Chapter Three

In the Woods between Canterbury and Dover September 1095

As Colin stood before the archbishop, waiting for an acknowledgment, sweat dripped down his brow. The archbishop was entrenched in his chair behind a desk littered with books and papers. His current interest lay in the eradication of an oversized platter of ham and eggs as he shoved the food into his mouth with a large loaf of fresh white bread. Colin’s mouth watered, not at the disgusting sight as the gluttonous Archbishop ate his food, but at the sight of the fare itself. He was lucky to receive a small portion of moldy, dark bread and a small cup of ale as his breakfast. For lunch, he would receive the customary ploughman’s lunch, an unappetizing concoction of leftovers from the manor or perhaps a bit of cheese or fish, or on even rarer occasions, a sliver of meat. Of course, he could always count on that piece of moldy, dark bread to enjoy with every meal. The Archbishop never took his eyes off his food to see the young man standing before him.

Not surprising, the archbishop was a very stout, rotund man with flabby jowls. He was bald with one curly strand of hair growing wildly on the top of his head. Only a chunk of ham remained on his plate. He picked it up, eyed it as a horse trader would eye a mare he desired, and then shrugged his head and threw the remaining ham to a mangy English Wolfhound lounging in the corner where the dog devoured the meat.

A large, grotesque picture of the Crucifixion hung slightly askew behind the Archbishop. To his right was an ornate picture of a golden-haloed Madonna and child and to his left; an even more vivid portrait of the priest himself, or rather how the Archbishop viewed himself, thinner, younger, attractive and dressed in regal attire.

Wearing only his nightshirt, the archbishop looked up at the young man.

“State your business. I am a very busy man.”

With a confused look on his face, Colin said, “But, Your Grace, you sent for me. Colin, Son of Ailwin.”

“I sent for you?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Colin said trying to avert his gaze from the obese priest, sopping up the last grease from his plate with a small chunk of bread.  He picked up a delicate, clean white napkin, and daintily dabbed at his mouth and chin as he leaned back in his chair.

The archbishop looked puzzled for an instant. “Aw… so I did.” He stretched out his arm and presented his jewel-encrusted ring of office to Colin. Unsure at first, Colin bent to kiss the ring. “Why is it that you barbaric Saxons refuse to choose a surname like decent Christians? It is a most egregious sin against the Lord.” The priest interlocked his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “We can correct that sin immediately. From this day hence, you shall be known as Colin Harcourt. I have a relation named Harcourt in Dover.”

Colin, unprepared to debate the religious necessity of a surname, answered, “Yes, Your Grace.”

“You are alone in this world. Is that true, son?”

“Yes, Sir, my father passed the year William the Conqueror passed.” Colin’s eyes lingered on the exquisite rug.

“Your father was a Christian and was afforded his Last Rites and a Christian burial?”

“Are we here to discuss my father’s faults, Your Grace?” Colin asked. His father was never overly religious.

“Of course not, my son.  Allow me to reach my conclusion as to the worthiness of your soul. As I was asking, you are alone. No mother or father? No brothers or sisters? No uncles, aunts?” His Grace continued as if he was talking to the unholy.

“I am utterly alone, Your Grace.” Colin shifted his feet expecting the worst.

“I am not concerned for my soul, Your Grace.” Colin found it difficult to hide his contempt.

“Watch your tone with me, boy. I have the ways and means to lock you in the dungeon for the rest of your mortal life. As I said, I am trying to determine the worthiness of your soul, and I believe I am much more qualified to do so than you.”

“Begging your pardon, but why would you care about my soul, Your Grace? There are others in your congregation whose souls appease your coffers more than mine.” He didn’t mean to sound angry, but there was little doubt in his voice or mannerisms.

“Such hostilities, my son, will come of no use to you.” The Archbishop produced a small white envelope from his desk. “I have needs of an urgent matter. One of utter secrecy and I’m afraid, fraught with danger.”

“And this requires someone with a worthy soul?” Colin asked guardedly. “What other qualifications do I have that would qualify me for such a job?”

“I have a particular…umm... letter that must be delivered to his Lordship, the Earl of Kent, in Normandy, before the first of April. I have been given divine guidance in choosing you for my…our mission. It is your duty as a God-fearing Christian to accept my request and depart post-haste.” The Archbishop glanced at Colin. “Now, run to the kitchen. I’ve provided you with breakfast. You will find transportation saddled and ready for your journey when you return to the stable. Leave at once and do not dally.” The archbishop paused for a moment and glared at an astonished Colin. When he did not hurry out of the room, the Archbishop continued, “Margery’s soul may still be saved.”

