by Mary Luke
He asked Andrew, "And your picnic? Did you have your picnic?"
"We got back to the house before the girl left, and I was promised it another time. I felt very bad about Merrylegs and what happened, and Mother put me to bed for the day. We didn't go back to Nonsuch for a couple of days. It was nice then; we just sat near the trees, had our picnic, and I flew a terrific kite Lord Breed bought me."
"And nothing happened?"
"What else could happen? What do you mean what happened? I just told you—we had a picnic, and I flew a late!"
Hodge could see that shortly after the accident Andrew had put the painful episode out of his mind. He was now reliving a few days later, and the accident, which had tossed him around amid the tangled gear of a cart and the frantic thrashings of an anguished and terrified pony, had been relegated to the limbo of the repressed.
Guilt? He doubted it. He knew Andrew well and had never seen his friend avoid any moral responsibility. It was simply that Andrew couldn't face the fact that although he'd done nothing to cause the pony's death he'd been the one in the cart. And equally important, Hodge realized, it was in keeping with Andrew's character that he chose to erase from his mind an incident in which, even as a child, he'd been in a position where he'd lost control. Throwing up, screaming, sobbing, probably frightened to death—these were things his childish pride could and would not accept. The picnic was remembered; the pony and cart had been completely obliterated from his conscious.
So far, so good. Hodge pondered his next move. He'd used hypnotic regression to a time long past on several occasions and had been very successful. He hadn't discussed the possibility with Andrew because he'd thought regressing Andrew to the eight-year-old state would give him all the information he needed. He was no longer so sure. Something urged him to go farther back. Andrew had agreed to be hypnotized and had left how deeply—or how far back in time—to his friend's discretion. Timothy checked the time left on the tape and, reassured, settled back and spoke to Andrew once more.
"All right, Andrew, let's move a little back in time. You will continue to feel rested and relaxed, but we are going farther back. You are no longer eight years old, but even younger. Take a day, a happy day, and relive it for a moment if you want. Let's say you're five—how about your fifth birthday party? Did you have one?" Andrew nodded vigorously and smiled broadly. Hodge continued. "That's good. I'm sure it was a happy day. Now try to remember when you were even younger, Andrew. You were only a baby-perhaps learning to walk. I know you can't talk about it, but do you remember learning to walk, Andrew? Do you remember how it felt to take that first step?" Again Andrew shook his head and seemed to smile to himself, and he gestured quickly with his hand, as if brushing away help.
Encouraged, Hodge said, "That's very good, Andrew. And I think now we'll go farther back. Yes, let's go back—farther and farther. Back before you were born. You'll continue to be relaxed and comfortable. Can we pick a time, Andrew? A time long ago? How about the eighteenth century? No, let's make it just a few months before the beginning of the eighteenth century. That would be
about 1699. I wonder—were you alive then, Andrew? Have you gone back as I've asked? Stay rested and relaxed and take your time. When you feel you want to, look around and tell me. Were you there then? If you were, what was it like—in 1699?"
Timothy Hodge watched the figure on the sofa closely. Andrew's color was good, and he was relaxed; a quick touch of his pulse showed it normal. But a subtle change was occurring, reflecting what was going on in Andrew's mind. Timothy had seen this change in other regressed patients before, and it was encouraging. So often there was—nothing. The very quietness of the room seemed to indicate that, for the moment at least, the person on the sofa had left. His body was there, but that was all. The mind of Andrew Moffatt was obviously on a long journey. He had also changed his position slightly. His hands were no longer clasped across his chest. One was along his right side; his left hand lay above his head, encircling it on the pillow. He shifted his hips a bit as he opened his mouth to speak. He seemed to be searching for the right words and his mouth became more compressed. Timothy had the impression that had his eyes been open, they'd have been narrowed in scornful suspicion.
"What do you mean, sir? What is it like in 1699? That's a frivolous question, if you will pardon my saying so, sir. Aren't you here, too? Can't you see what it is like?'
