Stave II: The First of the Three Americans
When Donald awoke, it was so dark, that looking out of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the golden walls of his chamber. He was endeavoring to pierce the darkness with his ferret eyes, and groped for his phone. Checking the time, he saw that it was just turning twelve. Twelve!
He checked the settings to make sure he had the right time zone. He had slept less than an hour.
Well, nothing to do but send out random tweets, although he was a bit early about it. Usually prime tweet time was between one and three am, but since he had made prior engagements, he might as well get started. The American people were counting on him after all. That is why they elected him. He would be there any time of the night or day, ready to send the nation into Twitter Wars if the situation so warranted.
He scrambled out of bed, and reached out his hand for his throne-like chair and sat in it. He sai in it and began watching Saturday Night Live so he could then post about how unfunny and unwatchable it was. Donald watched the cold open skit featuring actors playing himself and Kellyanne Conway. He watched it, and then watched it over and over, and could make nothing of it. The more he watched, the more perplexed he was; and the more he endeavoured not to watch, the more he watched it and tried to figure out what Alec Baldwin was trying to convey with his SAD portrayal. It was almost like he meant that Donald was more concerned with tweeting than receiving National Security briefings. Oh, Donald would show him and began to tweet about how WRONG he was.
He kept thinking back to Fred’s Ghost and it bothered him exceedingly. Every time he resolved within himself, after mature inquiry, that it was all a dream, his mind flew back, like a strong spring released, to its first position, and presented the same problem to be worked all through, “Was it a dream or not?”
Donald sat in this state until the time had gone three quarters past the hour, when he was reminded that the Ghost had warned him of a visitation when the bell tolled one. He had the world’s greatest memory after all. He resolved to stay awake until the hour was past; and, considering that he could no more go to sleep than go to Heaven, this was perhaps the wisest resolution in his power.
The quarter was so long, that he was more than once convinced he must have sunk into a doze unconsciously, and missed the alert. At length it broke upon his listening ear.
“Donald, you have a visit,” Siri began, “from one American.”
“The hour itself,” said Donald, triumphantly, “and nothing else!”
He spoke before Siir had finished her alert, however. Light flashed up in the room upon the instant. His bedroom door swung open.
The door was swung open; and Donald, starting up in an alarmed attitude, found himself face to face with a Native American man: as close to you as I am now to you, and I am standing in the spirit at your elbow.
This was an American, strange to Donald -- like an American man, yet not a white American man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded from view. The arms were long and muscular; the hands the same (Donald was exceedingly jealous on this), as if its hold were of uncommon strength. He wore clothing which seemed from a long lost time completely foreign to Donald. But the strangest thing about him was, that from the crown of his head there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was visible; and which was doubtless the occasion of its using, in his duller moments, a great extinguisher for a cap, which he now held under his arm.
Even this, though, when Donald looked at him with increasing steadiness, was not his strangest quality. For as his belt sparkled and glittered now in one part and now in another, and what was light one instant, at another time was dark, so the figure himself fluctuated in his distinctness: being now a man with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs with a head, now a head without a body: of which dissolving parts, no outline would be visible in the dense gloom wherein they melted away. And in the very wonder of this, he would be himself again; distinct and clear as ever.
“Are you the American, sir, whose coming was foretold to me? And on second thoughts, are you really an American?” asked Donald.
“I am!”
The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance.
“Who, and what are you?” Donald demanded.
“I am from the past.”
“Long past?” inquired Donald: observant of his older style of clothing.
“No. America’s past.”
Perhaps, Donald could not have told anybody why, if anybody could have asked him; but he had a special desire to see the American in his cap; and begged him to be covered.
“What!” exclaimed the American, “would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light I give? Is it enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow!”
Donald reverently disclaimed all intention to offend knowledge of having willfully bonneted the American at any period of his life. He then made bold to inquire what business brought him there.
“The welfare of the nation!” said the American.
Donald frowned, and could not help muttering, “Oh, one of those people.” The American must have overheard him, for he said immediately:
“Not that kind of welfare. Take heed!”