Colin grimaced and clenched his fist and just a quickly he submitted to the Archbishop. “What about services, Your Grace? It is a sin not to attend.”

A stern look overtook the clergyman’s face, “Do not pretend that I don’t see you walk away from my sermon on any given Sabbath, boy. Your soul is in jeopardy. Complete your mission, and we might just save that lost soul of yours.” Colin’s heart fluttered. How did the Archbishop know of his trysts? Fear followed. If this fat priest knew about Margery, to what else was he privy? He made unfavorable remarks toward the Crown and boasted of his conquests while drinking with Herlewin. Could his friend betray him? His sins were punishable. Of course could very well spend the rest of his life in chains or worse. He couldn’t care less about his soul. I want to live.

Colin wiped some sweat from his forehead. “I thought you chose me because my soul was already worthy and therefore qualified to undertake your quest, Your Grace.”

“Worthy?” The archbishop shook with uproarious laughter, his belly, and his jowls wiggling. “On the contrary, my son. I chose you solely on the fact that you have no family and therefore, it will be no great loss if you should be captured and hung for treason.”

Resisting was not an option, and that upset Colin. Deep down he knew the archbishop was right. He could disappear this very moment, and nobody would be the wiser. His knees went weak, and his stomach knotted. He tried to brush his feelings aside, convincing himself they were due to a lack of breakfast and not the threat of treason. “And if I refuse to go?”

“Then I will have no other choice but to find another. There are many lost souls to choose from, my son.  However, afterward, I will have you hung for crimes against the church.  The church forbids copulation without the benefit of a Christian marriage. Colin, you will not hang alone.  Several lovely young ladies shall stand beside you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Colin’s eyes trained on the floor. The Archbishop coerced him into a clandestine, treasonous mission with no promise of return. He clenched his fist behind his back, conquering his wishes to beat the clergyman into his eternal life. The journey promised danger and most likely a very unpleasant death. However, there wasn’t much to look forward to in his current station in life either. Masking his anger, he stood, emotionless.

The Archbishop picked up a brown purse lying on his desk and tossed it to Colin. “There should be enough here to secure passage from Dover to Calais.” He turned away from Colin and reached for his Holy robes. “You may say you are on a mission for the Church. That may come in handy until you reach Calais though other than that you are on your own.” He sat at his desk and flipped through the grease soaked bible.  Without looking at Colin, he ran a finger down the selected scripture.

“But sir, winter is afoot. What shall I do if I run into severe weather?” Bile rose to the top of his esophagus. No, he will think me weak. I must compose myself. He swallowed the bitter vomit and met the archbishop’s eyes.

“Once you are a distance from Canterbury, you may travel at your speed as long as the letter is in the Earl’s hands by April 1st.” The Archbishop dripped red wax on the envelope and sealed it by unceremoniously squishing his ring to the wax. “Now, be off with you, I have a sermon to prepare. Tell no one of our meeting. You are bound by secrecy and eternal damnation.” The archbishop dismissed Colin with a wave of his pudgy hand.

Colin spun on his heels and lumbered away and slammed the Sanctuary’s door behind him. A banishment to hell would have been preferred, and a better ending to his meeting with the archbishop. Normandy was an unacceptable punishment. Normandy was the home of William the Conqueror, the Butcher of Britain, and the vile serpent to blame for his father’s premature death.

Colin had taken three steps before his knees gave out, and he dropped to all fours, vomiting profusely on the grass. When he regained his strength, he stood and wiped the spittle from the corners of his mouth. Onlookers stared in disbelief. Some offered Colin assistance, but he swatted all hands away. After leaving the Archbishop he went to the kitchen and wolfed down his breakfast of one old cake and stale ale. Looking around he made sure none of the kitchen staff saw him as he stole a plate of biscuits. Then he turned to the  left as quickly as he entered, hiding his the biscuits as he walked toward the stable with a glare in his eye. He viewed his new quest with unequaled fear but with a touch of curiosity. His mind was full of doubt, and he left the stolen food near where the mule was tied up.