The voice issuing from Andrew's mouth was so different Timothy almost dropped his pencil in astonishment. It was crisp, young, with a slight touch of a burr or graveled accent. Damned imperious, too. Again he brought the tape recorder closer.
"Well, yes, I suppose you're right," he answered. "Of course, it was a foolish question. I guess I just wondered if I had the year right." Timothy was aware he sounded like the complete idiot. But whoever he was talking to now—and it certainly was not Andrew Moffatt—had the power to make him feel thoroughly inadequate.
"Well, sir, that often happens at the change of the year. I guess that must be your problem! Only one more year, and we'll be celebrating a new century—1700!" A sunny smile enveloped Andrew's features, touching them with boyish enthusiasm that reminded Hodge of their own younger years together. That decided the next question.
"If you don't think me impertinent, young man, would you mind telling me how old you are? You seem very mature for your years. "
Timothy wasn't particularly proud of the ploy, but he didn't want to provoke the young gallant again.
"I'm just twenty, sir, and I do not mind your asking." The boy seemed about to say something, then thought better of it. "I do not mind your asking at all." He sighed and burrowed deeper into the sofa. "I just seem a bit tired, that's all."
Timothy wondered if he should awaken Andrew. He hadn't been under very long. All his vital signs appeared good, and his tiredness could very well be a combination of the unusual experience at Nonsuch that morning and the recollection of that disastrous pony ride. Or was it a tiredness of the day he was talking about—sometime in 1699? Apparently very soon after the year had turned 1699?
"And what has tired you, young man? Have you been working too hard?"
"Study does tire one, you know," Andrew answered, "and the horns are long. I think there will be a change for the better, sir, when the college is more organized. We are still without the requisite complement of teachers."
"You're a teacher then?"
There was a suppressed sound of indignation from the figure on the sofa. "Well, I thought you knew that" The boy was clearly disgusted. "Everyone seems to know what I do."
"Well, perhaps I would know if I were more familiar with everything. But you see, sir, I'm a bit of a stranger here." The words seemed to mollify Andrew, who acknowledged them with a curt nod. Timothy went on. "Perhaps you'd be good enough, sir, to tell me your name? Then I wouldn't feel so strange, and I would know which teacher I'm talking to." He tried to sound lighthearted and laughed, but the reclining figure didn't respond. He seemed to be considering whether to divulge the information or not. He turned slightly in Timothy's direction, waited and then, surprisingly, held out his hand. Somewhat stunned, Timothy rose, put down his pad and pencil and leaned across the tape recorder to grasp Andrew's outstretched hand. It felt surprisingly young, with a firm, yet gentle clasp.
"I am delighted to introduce myself to you, sir. And gratified to make your acquaintance." He withdrew his hand and settled back. A smile—as unlike Andrew's as possible—spread across his face. "I am very pleased to meet you indeed. My name?" He smiled again.
"My name, sir, is Julian Cushing."
/juli
unan
Qhapter ^feven
^♦~
Julian dishing II, the son of a successful seventeenth-century Virginia tobacco planter, had been sheltered and cosseted as a child. There were no other white children on the plantation, and he'd been tutored privately, which perhaps accounted in some measure for his sensitivity and introspective nature.
Th
e elder Cushing had refused to send his only son to England to be educated. "He is a Virginian," he said, as if that explained everything. "I do not wish him returned to me with poor health, corrupt morals and bad manners." But strict attention was paid to Julian's curriculum. English, Latin, Greek, writing, arithmetic, geography, astronomy, sketching, together with music, dancing and fencing lessons—all ensured that Julian Cushing would be a credit to his name, background and New World heritage. When he was thirteen, a college in honor of the reigning English sovereigns, William and Mary, was commenced at Middle Plantation, which would later be called Williamsburg. There, said his father, Julian might one day enter to complete whatever in his education his tutor had missed.