He put out his strong hand as he spoke, and clasped him gently by the arm.
“Rise! And walk with me!”
It would have been vain for Donald to plead that the weather and hour were not adapted to rich white men in New York City; that bed was warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that he was clad lightly in his slippers, pajamas, and robe; and that he was an old man at that time. The grasp, though gentle, was not to be resisted. He rose: but finding the American made towards the window, began to protest.
“We are mortals,” Donald remonstrated, “and liable to fall.”
“I am a spirit. Bear but a touch of my hand there,”said the American Spirit, laying it upon his heart, “and you shall be upheld in more than this!”
As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood in an open country with forests on either hand. The city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it was to be seen. The darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, late spring day. “Good Heaven!” said Donald clasping his hands together, as he looked about him, “Where are we?”
“I was a young man here. I am of the Patuxet tribe visiting the Penobscots in what you call, Maine.”
The Spirit gazed upon him mildly. Its gentle touch,though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man’s sense of feeling. He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long forgotten.
“Your lip is trembling,” said Donald. “And what is that going on there?”
Donald saw men dressed in old fashioned European garb with muskets sneaking through the woods. He begged the American spirit to lead him where they would be safe.
“You recollect this day?” inquired Donald.
“Remember it!” cried the American; “Here I was captured with four Penobscots.” We were taken forcefully to England. There I became fluent in English. Strange no one has talked of our kidnapping for so many years!” observed the American. “Let us go on.”
They walked along the forest path; Watching as the armed English captured five Native American men at gunpoint. The men were strong, but being unarmed, the only alternative to capture was death. The Englishmen were in great spirits and shouted to each other, until their voices faded as they dragged the captured men away through the forest.
“These are but shadows of the things that have been” said the American. They have no consciousness of us.”
The scene changed although the two were still in the woods, they were now in a different woods. The American’s former self was coming along with a different group of Englishmen; as as they came, the American knew and named everyone of them! Why did his eyes sink, and his heart ache as they went past! Why was he filled with sadness when he heard his former self acting as a guide for the English travellers? The group of men were separated from the American’s former self when a new group of voices came hurtling through the woods. The Patuxet man was being captured again!
“What is going on, now?” asked Donald.
“I was captured a second time. Forced against my will, again, I was taken to Spain where I was sold as a slave. I escaped and stayed with some monks till I could again return to America.”
Again the scene changed, and Donald and the American stood in the forest outside of a camp. The air was still but Donald quickly became aware of a deathly smell rising from the camp. There were footsteps in the woods, and the Patuxet man came walking alone this time towards the camp. He must have smelled the stench as well, as a look of horror overcame the man’s eyes, and he started running into the camp. He ran into the camp and began crying out a harrowing cry that unsettled Donald to his rotten core.
“The camp is deserted,” said the American. “All have died from a smallpox epidemic. All my family and people died. A solitary Patuxet man, imprisoned, enslaved, and now freed only to find that his whole world is wiped from the Earth, goes to live with nearby Wampanoags.
They left the camp, and as they walked both time and space were going by. They came upon a crude village. They walked into one of the houses. There was a celebration going on, some kind of feast. The villagers, who were Englishmen were sitting down with a group of Wampanoags and the Patuxet man was among them.
“What is this scene?”asked Donald.
“Here, we are glancing on the first Thanksgiving, as it is now called,” returned the American.
Donald looked at him with some wonder saying “Wait, are you Squanto?”
“That is how I am known amongst modern Americans. I am called Tisquantum, or at least I was,” said the American. “My story does not continue for long. Let us see another time.”
Donald and the American were now standing near Tisquantum wrapped in a blanket with two Wampanoag people standing over him, trying to ease his suffering. Sickness was in the air and the suffering Patuxet man’s life was coming to a speedy end. He moaned and writhed one last painful time, and then all was quiet and still.
“The last of the Patuxet people,” the American Spirit said solemnly.
Donald thought for a moment, “Well,” he said. “I guess you should have built a wall. I am going to build a great, big beautiful wall, and America will finally be safe from immigrants.”