The sun was directly overhead, and he traveled a good three miles from Canterbury before Colin stopped for lunch. The mid-September cool breeze rustled the trees. His back ached from an hour atop the mule that awaited him at the stable. A mule? Surely, the archbishop could afford a better ride for such a dangerous quest. Anger gripped him, followed by horror. Fear because he was now in the King’s forest without permission, an act punishable by prison. He was angry with himself for being too foolish to run the other way. Tethering the mule where it could graze, Colin dragged his knapsack from his saddlebag and sat beneath a huge oak tree. He expected generous portions, but after unfolding the knapsack, Colin found scarcely enough for one meal. Dover was a little less than one full day ride from Canterbury. If he were diligent and kept his stops to a minimum, he would be in Dover by nightfall. He consumed the dark bread as if it was manna from heaven and still hungered for more. The ale was warm but satisfying. He leaned his tired back against a tree trunk and watched a wooly worm inch across a fallen tree branch.  The worm was a solid white, a definite sign of a harsh early winter.

Colin’s mind faded back to the winter of his tenth year and his mother and brother. Every winter he felt the same pang of loneliness in his heart. He couldn’t help but remember the uncaring fire as it eagerly consumed their disease-riddled bodies. This year the emptiness bothered him more.

The light breeze sang an old familiar song to him, the ale and bread working with it to lull him. A twig’s snap yanked the sleepiness from him. Another snap followed by voices validated that he was not alone. Colin stood to meet his new companions. Unseen men restrained him from behind, two, perhaps three. A man stepped out from another tree brandishing a dagger. Colin’s heart beat quickened. 

“What do we have here?” the man asked. He bowed to Colin. “Captain Luke Bonneville at your service. My associates and I… um… patrol these woods on behalf of our benefactor, the Good King William Rufus. Who might you be? And what is your business?”  The captain was dressed in a tattered blue and gold overcoat, a dirty ruffled blouse, black britches, and a Tri-cornered hat. His face bore marks of scars from both blade and pox. His right hand was missing at the wrist, a good indication that he was a thief. It was doubtful he was ever really a captain in the service, but more likely, he stole the clothes from someone instead.

Colin refused to speak. Instead, he shifted his head as best he could to see his tormentors, but it was of no use, he could not get a glimpse of his captors. Avoiding their stench and foul breath was just as futile. The captor to his left was missing two fingers on his hand, while the other a scar on his arm appeared, snaking to his elbow.

“Ah, you wish to be released before you speak?” The thief took a step forward, “Very well. Release our guest.” Luke took another step forward until he was nose to nose with Colin. His breath was putrid. His eyes were steel gray. “I shall ask you one more time. State your name and business before I gut you like a pig.” The captain pressed his dagger to Colin’s chest, the tip of the knife ripping the shirt and leaving a pockmark.

Colin took a deep breath and fought the desire to gag. “I am Colin...” He could not recall the Norman name bestowed upon him by the archbishop. “My business is my own. I am off to winter with my uncle in Dover.”

“Dover? You must make haste if you desire to reach there before nightfall” The captain took two steps backward. “Forgive me for any delay we might have caused you. You are free to go on your way.” Colin heard a murmur and a snicker, but Luke cut them off with an icy stare.

“Thank you, kind sir.” Colin gathered his belongings.

“Say nothing of it.” The captain whirled. “By the by, your journey will be an arduous trek. You are too weighed down. My associates and I can rectify that.” He smiled and extended his hand. “Your purse, if you please.” Colin felt fingers untie the purse from his waist. “Oh, and we will have your mule also, as I’m afraid he will only slow you down.” The captain spun and stomped away. “Remove his britches and boots. They’ll come in handy.”

A thud on the back of his head prevented Colin from protesting. His face pressed into the dirt.  He was vaguely aware the thieves removing his pants and boots. He wanted to fight back, but his muscles would not respond to his commands. His last memory was the face of Margery, or was it the baker laughing at his embarrassing situation? His consciousness faded.

“Did they get the letter from the Archbishop? How close to Dover were you?” General Grant asked in rapid sequence.

“They overlooked the letter. Thank the Lord. I was still about eleven miles from Dover. Without my boots, the walk would have been difficult. The road was dirt and rutted with cart tracks, and unavoidable animal piles were littering the way. They didn’t send workers out to clean up such messes in those days. And, although I am not a prude, I was in my underclothing and society favored modesty at that time.”

“Well, immodesty is frowned on today, also. Why didn’t you look for the scoundrel?” asked the general, engrossed in the tale.