Julian's one great talent was drawing, and that, in turn, had revealed an undiscovered longing. He was proficient, imaginative and very assured when confronted with pencil and paper. As a young child he often sketched the ships and figures at his father's wharf at Fairhaven, the Cushing home on the James River. Later he drew handsome buildings and homes, small cabins that looked like toys and the "follies" several wealthy planters had erected on their estates. It was while drawing these and other buildings that
qz The Nonsuch Lure
his attraction to the religious life was most vivid. His father's library contained drawings of the famous English abbeys and cathedrals as they'd appeared before the devastation of the Reformation, and the boy spent long hours examining them. Later pamphlets and booklets shipped to the Colony illustrated the havoc wrought by Cromwellian forces on the noble structures—the destruction made Julian's heart ache.
He would pore over the prints, tracing the cloistered walks and paths, minutely examining the tiny figures of monks and priests as they walked together or alone, some with a book in their hands. In his mind's eye, Julian could see the shadows between the pillared buildings and almost feel the soft wind that swept along the ground during the brief walk from his cell-like cubicle to Evensong services. Once, as he worked in his mother's garden—a garden similar to those in the sketches showing monks at labor—an elusive memory evoked the sound of a mighty Te Deum echoing from a distant church, followed by the voice of a prior raised in benediction.
Julian attended the little church at Jamestown. It bore no resemblance to the mighty English structures that had so impressed him. There, in the crude wooden building, he often found himself similarly uplifted and transported by the music and by the godly sermon—if one were lucky—which might be delivered that Sabbath. He entered with full heart into prayer, certain he'd made contact with his Saviour, with whom he considered himself on good terms. But always something was missing. Was it the splendor lacking in the building? Was it the undependability of the priest's exhortations or the appeal of the sermon so often the result of the man's mood—or even the weather? Was it the simple music that lacked everything his imagination told him it was possible for music in a house of God to be?
Julian was too young to ponder very long, and inevitably, with the demands on his time and his growing responsibility on his father's plantation, he gave it up. The attraction remained, but the longing was diluted and set in proper perspective. Ultimately, much to his parents' relief, his deep emotional attachment to the religious life vanished altogether.
However, one sketch in a book of England's great buildings continued to intrigue. It was, so the inscription read, "Palatium Re-gium in Anglse Regno Appelatum Nonciutz" and was an engraving
of an earlier drawing by the Flemish artist Joris Hoefnagel in 1582. The scene was to the southeast where a plumed carriage was approaching across the green fields toward a palace apparently named Nonsuch. The occupant, "Gloriana" herself, Elizabeth I, was talking and gesturing to a man who rode a richly caparisoned horse beside her. Other attendants, their emblems of office in hand, walked or rode in front, while at the rear another vehicle carrying the queen's companions was being bedeviled by barking dogs. In the distance the Surrey plain, dotted with trees and meadows, rolled away as far as the eye could see.
Up a slight rise reared the proud palace of Nonsuch, its two mighty eight-sided towers girdled by the high brick Privy Garden wall. How Julian had yearned to peek over that wall! He showed the sketch to his father, and the elder Cushing had in turn invited one of the Percy family then visiting in the Colony to dinner. Percy told Julian that in his youth, he'd often stayed at Nonsuch, which had been built by a Tudor king who'd vowed to build a palace "as there would be none such in the land." He described the endless corridors, bursting with ornaments and tapestries and told of the priceless statuary, the beauty of the maze and the wonder of the Privy Garden. He recalled the great fountain, supported by brass dragons, spouting water many feet high into the air. A carillon played daily, and there was a certain place in the archway to the royal apartments where, when the trumpeter blew, the sound was so magnified it echoed as if an army were on hand to welcome the monarch.
All such reminiscences were fuel to the fire of Julian's youthful imagination, and his parents were enlightened enough to allow it free rein. And by the time Julian was sixteen he was firmly committed to the profession of architecture. The Cushings were pleased and proud—it was a "gentlemen's" profession and one he might carry on from Fairhaven or in Jamestown. Money from imported tobacco was flowing into the Colony, and the planters were beginning to build the gracious houses that would symbolize their prosperity. Julian would have a rewarding and a lucrative career.
