Penitence

October 1776 – City of New York

Alone in his home, Lieutenant Edward Brambley endured, restlessly. 

It was not as though the accommodations were lacking. The house, vacated recently by a store owner whose political leanings made further stay in the city untenable, was among the finest on the street. Yet there was no finding comfort. For a while, he might sit, but when there was no peace in that, he paced – for a bit – then sat again. 

Hailing from a family with sufficient means to ensure a lieutenant spot for its youngest son – but not quite able to muster the difference necessary to secure for him a captainship – Brambley ordinarily looked the part of the dashing young officer that he was, but on this windy, darkening evening, he was damp and sunken, colorless. He might have aged 10 years in a day.

In fact, it had been a day since Brambley had adjudicated a matter involving a certain Hannah Hews, who had been found dead. Witnesses, including the woman's 12-year-old son, James, had identified two of Brambley's company as having been involved in an altercation with her on the night before her body was found, but none of the witnesses that came forward claimed to have seen the murderous act, if indeed it had been a murder. Regardless, all agreed that the men had conducted themselves with drunken excess, and Brambley decided that a fine would suffice.

This was how numerous other similar, regrettable incidents had been handled in the weeks since the British army's arrival in the City of New York in mid-September. But afterward, there was commotion on the street. Young James Hews vented his rage at anyone who would listen.

"What justice is that? My mother was a loyal subject of the King," he was heard to say. "My father rots at New-Gate – that is, if he's still living and breathing. Does my mother not deserve better than that?"

Brambley, who was not present for this, had given no further thought to the matter.

***

There was knocking on the door. Brambley became aware of it and considered that perhaps he should respond and see who was there. Instead, time passed, and the knocking became more insistent and the urge to answer less so. Eventually the door opened with a crash, letting in the light of morning. Motion and sound followed: figures moving about, conversations not quite understood.

"Are you going to lie about all day?" Unlike the murmuring in the distance, Brambley heard this clearly, and he looked up. There was nothing for eyes to see – others in the room walked through the spot – but he could see the wispy shape of a man that reminded him of his father. "Lie about and add sloth to the long list of your vices?"

He hastened to his feet and demanded, "Do I know you, sir?"

"I think you do," came the reply.

"Why are you here?"

The man-shaped mist faded and then reappeared a short distance from where it had been. "I came as soon as I heard the news of your passing." There was only the suggestion of a face, shadows where eyes might have been, no lips to be seen moving. Yet he perceived the words, which were somehow voiceless but heard – and displeased, edging toward condescending.

Brambley looked down and saw himself on the floor. This might have been horrifying, but it was not. He watched as people came and went, attending to his lifeless body, before he remembered that he was in a conversation. "What is this about?" he asked, looking back, but by then, the vapor had shifted elsewhere. He turned around and found the haze had drifted toward the fireplace, and he followed it.

"It's about shillings," was the reply. "A woman was murdered, and her death was paid for in shillings."

At first, he was confused, as he had never harmed a person, much less murdered. But a memory that at once was from yesterday and also from a century before came to mind. "The Hews woman?" There was no answer, but he knew that was what the mysterious visitor was speaking of. "I have not murdered. I did not even know her."

"No, the murderers will have their day to answer for what they've done. But when given not just the chance but the duty to serve justice, all you demanded was a few shillings. You did not even charge them as murderers."

"What might I have done? Have men who helped win the day at Kip's Bay flogged on innuendo?" 

"You might have attempted to ascertain their guilt in the matter, which you did not."

"I…"

"Did you ask?" When Brambley started to reply in his defense, a curt response cut him off. "Did you ask? No, you did not. You assumed that your men, your fine men who were so full of drink that one of them could not walk back to the barracks that night, were above reproach."

Brambley wondered how this shade could know this, only to realize that he himself knew this – he had always known this. He said nothing.

"An orphan has been made by multiple acts of violence, none of them answered. I made inquiries, and I discovered that Hews woman came here with her son in these weeks since your fine showing at Kip's Bay because of her faith that in dispelling the rebels, you would bring law and peace back to the city. The boy's father has already died in the hell of the place they call New-Gate for his support of the crown. And this is the law and peace you have wrought. You will not leave this infernal island until you can account for yourself. No blood of mine will be denied entry to the light for unatoned sins. Go, you'll find a horse outside. A suitable horse, no horse ever passed him at Newmarket while he still had four sound limbs under him. I have heard whispers that young James Hews needs intervention made on his behalf."

***

Soon enough, Brambley learned to understand the whispers. Time passed – years as seconds, minutes as millennia – and even as York Island transformed from trees and fields to an unrecognizable cityscape of cement and light, a whirlpool of sound, he could still discern the voices of the children of James Hews; their children, and their children's children, at least some of whom stayed in the area. 

Not all of them deserved saving, but on those occasions when one of them did, Brambley was there, slowly paying his debt.

***

October 2022

It was a typical midafternoon at the Times Square station as subway passengers streamed past on their way to and from any of a countless array of origins and destinations. There was the usual din – the murmur of unintelligible conversations, the occasional distinct word, the rumbling and squealing of trains that echoed through the endless miles of underground structure. Then, there was a startled yelp.

Suddenly down on the platform, 17-year-old Natalie Hughes found herself too stunned at first to sit up.

A frantic friend rushed up to her. "Oh, my god, Nat, what happened?"

"I don't know," she said, finally lifting herself up to look around. Her elbow was sore from hitting the hard surface, but she was otherwise none the worse for the incident. She remembered being aware of someone in a dingy gray hoodie walking next to her for a few steps and then of falling, but after that, just a flash of light and – improbably – the sound of diminishing hoofbeats. No one in a gray hoodie was nearby. 

"Are you OK?"

Natalie retrieved her cell phone, which had fallen on the dirty cement nearby, and started to stand up. "I think so," she said. "Let's get out of here."

Word Count: 1483
Hours Spent: 10
Software Used: Daz Studio 4.10 + (required for dForce), Photoshop CS6 and above