“That would not have been prudent. The King’s woods were full of these less desirable chaps. There is no telling what my outcome might have been. It would be better off to cut my losses and continue on my way. I was probably lucky they only robbed me. They could have been killed, and my body thrown into the woods never to be seen again.” Colin stared at Grant, searching for any sign of doubt in his eyes. Grant hung eagerly on every word

Chapter Two

Canterbury early September 1095

General Grant’s face curled in disgust. “Please tell me that was not the custom. The thought borders on barbarianism.”

“No, General. It was not customary to burn loved ones in such a manner. Burial of loved ones has always been a somber and Christian rite. The only option was for John and Mother to remain bundled in the rear of our house until the spring thaw, leaving their bodies subject to defilement from the wild animals. At the time, I was horrified. I would have preferred to starve and pay the church fees. But now I’m older, I realize Father did what he thought was best.”

“That is an amazing and perplexing story. The winters are harsh here as well, especially along the frontiers. However, I have not heard our frontiersmen submit to similar actions.” The general sat in thought for a moment. “I will admit that your claim is hard to believe. Convince me how it allowed you to live for hundreds of years?”  Grant shook his head. “That is, if you have the time, of course.”

Colin thought I have never told a soul about my life in over forty years. Nobody will believe me. Why would a decorated general believe a word I say? “That story, General, cannot be told without the beginning. If you have previous commitments, you will have to be satisfied with knowing it is true.”

“No, I have no place I would rather be. This…” and he swept his arm wide across the dreary city in mourning, “will be here when your story is told, and you might find I’m a bit of a historical enthusiast myself.”

“William the Conqueror died in the early morning of September 9th, 1087.”

“Yes, I studied William at West Point. It was said he died from an injury he acquired during his attempt to capture a small town in France. I believe heat and fatigue caused him to slump forward and impaled himself on his saddle pommel.” Grant was proud of himself for his knowledge.

“You know more than I, sir. All they told us was that he died in France. I’m afraid they did not share the irony of the truth with his people for fear it would dishearten them. In actuality, I believe they would have been amused and felt justified.  He slaughtered England and gave away his fortune to the Church in an attempt for absolution and a futile effort to save his soul. To think he thought a few trinkets would purge his cruelty to his subjects and pave the way for forgiveness.”

“I was taught he was a great leader.” Grant brushed a speck of dust from his shoulder.  “Nothing was ever mentioned about cruelty to his subjects.”

“Believe what you will, sir. You were not there,” Colin continued with conviction. “My father died in August of that year, penniless thanks to the Domesday Book. I purchased a pauper’s plot in the churchyard in Canterbury.”

“Wait, the Doomsday Book?”

“It was The Domesday Book. Dome is an Old English word meaning judgment.” A sigh escaped from Colin’s mouth. “I suppose I should explain. In the year 1085, King William the Conqueror felt the need to determine his exact worth. He feared his vassals were not paying their proper taxes, so he sent men to all shires, villages, and cities with direct orders to find all livestock, land, and crops in his kingdom. Whatever the Lords wrote in the book became law. The surveyors determined that the Earl of Kent owed taxes and as you remember, William gave our land to the Earl of Kent. The Earl seized my father’s land as payment for those taxes and evicted us. As a further insult, my father and I became his servants, and he forced us to work his land as little more than slaves did. I was lucky. I worked as a stable boy, and the Earl gave me a small loft in the barn. My father worked in the fields, sleeping there, scrounging for scraps of food.”

“I am so sorry. Your hardship must have been difficult to endure.”

“As I said, I was fortunate. I enjoyed working with the horses, and I slept with a roof over my head. My father was never the same. I believed the small scrap of land he owned and worked gave him enough pride to keep him going year after year, and he never recovered from losing it. The Earl forced my father into hard labor and worked until he became too frail and could no longer perform his task.  Once during this time, my father caught me eyeing a beautiful girl. He grabbed me by the collar and berated me, shaking me with every sentence. ‘What do you think you are doing, boy?  She is too good for the likes of you. You’ll likely land in prison for looking in her direction. Everyone is too good for the likes of you. You are a slave, and all you will ever be is a slave. You will work your fingers to the bone from morning until night and live on whatever scraps the Earl finds too meager for his dogs. If you find a slave wench who will have you as your wife, then the children you have will suffer the same. Have pity on your progeny, boy, and keep your eyes away from women.” Colin’s voice raised as he related the words of his father, his brow dripped with sweat as he felt himself becoming that young boy again, frightened, frustrated and worthless. He took a moment to wipe his brow and take a few deep breaths.

