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  There was no recourse of any kind, and it was thereupon agreed he would visit a poor Nottinghamshire family on Christmas Eve, and bestow gifts throughout the household. If all went as planned, such folk would be in need of relief and engender copious public praise for a young Lord whose reputation was still entirely unknown.

  With the challenge agreed upon, logistics were soon worked out. Joseph Pease was employed to assist. He possessed knowledge of the Nottinghamshire community, and could locate a suitable home for the surprise visit. Also, upon Joseph’s recommendation, a bodyguard was deemed necessary due to rioting. Although not entirely clear, the recent unrest had something to do with perceived unfair use of frames in the knitting industry. Byron himself was fearless and had little expectation of trouble. But as remote as it seemed, the group determined it unwise to ignore such a possibility. The word went out and several candidates were brought to the Abbey for consideration. The result was the selection of Mr. John Townsend, who not only came highly recommended but served as a Bow Street Runner. Oddly enough, Mr. Townsend did not possess the stature one expected of a man in his profession. He was rather short, overweight, and wore a hat of unique design. However, after brief discussions, it was clear Townsend’s sharp wit and jovial sense of humor appealed to Byron. Townsend easily got the job.

  Looking around inside the cab, Byron glanced at his two companions. Their grim faces did little to mitigate the somber mood of their journey. Not a hint of liveliness could be detected as their stiff torsos swayed back and forth to the coach’s natural gyrations.

  Noticing Byron’s doleful look, John spoke up. “Almost there, sir,” he touted sarcastically.

  Byron had learned to ignore such statements over the past three hours and looked outside through the misted window, his mind drifting away as he thought about his upcoming speech at the House of Lords in February. In all honesty, Byron felt his maiden speech might benefit from the Nottinghamshire excursion. His theme was not yet decided. Yet gift giving to the poor on Christmas? Admirable, yes, but hardly original. The topic was so absent of any Lordly seriousness that Byron half imagined his peers snoring in their seats.

  Awaking from his nightmare, Byron felt the carriage come to a lurching halt. He peeked out and saw the front of a small cottage. Its murky outline, discernible in the moonless night, did little to reflect any charm it had. Smoke from its fireplace rose silently and dim lights could be seen through clouded windows.

  The coachman came about to let everyone out from the cab. Byron, though, was somewhat reluctant, and groggily worked up the courage to step outside onto the frozen ground. Mr. Pease made himself busy and gathered up a large bundle of gifts that had been made ready. John Townsend briefly examined the area, but made no other preparation. He rubbed his hands to keep warm, and looked stolidly toward the small dwelling.

  When all was ready, the three men strode to the front door. Joseph led the group and held a lamp at arm’s length to avoid icy patches. However as Byron prepared to knock, Townsend intervened with clenched fist and rapped hard. Rusty hinges rattled with the force of the blows.

  Then there was silence.

  Byron peered at his two guides, clearly wondering how long to wait. But before he could utter a word, the door creaked open, revealing a sliver of the dimly lit interior and the face of a young man who peered out inquisitively.

  “Wot is it?” the young man questioned anxiously.

  Byron glanced at his two companions, and then with a huff went into a prepared statement. “I...am Lord Byron!” he prestigiously declared. “I am here to present this benignant household with gifts and good cheer on this most holy of nights. Though unexpected, I ask only to enter and share good tidings with you and your family, if you would do me the honor.”

  The young man’s expression remained stoic. There was no look of astonishment, nor did he run back inside to raise a commotion. Instead, he just stared at Byron for a few moments before speaking in a low unassuming tone.

  “Wait ‘ere,” he said.

  The door closed softly, and the trio looked at each other not entirely sure what to make of the situation.

  “Maybe they fear it’s a prank,” John whispered.

  Before any further remarks could be shared, the door suddenly reopened, and a small lad of ten or so innocently looked up at the men. “Ya can come in now,” he blurted, and then scampered back inside.

  From within the home, shuffling sounds emanated, and an older man’s voice could be overheard. “Get awoy frum the door, Jerome” the voice said roughly.

  Lord Byron looked with some uncertainty at his companions, but Mr. Townsend did not care to linger in the cold and strode inside, waving a hand urging everyone to follow. As they cautiously entered the central household, a sparsely decorated living room came into view, with wooden chairs and table laid out plainly in the center of the room. Waiting patiently at the table were three men. On the far right was the first young man who answered the door. He sat unassumingly with arms crossed. A middle-aged gentleman sat to the far left, with little Jerome up on his knee settled in to listen.

