Ollie's Cloud

by Gary Lindberg

  “They are not,” the Reverend replies. “They are also not the acts of God, but of those who have chosen through their own free-will to depart from God’s will and sink into a life of sin and degradation.”

  Jonathon stops fidgeting with his daguerreotypes and interjects, “And where can we find God’s mercy, then? He is merciful to the murderers—I can see that—by allowing them to perpetrate their crimes. But where is his mercy to the God-fearing folks who are left behind in the wake of their violence?”

  “Jonathon my boy, life is filled with violence and great sadness. Has been ever since Adam and Eve sinned in the Garden. God’s mercy, you suggest, must be immediate and material. I suggest his mercy is the gift of eternal life and our eventual reunion with those we have loved and lost, though it takes some patience to appreciate this view.”

  “And a belief in God,” Jonathon says.

  “Yes, that too,” the Reverend says. “But we are living in a very special age, one in which Jesus will return—within a few months now—to bring the Kingdom of God to Earth, hallelujah.”

  “Hallelujah,” Alice adds.

  “We are entering the year in which Jesus will indeed show us God’s mercy, as well as his terrible wrath. If you want to see God’s mercy, Jonathon, turn unto Him and wait for a few more weeks or months. For me, I would not want to be on the other side.”

  “How can you be so sure that Jesus will come in 1843?” Isaac asks. “Haven’t Christians been awaiting His return every day since He died?”

  The preacher instinct rises in Alice and she speaks up. “Perhaps it’s a good thing to reflect on this as we prepare to enter the year of the Second Advent of Jesus Christ,” she says. “The answer to your question, Isaac, is simple arithmetic. But before we can do our adding and subtracting we must first solve a riddle. Do you like riddles, Isaac?”

  The boy nods and smiles.

  “Well this riddle has stumped men and women for thousands of years. You see, for a long time mankind has believed that Jesus was telling the truth when he said that he would come again.”

  “You mean, of course, that Christians believed.”

  “Thank you, Jonathon,” Alice says. “Of course that’s what I meant. Now Isaac, one of the great mysteries of Christianity is the precise time that Jesus will return. The Bible seems to give us the answer, but the answer is delivered as a kind of riddle.”

  “Why wouldn’t God simply tell us?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but he seems to have sealed his prophecy so that men would not be able to figure it out until the time was right, and then the answer would be so clear that… well, the man who did unravel this mystery was named William Miller. My father and I lived near him in Vermont.

  “He must have been very smart,” Isaac says.

  “Oh yes, and he studied the Bible long and hard for many years before the answer was made known to him. You see, there are many prophecies in the Bible, but they must be interpreted correctly. Our dear brother William Miller has determined that Jesus will come again between March 21, 1843, and March 21, 1844, according to the Jewish mode of computation of time.”

  Isaac huddles up against Alice. “So we don’t have long to live?”

  “We don’t have much longer to endure this cruel world, is how I look at it,” Alice replies. “But since we have been also assured that husbands and wives will know each other in the next life, Ollie and I would like to make an announcement. Ollie?”

  Ollie looks a bit befuddled, but then he catches on to Alice’s introduction and stands up with a glass of eggnog in his hand. “Alice and I have decided to get married sooner rather than later.”

  “With the end of the world coming, that seems like a good idea,” Jonathon cynically adds. “Congratulations, my friend. Exactly when is this event to take place? And please don’t use Biblical language to obfuscate.”

  Ollie laughs. “To be perfectly clear about it, we will be wed on March 20th, the day before the first possible date of the Advent.

  “We want to be husband and wife when we are taken up in the air to meet Jesus,” Alice adds.

  “Then I shall have to plan a return visit,” Herbert says. “What a wonderful excuse to see you all again.”

  The group continues to talk until nearly midnight, but by the passing of the old year the Reverend is snoring in his chair, Mrs. Rogers has gone to bed, Isaac is asleep on the rug in front of the fire dreaming of Jesus holding him in his gentle arms, Herbert Eaton and Jonathon are deep in conversation, Alice is praying, and Ollie is reading the book of Revelation, St. John’s vision of the End of Times.