“A friend came to me when my father collapsed and helped me carry him into the barn. I cared for him until he took his last breath.” Colin’s attention wavered like a man in a brown suit, and a black armband waved a greeting to Grant from the other side of the street.

Grant waved back, “I believe that was a senator, but I am not sure. I can’t imagine how difficult that must have been, but your story, although intriguing, has yet to convince me of its truth.” Grant patted Colin on the shoulder and moved to leave.

“A difficult life is all we have ever known and all we could ever look forward to, and it did not improve even after the Earl was thrown into prison after William’s death. As for verification of the truth, my word should suffice but,” Colin removed a plain well-worn envelope from his breast pocket. “I’m seldom without this.”

Colin took a tattered, creased paper from the envelope, unfolded the paper with expert care, and handed it gently to Grant.

“I must admit, this looks ancient, but it is written in French, and I don’t read French.” He handed the precious letter back to Colin.

Colin gingerly retrieved his treasured letter, refolded it, and returned it to the envelope and his breast pocket. “Allow me.”

“Be it known Colin Harcourt served me well in our Holy Father’s Crusades and is owed a life. Henceforth he shall be bestowed the rank of acting Baron of Dover and shall be afforded all privileges due him”.

Robert, Duke of Normandy and rightful sovereign of the British Isles.

Signed this day, second of January in the year of our Lord Eleven Hundred Anno Domini

“Of course, the Duke didn’t have the right to bestow on me any title in the British Isles.” Colin smiled. The letter served well for four presidents and one political leader and provided proof of his outlandish tale. Although the ancient artifact was indeed true, and the story was not a bizarre tale, it was after all his life.

“Why did the King throw the Earl of Kent in prison?”

“In a nutshell, William decreed that his son, William Rufus, would succeed him on the throne. The eldest son, Robert, argued that the throne was rightfully his. To be truthful, the throne belonged to the Saxons and not the Normans. The Earl of Kent supported Robert, and William Rufus felt betrayed and threw him into prison. A small battle ensued between the brothers,”

“I’m surprised the new king allowed him to leave his prison.”

“If he weren't banished to Normandy, my tale would be entirely different.”

***

Twenty-nine-year-old Colin lay in his loft in the manor’s barn. Shards of gray sunlight crept through the roof and an opened door. On any other day, he would perform his tasks around the manor before sunrise, but today was Sunday, and no one worked on the Sabbath day. A four-hour church service was required, but that was hours away.

Unashamed of his nakedness, he twisted to one side and gazed at the golden-haired girl sleeping peacefully at his side. She was the baker’s daughter and thus above his station. There would be harsh consequences if they caught us together. After last night, he couldn’t care less. 

He pushed her hair gently from her supple, full lips turned up in the slightest smile as she snuggled closer to him. His heart skipped a beat when she grinned at him. Her hair flowed down her back like a river of gold sparkling in the sunlight. Her breasts were smaller than most of his conquests and burrowed softly into his side while she lay in the crook of his arm with one leg bent over his stomach. She was beautiful, but her nose was a bit too large for her face. She was a willing participant in their carnal night time sin even though she was at least fifteen years younger than Colin was. Her father would not be pleased of the loss of her maidenhood. Nor would she bring as much dowry so sullied. Unaware of his daughter’s tryst, he arranged her marriage to the elderly clockmaker. She was not excited about the choice of husband and was angry that her father based his decision on a dowry and status rather than rakishly good looks, but that was his way.

His passion stirred inside him, sending urgent sensations throughout his body. He hoped that Margery would be a willing participant for an early morning dalliance. A rustle on the floor below sent all thoughts of repeating last night’s deed from his mind. The creak from the ladder left no time to cover or hide the girl. Colin said a prayer, hoping it was not his taskmaster with chores for the morning.

The head of the archbishop’s errand-boy popped above the ladder and quickly ducked down again.

Young Herlewin’s voice squeaked. “Colin you will end up in hell if you are not careful.” His head was still below the top rung.

Colin laughed aloud. “My dear friend. I am already in hell. You cannot deny me some fun while I visit.” Margery opened her stunning emerald green eyes at the sound of voices and panicked. Clothes thrown in wild abandon littered the loft’s straw floor. She scrambled to grab the first clothing she could find to cover herself, her cheeks bright red.