  However, between the two was a peculiar elderly gentleman. Not decrepit, he appeared quite large, even though sitting hunched and leaning on a roughhewn cane. The old man glared at Byron and his companions with bloodshot eyes, gesturing with one hand for them to sit.

  Byron and Joseph Pease nodded and took chairs that were waiting while John Townsend on the other hand chose a safe wall to lean against. It was odd, Byron thought to himself; a strange tension seemed to fill the room. However, he was anxious to get on with things, rather than dwell upon its cause.

  “Well, ahem...clearly this is an awkward situation,” Byron stated. “And you no doubt are confused by our visit this evening. Let me assure you that...”

  “Who are ya agen?” the old man interrupted with a gruff voice.

  Byron was startled and looked toward Mr. Pease for reassurance before quickly deciding to oblige the question. “As I said, I...am Lord Byron.”

  The older man smiled a little and looked momentarily at Byron’s face with curiosity. “I knew wicked Lord Byron frum Newstead. But that was ‘eas ago. Ya must be his heir, I suppose.”

  Byron nodded. “Yes, well that would be my uncle William, with whom I’ve been fortunate to have a relationship.” Byron paused for a moment, looking for some positive reaction. “However, I am sure if you...”

  “An’ why exactly did ya came eya tonoight?” interrupted the old man again.

  Byron did not appreciate being cut off. However, he considered the odd nature of his visit, one which gave him little flexibility to verbally counter in the manner to which he was accustomed. Looking around at the meager home and seeing the impassive faces of the family, he abandoned any indulgence of sharp comments that might arouse anger.

  “Yes, well, you see I have prepared gifts for you to celebrate Christmas and...”

  Byron vigorously waved at Mr. Pease, signifying he should proceed with gift giving. Immediately, a large paper bundle was laid upon the table and unwrapped to expose a miscellany of presents for everyone to see. There was a large assortment of colored boxes bows and ribbons, but all three men of the house gazed dispassionately at the offering. All except little Jerome, clearly desperate to grab a box for himself. He looked up with pleading eyes, understanding nothing could be taken without his father’s permission.

  The old man squinted suspiciously at the well-prepared offering, but said nothing. Then, sneering, he examined the mound and picked up one small parcel, only to drop it with disgust.

  “Wot’s this, then,” he growled. “Yaw idea of maken up fer all the misery you’ve caused oos?”

  Joseph could not tolerate the indignant remark. “Watch your tongue. This is Lord Byron you’re speaking to!” he protested.

  Byron remained calm, and placed a hand lightly upon Joseph’s chest, gesturing him to remain calm. Looking over his shoulder, Byron also saw Mr. Townsend standing at the ready, but he ges
tured with his other free hand, urging John to stay back. Once everyone settled, Byron addressed the remark with palms in prayer-like fashion.

  “I think you simply misunderstand our intent,” he explained, quite unruffled. “We are not here to make up for any wrongs, though it is clear you may find the current economic and political situation obnoxious. Still, it is my hope to present you with some relief, and give you greater reasons to celebrate as good Christians on this holy night. I hold no grievances with you, uhm, well, it would seem that I did not actually get your name.”

  The old man did not respond. However, the man with young Jerome on his knee, who was apparently the father of the household, looked about for permission to speak. With small nods from the others he addressed Byron directly.

  “Oym Brandreth. This gentlemen ter me side is a friend o’ ahr family, but most folk this woy call ‘im Ned, Ned Ludd.

  “It’s General Ludd ter you!” exclaimed the young man who flanked Ned’s right.

  “Der, Der... Calm yerself,” said Ned, patting the young man on the shoulder. “This strapping young lad is Jeremiah Brandreth. Ee works with me frum toym to toym,” Ned said, and then locked firm glances with John Townsend momentarily before speaking. “Ya said yaw intent was fer us ter have...greator reason ter celebrate, was it?”

  Byron nodded. “Yes. I mean, yes, indeed, that was and still is my intention, Mr., ahem, Mr. Ludd, is it?”

  “Greater reason?” Ned harrumphed sarcastically. “The words assume thor’s sum amount of celebratin eya. But ah tell ya quite honestly, Lord Byron, ya can visit any home ya loike in these parts but ya won’t be findin any celebratin. Luke about ya!” Ned raised his arms and displayed the immediate room with faux interest. “D’ya see any Christmas tree, candles, presents about? Anythen at all that ood indicate...celebratin?”

  Byron and Mr. Pease eyed their surroundings. It truly was spartan, and they glanced about desperate to prove him wrong. A small bow, a cake, anything that would indicate Christmas existed in the Brandreth’s barren household. But Ned’s words were true. Nothing could be found.