  …and the holy city shall they tread under foot forty and two months. And I will give power unto my two witnesses, and they shall prophesy a thousand two hundred and threescore days, clothed in sackcloth.

  Ollie does not understand who the two witnesses are, but it is clear to him that forty-two months is equal to 1260 years. And that a thousand two hundred and threescore days is also equal to 1260 years. The number, duplicated in the Book of Revelation as if for emphasis, makes him shiver.

  How odd, he thinks, that the Islamic year 1260, the year in which the Qa’im has been long expected to appear, coincides with the year 1844 in the Christian calendar. And that the Bible seems to prophesy in Islamic years.

  Chapter 33

  At three o’clock in the morning on the first day of 1843, Ollie awakens to the creaking of floorboards downstairs. It would be wise to check the main floor, he decides. Lighting an oil lamp, he begins shuffling to the door. All is quiet now. He slowly walks down the hallway, the oil lamp casting an eerie glow around him. He softly steps down the eight stairs to a landing, turns right, but before he can navigate the five remaining stairs to the front room a soft voice startles him. A half-whisper.

  “Would you be so good as to douse the light?” Herbert says.

  Ollie can see the outline of the man. He is seated in a chair that has been pulled over to look directly out a window.

  Ollie puts out the light.

  “Come over here, then,” Herbert says.

  Ollie steps down to the main floor and walks to the window, pulling another chair alongside Herbert and sitting down. “Indigestion?” he asks Herbert. “I’ve had a spot of it myself tonight.”

  He can smell the sharp odor of alcohol.

  “It’s snowing. You can see it better in the dark,” Herbert says. He is still dressed in his shirt and pants.

  Ollie looks out the window. The moonlight through the clouds is faint but still illuminates a scattering of snowflakes. “Beautiful,” he says.

  “Remember that night in London?”

  “What night.”

  “We went to the theater to see that dreadful pantomime—”

  “The Surrey, you mean?”

  “Yes, the Surrey.”

  “Mons. Gouffé, the Man-Monkey.”

  “That’s it—the wooly beast who invaded our box. It was snowing that evening as well.”

  “And afterward we were crossing the bridge and—”

  “The body in the river. Very dramatic that was. The Priest Pennick, wasn’t it? Yes, I’m sure of it.” Herbert pauses. His right arm rises and Ollie can see a bottle float to Herbert’s lips—brandy smuggled into an otherwise booze-free house.

  Herbert swallows deeply then coughs and sighs. “Did you know, Ollie, that your mother and that furry Man-Monkey—or rather the unpretentious bastard who played the part—did you know they became lovers? Oh yes, they did.”

  Ollie is not surprised. He had known that his mother had backslid into sinful ways after the humiliating evening at Almack’s, though he had never heard the details.

  “Can’t blame her, really,” Herbert says. His speech is slowing down, becoming slurred. “Her life—I’m sure she thought her life was over. The ton would never accept her as a genuine… a genuine member of London society after such a—” he seems to be searching for a word— “such a scandal. The only way she could survive—such an inventive
woman—the only way, I’m sure, was to play the part. Become an actress. And you know theatre people. No morals at all. Anything to claim center stage.”

  Herbert takes another slow sip of brandy.

  “You must have hated her for that.”

  “Oh no, no,” Herbert says, turning to look at Ollie for the first time. He smiles gently in the dark. “I never stopped loving her—your mother.” Herbert turns away and stares out the window again, pausing for such a long time that Ollie wonders if he has fallen asleep. Just as Ollie extends a hand to touch Herbert’s arm, the man speaks again, startling him. “It was your father I hated, truth be told. Ruined all our lives.”

  “I suppose you must blame someone for your misfortune,” Ollie says.

  “And whom, my son, do you blame for your misfortunes? You’ve had your share.”

  “I’ve learned not to blame. I’ve learned to forgive.”

  “Forgive me, then, because I’m not up to hearing that evangelical balderdash this evening. You hate just as I hate. I can see it in you.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Oh yes, I can see it. You’ve always had hate in you. You hated your mother. You hated your father.”

  “I forgave them.”

  “Did you hate me, Ollie?”