“Is that Margery, the baker’s daughter?” asked Herlewin.

Margery squealed.

“Never you mind who I bed. If I find you have been spying on me. I will cut off your member. Now, state your business so I might relax a little while with my... err... friend before I attend services and beg for my redemption.”

“You’ll be going to hell without a head on your shoulders for screwing the baker’s daughter.”

Colin kissed Margery’s hand softly. Turning to the ladder again, he bellowed, “State your business and be off with you,”

“His Eminence wishes a conference with you. He wishes it now. For God’s sake, get dressed. Hello, Margery. How are your parents?”

“Well, thank you. And how is His Eminence?” There was little time to think about doing anything else but respond.

“Trust me. You better forget what you have seen here today,” Colin said.

“I would never betray you. You’re my only friend.” Herlewin ran from the barn.

Turning to Margery, Colin frowned. “I am sorry my dear. It seems duty calls. Maybe we could continue on our journey later tonight?”

Margery blushed as she dressed. “It is the Sabbath. I can’t possibly get away.”

“Tomorrow night?” Colin pleaded, pulling his only clean blouse over his head.

“We shall see. After all, I have a reputation to uphold.” A wry smile filled her face. “My father would have your member,” after wrapping her arms around Colin’s head, she kissed him, “if my father were to find out about us.” She kissed him firmly, one more time and started down the ladder. “I will try to get away soon.”

Colin smiled contentedly for the first time in a long while. He might be in love this time. He knew that this was love, even though this love would never be more than trysts in his loft. She was steps, no, leaps above his feudal stationing.

“Don’t forget your audience with His Eminence,” Margery yelled as she reached the floor below.

***

The early morning dew rose from the green grass like cloudless mists on this bright September day. Colin wondered what he might have done so wrong as to require an audience with Archbishop of Canterbury, on the Sabbath no less. His occasional conquest with Margery was still a secret. He was sure of that. He doubted his dalliances with the Miller’s daughter or the Potter’s daughter were common knowledge. However, the night of passion with the Weaver’s daughter ended with complications. The young girl became with child. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on a person’s point of view, the girl became very sick and passed away without her pregnancy becoming common knowledge.

Nevertheless, a summons to the archbishop was an event a person didn’t ignore. Colin searched his mind for any reason the Archbishop would want to see him. Would the Bishop reprimand him for his many sins? He missed several worship services in the last few months. Was that so great a sin?  Nothing else came to mind. Perhaps Herlewin was right. Colin was about to be banished to hell.

CHASING ETERNITY

By

Ramon Ballard

Fate is the coincidental act of one’s life colliding with time and circumstance. A grieving widower, a heroic Civil War general, and a great president struck down in the prime of his life are on the same coincidental collision course headed toward their separate fates. The universe stands still for a brief moment just long enough to listen to the widower’s life story designed by fate and written by the hands of destiny.

Chapter One

Washington D.C, 1865

The invitation to attend the theater with the President remained ignored on the table in the lobby. Colin Harcourt’s wife of sixty years passed away before they could use the tickets. The president, who happened to be a lifelong friend, invited Colin and Beth to join him and the first lady at the theater to watch Our American Cousin. He sent word to the President that his grief prevented him from attending. The assassination of the president shocked the nation, including Colin, but losing his wife weighed more heavily on his heart. 

Being immortal carried certain drawbacks, losing loved ones happened to be one of them.

Colin sat alone in the corner for two days — unshaven, unwashed, and unable to arrange for his wife’s funeral. It was something he would have to do. He didn’t know when or how. Perhaps his daughter would manage the details he could not.

Beth was not his first wife. He loved many times before, loved with all his heart. There would always be someone to notice his hair never grayed, his strength never weakened, how wrinkles and age spots never graced his face. Someone would start the ugly rumors and whispers of witchcraft and bargains with the devil. Colin always prepared in advance and stockpiled provisions so his family would never want when it became necessary for him to say his last goodbyes before disappearing into the night like a thief.

He wandered from town to town aimlessly. He consumed too much alcohol, brawled, gambled, and volunteered for adventures or war all in the hope his pain would finally end, and the stubborn heart in his chest would stop beating. That was before Beth came into his life. She was different, or perhaps he was different. Possibly, he learned that in this life one must fight for what is important to you. One must fight for family and love.

