.”
“I was going to have a bite and a beer at Nick Moore’s House, but your invitation is very appealing.” Jonathon looks down at the food. “Yes, all right then. Thank you. I insist, though, on paying for my meal with a daguerreotype of the three of you in the Elysian Fields. A moment to remember, and remember it you shall.”
“Very well,” Ollie says. “But after lunch. We eat first.”
Jonathon glances at Mary, who furtively turns away. Something is bothering her—something bigger than the others could even guess—and Jonathon knows what it is.
Chapter 9
As the Shaykhi students flow toward the great hall, anxious whispers like hissing serpents slither through the corridors and coil in the corners of the room. The gossip is intoxicating. Some of the students passionately believe that Jalal is the Promised One; their belief has blinded them to other possibilities.
A smaller group has staked its belief in a reclusive student named Naseem, a young man so pious that he is often asked to lead prayers. A frail ascetic with no close friends, Naseem’s only apparent indulgences are the self-imposed mortifications to which he submits. Yet for some of the Shaykhis there is something otherworldly in the bleak stare of this ghostly young man, a glimmer of the divine in his bearing, and an unconventional wisdom that has helped resolve the personal problems of many of the students.
Siyyid Kazim enters the room and the students rush to be near him. Jalal takes a place in the back of the gathering. Their teacher turns his tired eyes onto the group and begins to speak.
“Some of you have been here for many years, listening to our teachings and studying the writings,” Kazim says deliberately. “You have seen how the local ‘ulama have attempted to strangle us with their deceits and propaganda. How I wish that Shaykh Ahmad were still with us, for I must admit my own failings in countering these endless attacks. I apologize to all of you for my waning strength.”
A chorus of support rises up from the students who are unaccustomed to hearing such expressions from their leader.
Kazim paces for a moment and then turns back to the students. “What concerns me even more, however, are the attacks that come from inside.”
This remark sets off an uproar.
What kind of betrayal or treachery does he speak of?
Some of the students jump up and look ominously around the room, searching for a sign of guilt in the others.
“Listen carefully, then, to what I have to say,” Kazim continues. “There is one among us who is guilty of a delusion that is capable of dividing us forever. One of you has put forth blasphemous claims, falsely announcing to a few that he is the Promised One. And more than a few recklessly believe him—despite the fact that he possesses none of the required attributes we have been studying. Have you learned any of the things we have taught?”
Fortunately, this is a rhetorical question. The students lower their eyes in shame.
“I speak directly to the imposter now,” Kazim continues. “No one here seems to have questioned why the Qa’im, that most spotless soul, should have to punish himself with painful injuries to his body as you do. The Qa’im will be
wrongly
punished by many others, and cannot be
justly
punished by anyone. Your acts betray you.”
The round eyes of the students turn to the back of the room where Naseem prayerfully sits as if not hearing his teacher’s words.
“Remove yourself from our sight,” Kazim says. “There is no place for you here.”
Naseem slowly stands, raising his head arrogantly rather than shamefully. “One day you will discover your mistake,” he says before walking out.
“I already have discovered my mistake,” Kazim says as he watches the imposter leave the room. “And I have corrected it.”
The stunned gathering is silent, as if the students are recalculating a shift in their collective equilibrium.
What is next?
“Cleansing our own house is only one step,” Kazim says. “Now we must address the attacks from outside our community. You have all heard, I believe, of Siyyid Baqir.” Heads bob up and down but there are several blank expressions. “He is a most formidable ecclesiastical dignitary. He now lives in Isfahan, but his authority extends far beyond the confines of that city. If we could win his support, we would have a measure of protection.”
Jahangir, the one who had witnessed Jalal’s seizure, stands bravely and addresses the teacher. “I’ve head of this man,” Jahangir says. “He was once a friend of Shaykh Ahmad but withdrew his support after the Shaykh died. How could any of us approach such a powerful man?”
“So many questions,” Kazim says. “Would that one amongst you could arise and with complete detachment deliver a message on my behalf to this learned Siyyid.”
“What message?” Jahangir asks before sitting down.
Siyyid Kazim walks into the middle of the group. “Imagine that this messenger would obtain from the Siyyid a solemn declaration testifying to the unquestioned authority of Shaykh Ahmad, and to the truth and soundness of his teachings.”
Several of the students, who were about to volunteer, now have second thoughts.
“And imagine, then, that this same messenger—after securing such a testimony—would travel to Mashhad and obtain a similar pronouncement from Mirza Askari, the foremost ecclesiastical leader in that holy city.”
Kazim surveys the room. His thinly veiled solicitation produces no volunteers. He waits, smiling faintly and nodding his head before striding back to the front of the room. Then, before he can continue, a student stands.
“I will go!” Mirza Muhit says bravely. Muhit had been one of the boldest and most vocal believers in Naseem, the imposter. “I will be your messenger.”
Kazim stares at the young man, who wilts beneath the teacher’s gaze. “Beware of touching the lion’s tail,” Kazim says. “Do not belittle the delicacy and difficulty of such a mission.”
Muhit sits down, unable to bear the intensity of Kazim’s hot gaze and disquieting words.
Siyyid Kazim sweeps his eyes over the seated students, landing at last on the face of Jalal. “Arise and perform this mission,” he says. “I declare you equal to the task.”
Jalal stands, astonished and embarrassed.
Surely there are others more worthy.
A hundred eyes stare at him. A thousand thoughts explode in his head. Clearing his mind with a prayer, he walks through the parting crowd and kneels at the feet of Siyyid Kazim, kissing the hem of his teacher’s robe.
“In the name of God, I will go,” Jalal says.