It was just at the completion of his formal education that, in a devastating night of terror, disaster struck the Cushing family. And in the aftermath of desolation and despair the young boy's destiny was changed forever.
By 1697 tobacco—that golden crop on which so many fortunes depended—had been overproduced. Prices had been driven down, and everyone connected with the trade wished to prohibit its planting for at least one year or until prices stabilized. When the royal governor—at the behest of the wealthier planters, who could afford a few years' loss—refused to stop planting, community zealots banded together at night and stealthily spread out across the tobacco fields to "cut out" the young shoots. Everyone was apprehensive for the future of the Colony's only money crop, and in such an atmosphere, violence was inevitable. It erupted on the night of May 11, 1698, at Fairhaven, where at two o'clock in the morning the entire crop was "cut out" to the ground. Not being satisfied with the destruction of planter Cushing's income for a year, a departing malcontent fired a pile of lumber at the rear of the house used for repairing the adjacent slave cabins.
It had been a dry spring, and sparks from the burning wood drifted onto the house. Within moments the roof was aflame, and the culprits had sped away. When the elder Cushing awoke, smoke in his room was dense. He pulled his sleeping wife from the bed, and together they shouted a warning to Julian and the nurse, Tabby. It was, apparently, their last act. They had run as far as the bedroom doorway, where flames confronted them. No one could hear them at the window, where they ran for help while the smoke rolled in from the flaming roof and stairwell. Their bodies—the man's arms around his wife—were found the following morning in the charred ruins of the once proud and beautiful mansion.
Julian Cushing II—now the only Cushing left in the Colony his grandfather had helped found—was stunned and sickened at his parents' loss. He'd been awakened by Tabby, who'd heard the shouted warning. Still groggy with sleep, she'd pulled the boy from his bed and down the stairs where flames were already beginning to gnaw at the handsomely turned balustrade. When he asked after his parents, she assured him they'd certainly left; neither she nor the boy questioned that they would already have abandoned the burning wing where the flames were so much more intense. When neither could be found, it had taken all available hands to hold both Julian and Tab from returning to the flaming interior to find them.
Shocked and grief-stricken, feeling ill and shamed that he'd taken old Tab's word without assuring himself of his parents' safety,
young Julian was further bewildered to fi
nd that most of his heritage had gone up in smoke. His father had borrowed heavily to maintain his fields in a declining market. The crop had been "cut out," the house was in ruins, and everything that had belonged to Julian's family—the furniture, paintings, the good china, even his mother's jewelry—had all been lost. In one terrifying night of hell Julian Cushing's world had vanished. From being the scion of a proud river family with a secure and gracious future, he was now just another penniless boy advised by his family lawyer to sell the acreage to settle the estate's debts.
He did as he was told. There was little else he could do. Friends were kind, but he could accept hospitality and help for just so long. There were, providentially, several fields apart from the Fairhaven boundaries that were unmortgaged and these were not sacrificed. He let them on a long lease to a young planter and left Jamestown forever. His books, clothes, his cherished artbooks and the portfolios of his sketches—all had gone up in the holocaust. When a friend of his father's said he was certain he could obtain a post for him at the new college in Williamsburg, Julian was not too proud to accept. He told his friend with grim amusement his father had always promised he'd attend the College of William and Mary. He'd let his father down once; he would not again.
He'd gone to the little college town, still raw and new, and settled into one room, spending a little of his hoarded coins and bills on new clothes, a few books and sketching materials. There he met a young cousin, who, aware of the boy's tragedy, gave him a Journal belonging to his great-grandfather, Amos Cushing, one of the original founders of the Jamestown colony. Perhaps, the cousin hoped, Julian might take inspiration from the challenges his ancestor had spent a lifetime overcoming. Julian was grateful for his kin's thoughtfulness.