***

Colin sat on an ornately wrought-iron bench outside the Willard Hotel, elbows propped on his knees, with his head cupped in his hands. He glared down the road toward the Ford’s Theater. He always thought of it as a joyful place, and it bore many fond memories of his wife. The thought of the lifeless body of Beth in her bed haunted him. He was the one who was supposed to leave. Colin prepared himself for Beth’s death. It was inevitable. However, there was no way he could have prepared for, or even imagined, the harsh reality in the way she left him.  Beth wasn’t supposed to die, and he never intended for her to break his heart this way. For the first time in his life, he was the one left behind, and he ached for his wife’s touch. For the first time, he realized just how unfair he was to the loves of his past. I should have been more of a man and less of a coward.

Across the street the soldiers patrolled, rifles ready in case of riots, their faces etched with sorrow. A steady stream of officers and members of Congress wearing black mourning armbands entered the Treasury building across the street from where Colin watched blankly, too numb to care. 

Everywhere around him, women wailed, and men marched stiffly, betrayed by their tears. Colin gazed across the rooftops to the incomplete memorial; construction began in 1848, seventeen years ago. The work stopped on the monument during of the war to allow the workers to join the army. It is no secret that some of them joined the Army of the Confederacy.

Colin loved Washington D.C. He would always enjoy the nation’s capital. He lived here off and on for the past sixty years. He knew true love here. His children were born here. He and his wife roamed along this very road together. Colin’s heart would forever remain in Washington D.C. 

A man Colin recognized as General Grant crossed the street and scurried past him. “Colin is that you?”

“Yes, General.”

 “By God, you’ve hardly changed.” Grant sat next to his acquaintance. “I haven’t seen you since the inauguration ball back in ’61. You were there with your mother if I recall.”

Colin did not correct the general. Few knew she was his wife. “That’s correct. It was an excellent ball. We knew then we were sitting on a powder keg. The ball seemed to be the calm before the storm.”

“Yes, the nation has gone through so much in the last four years. We lost a great man, despite our victory.” Grant sighed and retrieved a cigar from his jacket. “Do you mind if I smoke?” After lighting the cigar, he took a deep breath before he continued. “The Union will survive this catastrophe. That is if I have anything to say about it. Let me assure you I will make certain that Southern Democrat and charlatan Andrew Johnson does nothing to taint the efforts of our beloved president. The president invited me to attend the theater as well. However, my wife Julia has a great dislike for Mary, so we declined the invitation. God only knows what my fate would have been if I accepted.”

 “I agree we lost a great man, but, the woman…” Colin kept his secret to himself. “My—um mother passed away on Tuesday. But—she…”

“But?”  The general blew a smoke ring, exhaled and asked.

“You wouldn’t believe me, sir.” Colin shifted nervously on the bench.

“I’ll be the judge whether or not I believe you. I have seen many things in the last few years.” Grant sighed. “To be truthful, Abe once warned me not to judge until I heard your whole story.”

“You wouldn’t believe me. Trust me.”

“Mr. Harcourt, I’ve got eyes and could see the woman was obviously not your mother. I used the term mother out of respect.” 

“You’re right. She wasn’t my mother.” Colin felt as if a heavyweight lifted from his chest.

“I won’t pry into your business. But you should know you aren’t the first to be attracted to an older woman.”

“I am somewhat older than I appear. The older woman was my wife, a woman I adored and devoted my every breath too, and a woman I could never replace anywhere or at any time. This I know. Now, if you don’t mind, I would rather be alone.” Colin rubbed his hands together and whispered.  “We were married for sixty years.”

“You must realize I can't believe a man that looks so young could have been married for sixty years.”

Colin reached inside his shirt and produced a plain scarab on a chain. The chain appeared to be ancient.

“What is that?” asked General Grant, crowding Colin to get a closer look.

“That, sir,” Colin bowed his head with despair “is both my blessing and my curse.” He returned the talisman beneath his shirt.

“It looks like an ancient chain with some insect attached.”

“Yes, the ancient Egyptians called them scarabs. This scarab and I go back a very long time. It is because of this wretched object I am here today. It is why I was here sixty years ago and sixty years before that.” Colin rubbed his hands on his trousers as if he wanted to get the feel of his necklace from his hands. The scarab would start to itch, and this let him know it was time to tell another person his story. It didn’t matter if the general believed him. The scarab chose to whom he told the story, and for some reason, the scarab chose a Union General and war hero.