  “Never. I loved you. I love you now, you know that.”

  “After Mary Rogers was murdered—after your mother drowned—who did you hate then? You can’t tell me that you suffered these tragedies without hating someone.”

  Ollie stands and walks to the window. “Oh yes, I hated someone,” he says. “With such intensity, such passion that it drove me mad for a time.”

  “Yes, I understand that kind of madness.”

  “The fact that I could not directly attack the object of my vengeance drove me madder still.”

  “Yes, it was Gordon, wasn’t it? That’s why you came to America. That’s why you followed this… this dreadful sawdust trail of tent meetings. To seek your revenge.”

  “Yes, I wanted to hurt Gordon, it’s true. To humiliate him.” Ollie turns to face Herbert. Even in the dark he can see that Herbert’s eyelids are sagging and moisture is filling his eyes. “But my true target was much bigger,” Ollie continues. “Much much bigger.”

  Herbert’s eyes widen in understanding. “You blamed God.”

  “And all those who spoke for Him.”

  Herbert blinks once, twice. He thinks about this. “Yes, I can see it,” he says. “It makes sense in a terrible sort of way. And here I was, plotting my revenge against a mere mortal.”

  “What do you mean revenge?” Ollie stares hard at Herbert, who looks away.

  “Do you think you’re the only one driven mad by your tragedies?”

  “You traveled to Persia,” Ollie says, trying to reshape his memory into a useful pattern. “Mother wrote that you went there to beg my father to divorce her.” He kneels down in front of Herbert, who is suddenly avoiding his gaze. “But you were prepared for revenge in case he refused, weren’t you? Tell me, Herbert, when my father said no—when he laughed at you as I’m sure he did—what did you do?”

  Herbert takes a swig of brandy, but Ollie swipes the bottle from his hand.

  “Tell me, Herbert. How did my father die?”

  Herbert’s eyes finally jerk sideways to look at Ollie. He stares into Ollie’s dark face, speechless, lips quivering, holding back a flood of emotion. At last he reaches upward with both hands, cradles Ollie’s face, and begins to cry.

  “I love you, Ollie,” he says. “You’re all I have left. Don’t make me do this.”

  Ollie continues to stare.

  “Herbert, tell me.”

  Tears stream down Herbert’s face. His nose is running. He wipes his face on his shirtsleeve.

  “Yes, as your mother told you I traveled to Persia. I went with a companion—Eardley Pickwick.”

  “Pickwick!” The mention of this name startles Ollie. “But he—”

  “—was released from the Marshalsea prison when I paid his debts.” Herbert sniffs and leans back in his chair. “At first I only meant to help the wretched man. But later he became useful when I traveled to Persia.”

  “Of course—he spoke the language.”

  “The longer I was separated from your mother, the deeper my pain grew. Like you, Ollie, I was nearly driven mad with hatred. To me, your father was a devil. I longed for his destruction. In Tehran he was easy to find.”

  Herbert leans forward now. The tears have stopped. Putting his story into words seems to bring back his passion for vengeance.

  “Eardley was able to arrange a meeting. But I knew even before I left London that your father would never agree to a divorce. Your homeland, Ollie, is a savage place. It cost me considerably less than I expected to hire an assassin. And when it was done, no one mourned him.” Herbert stares coldly into Ollie’s eyes. “Not even you, I suspect.”

  Ollie sits back on his heels.

  The coldness drains from Herbert’s eyes and he begins to sob. “Forgive me, my son.”

  Ollie stands and looks down on his mentor. “It is not my forgiveness you need,” he says. And then he leaves Herbert alone in the dark.

  Chapter 34

  It is early March, 1843. During the previous evening, cold air had passed over the warmer waters of the big lake to the north, picking up moisture and heat. Eight inches of unspoiled whiteness now blankets Ollie’s farm this morning.

  This is a big day indeed, with the wedding at the house and dress-up clothes and a grand meal afterward. An exciting day!

  Ollie and two neighbors are shoveling a path to the front door. Rev. Samuel Ezekiel Albinson, an old friend of Rev. Crenshaw, has just arrived by carriage and is kicking his way through the windswept mounds of snow to the front door. He curses softly as cold particles of snow creep into his loose-top boots, then notices Isaac listening and begs forgiveness. “Cold feet bring out the beast in me,” he explains.