The American Spirit was silent for a time, seeing that his companion was of very limited intelligence and had a complete lacking of basic human decency. “Americans have not always worried about keeping immigrants out. In fact, there was a time when they were dragging them in. Let us see another time.”
Donald and the American were suddenly standing in the middle of a busy shipping port. Newly arrived Africans were unloading from a cramped and sticking ship. They were chained, many beaten, and completely terrified and broken. Nearby women and children were being ripped apart from each other a slave auction was well underway. The cries and screams of the children were deafening. They were soon beaten by large white men and loaded onto carts and rode away, their mothers unable to comfort or protect them, were crying and solemn awaiting their own sale and departure into a life slavery, personal violence, and certain exploitation. There was no hope or comfort for the enslaved peoples.
The American Spirit observed Donald’s face for any sign of empathy or compassion for the misery that was all around them, but found none. “Poor children,” the American Spirit lamented. “Poor children! Dear children!”
Donald seemed to be getting bored and restless. “Are we about done with this stuff? I need to find out what people are tweeting about me on the SNL sketch last night. Conduct me home. Show me no more!”
But the relentless American Spirit pinioned him in both his arms, and forced him to observe what happened next.
They were in another scene and place; a room, or more like a corridor, not very large or handsome, and extremely dark. Donald was aware of voices and boisterous laughter, like that of an audience, and being a very shallow and sensitive man, Donald immediately took offense and began to shake with anger.
He was about to orate his indignation, when a shadowy figure brushed passed him. This startled him and he now observed that the laughter was not aimed at himself, but it was an audience laughing in a theater. The theater was clearly from another century, but Donald, not really knowing or caring anything about history had no clue as to which. The laughter was a reaction to an ongoing play on the stage. Four particular laughs were being chuckled directly in from of Donald and the American Spirit. There were two men accompanied by two women. One man was very tall and dressed rather formally and the other was shorter and dressed in what appeared to be a military uniform.
The dark shadowy figure was approaching the back of the taller man, and Donald saw that he was armed with a revolver. Even though Donald was not visible or otherwise observable by the shadowy ill-intentioned figure, he hid behind the muscular American Spirit.
There was only one actor on stage now, and he continued unaware of the dangers lurking in the theater, “Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal; you sockdologizing old man-trap!” This line got the audience roaring, and the tall man who had the gun at the back of his head also began to laugh, but not for long. The weapon was fired. The tall man slumped forward in his seat, and the shorter, plumpish woman next to him screamed in horror and meanwhile the man in the military uniform sprang forward at the dark figure which was now shown to be a man with dark hair and a moustache, who now shouted, “Freedom!”
The man in the uniform struggled with the man with the moustache who now drew a large blade and stabbed the uniformed man in the arm. The uniformed man was still able to grab the shooter who was now leaping from the theater box, at least he got his coat anyway. The American Spirit dragged the cowering Donald to the edge of the box so that he could observe, while the short plumpish woman’s dress was soaking up the blood from the tall man’s head.
The shooter who had been grabbed while trying to leap onto the stage, now caught his boot on a framed engraving hung just in front of the theater box, what looked like an image of George Washington from what Donald could see. He was scared out of his mind, though, so it was hard for him to know one dead president from another.
The shooter, clearly badly injured from his fall, now stood on stage before a terrified and stunned audience and cried, “Sic semper tyrannis!” With that he ran, although limping from the scene.
“Remove me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer!”
In the struggle, it that can be called a struggle in which no visible resistance on his own part was undisturbed by any effort of its adversary, Donald observed that his light was burning high and bright; and dimly connecting that with his influence over him, he seized the extinguisher-cap, and by a sudden action pressed it upon the American Spirit’s head.
The American dropped beneath it, so that the extinguisher covered his whole form; but though Donald pressed it down with all his force in his tiny hands, he could not hide the light, which streamed from under it, in an unbroken flood upon the floor.
He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and further, of being in his own bedroom. He gave the cap a parting squeeze, in which his hand relaxed; and had barely time to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep.
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