“General, I’m about to tell you a story that was told to Lincoln, Adams, Jefferson, Franklin, and Washington. I don’t ask you to believe it. Please hold off any judgment of me until I’ve completed the story.” 

“I promise to refrain from judgment,” urged Grant. “Abe hinted that there might be an outrageous tale.”

Colin cleared his throat. “I was born in Kent County, England on the twentieth day of March in the year of our Lord 1066. My mother called me a miracle because I was born the day a comet graced our English sky. We know the comet by a different name, Halley’s Comet. My father thought of me as another hungry mouth to feed. My family was dirt poor, but at least we owned a small strip of land. We produced our food and raised a few pigs, sheep, and chickens, enough to be self-sufficient. As luck would have it, I was born the same year that the Duke of Normandy, William the Conqueror, carved up England. Our land became his land, which he gave to the newly appointed Earl of Kent, Odo the Bishop of Bayeux, William’s half-brother. We became peasants almost overnight. Shall I continue?”

A thoughtful expression crossed the general’s face. “Your story sounds unbelievable, so incredible I doubt the validity, but yet the story, true or untrue, captivates me.” He tugged his tarnished pocket watch from his vest and opened the U.S. ARMY imprinted casing. A gust of wind blew dust from around the corner, the sound of officers barking orders drifted in the air. “They won’t miss me with all this confusion.” The general gazed from side to side. “I have some spare time between appointments. Please continue.”

***

Ten-year-old Colin shivered on his straw bed. Dim sunlight trickled through the thatched roof. Pale dust-mites amalgamated with the lingering smoke from the dwindling fire. A winter wind chilled the lone hazy room. The wattle-daubed walls of the wood structure were no match for the cold. His threadbare blanket offered no help at all. Pigs snorted in their sleep under the rough-hewn table against a wall, and the family’s chickens clucked as they searched the frigid dirt floor for meager crumbs.

Colin’s one remaining brother lay motionless a few feet away. He listened for any sign of life, a slight breath, a movement, anything, but the room was silent, and Colin feared the worst.

His two eldest brothers left home a few months after Colin’s birth to defend London against the armies of William the Conqueror. Both were disappointed when the officials of Kent signed a treaty with the French conqueror without a fight. They were determined to keep England free from the Duke of Normandy. London fell soon after, and the family lost all contact with his brothers. His father, a cold, heartless man, refused to mention their names. His mother held silent vigils in hopes they would return. Another brother died after a mule kicked him in his head. The barber drilled a hole in the skull, the prescribed cure, but his brother died. His father could not afford to pay the burial fee to the church, so he cremated his son a few yards from the family’s front door.

“Father, where is Mother?” inquired the young boy, glancing at the ground where his mother slept. There was no answer. He stared at his brother. “Father, I fear the worst for John.” Still no reply.

Two weeks earlier, his brother and his mother broke out with sores around their mouths. Two days later the rash appeared followed by raging fevers, body aches, headaches, and chills. Bloodletting did little to ease the pain or the symptoms. His father dispatched an urgent request to the archbishop. The clergy responded with their message. The priest was too busy to come to their aid. However, for a small fee, they would send an underling to perform last rites.

Their latest taxes left his father penniless. There was never enough money to pay unnecessary fees. 

 “Colin, come help and be fast about it.” His father’s gruff voice came from behind the rough-hewn door. “Stir your brother. If he does not stir, then I will stir him.”

Colin opened the door to a sight that would haunt his dreams for a lifetime. The flames of a massive fire danced in the wind, licked, and consumed the thin, tattered body of his mother. Without turning, his father said, “Your brother would not stir? I feared that. Watch the fire. Keep it from spreading while I go prepare your brother.”

Tears welled in Colin’s eyes.

His father returned with the limp body of his brother. “Go take care of our morning meal, Colin. There is nothing you can do now. Smallpox has taken their souls.” Colin stood in disbelief as his father piled his brother into the fire. “We do not have the fees to give them a proper burial thanks to the Earl of Kent and his property taxes.” His father spat onto the ground. “Go make our meal. I have wood to chop, and you have pigs that need tending.”

Colin lingered, staring at the fire. He jumped and ran back into the house when his father shouted, “Boy, move when I tell you to move.”

***