  Jonathon is madly setting up chairs on the front porch and perching his large camera obscura on the awkward tripod, its feet stuck into a snowbank in the front yard. “It couldn’t have held off for another day, this snow,” Jonathon says to the Reverend as he passes by.

  “Can’t talk,” the Reverend says, “got snow in my boots. It’ll be pneumonia for sure.” He moves stiffly, stomping his feet on the porch before entering the house.

  “Isaac! Are you dressed?” Jonathon shouts.

  “Underneath, yes,” Isaac says, meaning that beneath his outer garments he’s ready for the wedding.

  “The only one who’s ready, I’m sure.” Jonathon replies. “Ollie! Leave the shoveling, will you, and get the bride and the others. I want to make this picture before the guests begin arriving. This is the most disorganized event I’ve ever seen.”

  Ollie chucks his shovel blade-first into a snowbank and gallops into the house. “Be just a minute,” he says, grinning. “Have patience, my friend. You’d think it was your wedding, the way you’re so nervous about it.”

  “Just trying to keep things moving around here.”

  Isaac picks up the shovel.

  “Leave the shoveling, will you?” Jonathon shouts at the boy. “And peel off that coat. As soon as the others appear, we’re going to make a group picture and that’ll be done. The rest of the day is someone else’s worry. And hurry up the others, will you? That’s a good lad.”

  Isaac enters the house and closes the door. Jonathon levels the camera, but just when he seems pleased with the shot, the front leg sinks more deeply into the snow, lowering the camera’s front. He fiddles, moving the legs, pushing them firmly into the snow, playing with the focus, then consulting his watch.

  Another carriage shows up—friends of Rev. Crenshaw and Alice.

  “This is what I was afraid of,” Jonathon barks to himself before stomping up the front stairs to the porch and pushing open the door. “The guests are arriving, I hope you’re satisfied!”

  “We’re coming, dear,” Mr
s. Rogers says. Her words are spoken in a melodious, disembodied voice. She is nowhere to be seen. But then, as if expertly choreographed, the entire wedding party materializes at once and even Jonathon can’t help but smile as he sees their beaming faces.

  “All right, then,” Jonathon says. “Onto the porch—and no boots. We’ll make the picture and then you can get on with the wedding.”

  Jonathon leads the group outdoors, gestures to the chairs, and gives instructions as to where each person should stand or sit. He pushes his way through the snow to the camera and blows a faint dusting of snowflakes off the ground glass, which instantly fogs. “Damn!” he says. But the fog lifts quickly and he fine-tunes his focus.

  Ollie and Alice are standing behind the two chairs, Alice in a striking black silk dress with white fur trim. Isaac stands to the right of Ollie in a smart wool suit and dark tie, and Rev. Albinson, looking far too much like an undertaker in his tall black hat and black suit, stands to the left of Alice.

  “We’re ready for the bride and groom,” Jonathon says.

  Rev. Crenshaw, gently assisting Phebe Rogers by the arm, guides her into one of the chairs, then sits down beside her. He has lost perhaps thirty pounds, and his groom’s face is radiant in the outdoor light. Phebe, though five years older than the Reverend, looks ten years younger in her gray silk gown and white fur.

  “This is the last time any of us will be able to call you Mrs. Rogers,” Rev. Crenshaw says to Phebe with a wry smile. “From now on, Mrs. Crenshaw!”

  Jonathon covers the lens with a cap and slides the plateholder into the camera. “You must be very still now,” Jonathon explains, then uncovers the lens. He counts off the seconds and then replaces the cap onto the lens with a sigh. “Very good. Thank you very much.”

  “One more,” says Ollie. “With you in it.”

  “But I’m the photographer,” Jonathon says.

  “You’ve shown Isaac how to do your magic. I insist.”

  Isaac grins and leaps from the porch into the snow, slashing his way to the camera. With a look of resignation, Jonathon marches up onto the porch and peels off his coat and boots, taking Isaac’s place in the grouping.