  “Ya see,” Ned began to explain, “it’s not just a matter o’ unfavorable business conditions as ya eloquently put it. It’s a matter o’ loife an’ death. This family, along with the rest of the hosiers in these parts are starven. All thanks tuh ahr government’s desire fur war wi’ France an’ stop the bloody flow o’ trade.”

  It was Joseph again who lost his patience at the remark.

  “You blame all this on the government?” he guffawed. “What about the frame breakers! You act as though their criminal acts have no bearing on the situation!”

  Jeremiah Brandreth raged with indignation and stood up, angrily pointing his finger. “Frame breakers ain’t criminals! They’re defenders o’ the poor!” he yelped.

  Concerned about the tone of the conversation, John Townsend immediately moved in, intending to stop an escalation of tempers. Before he could do anything, Ned Ludd took control.

  “Sit dahn, Jeremiah!” Ned shouted, his booming voice filling the room.

  Everyone froze, and Jeremiah cowered as Ned raised himself slowly from his chair and bore down on him with a vicious scowl. Despite his age, Ned Ludd was an imposing head and a half taller than Jeremiah when standing fully upright and three times his weight. With simmering disdain, Jeremiah sulked back into his chair, allowing everyone to relax.

  Ned used his cane to lower his massive frame and grunted as he placed himself back down. He wasn’t angry, though. In fact he seemed to revel in the tensions that surfaced, and smirked as John Townsend unhappily returned to his original station.

  Sighing to himself, Ned again addressed Byron, who fidgeted in his chair. “Wot young Jeremiah said is quite true. Frame breakin ain’t committed out o’ senseless vandalism. It’s the only woy ter slow down the cut-ups business, an’ keep wages high enooph, preventin ut’er famine.”

  “But the machines...,” Byron began.

  “The bloody machines are all fine and good, na one’s against them. They ah part o’ ah lives and always ‘ave been,” Ned emphasized. “But the pressure on masters tuh cut costs is tew great these days. We are, thanks tuh ah government, in a vicious war against each othor. But know this, if the masters lose...well, then, they goo off ter some other business.” Ned looked intently at Byron. “If we lose, we starve ter death!”

  “I see.” Byron said with chagrin.

  “Do ya?”

  “Yes,” Byron said, looking up attentively. “Yes, I think the gravity of this situation has become quite clear.”

  Mr. Brandreth hoping to calm tensions further chimed in. “We’re just trying tuh survive,” he said humbly. “We ‘ave now only the smallest morsels o’ food tuh eat, and while I can’t soy yaw gifts ain’t welcome, they’ll do little ter ease wor suffering. Years o’ sufferen now?”

  Byron looked at Mr. Pease, whose somber face resonated newfound sympathy. John Townsend, though, did not offer any discernible change. Leaning against the wall, he examined his fingernails with disinterest.

  Byron sighed with exhaustion. “So what can I do? I came here to give you a renewed feeling of hope. That...that is still my wish,” Byron pleaded. “Tell me, what can I do to somehow change things for the better?”

  “Speak tuh them,” Ned blurted.

  “Pardon....to them?” Byron looked dumbfounded.

  “Tuh the Lords, man! Talk tuh all the Lords an’ porsuede them tuh change how the’ govern,” Ned demanded.

  Lord Byron considered the request thoughtfully to himself. “Yes, well, of course I can speak with the Lords,” he said nodding. “But there is no way one can guarantee that they will heed my words.”

  Ned cocked his head and sneered in frustration. “Ere ya a well educated man, Lord Byron?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I mean, do ya consider yourself a man with a greyta capacity tuh persuade othors?”

  Byron smiled wryly. “Well, the weight and sharp points of this situation leave little for you to judge this evening, but normally...yes, normally I consider myself a rather good debater and a potentially greater than average statesman.”

  Ned assertively leaned forward to make his point. “Well, if that’s so, ah challenge ya tuh address the Lords an’ use all ya talents and skills as a statesman tuh bring about change.” Ned exhaled loudly and admired the two men flanking him. “The people in these parts ‘re dooen whatever is possible, in othor woys.”

  Ned briefly smiled at Jeremiah with admiration and patted him a few times hard on the shoulder.

  Ned continued, “But we need someone tuh speak fer us. Make awa ploight understood. Tell those who don’t bother to see as ya ‘ave done wot is truly happenen. So they wull know that awa cause is just and roight.”

  Byron sat silently. The request from Ned was unexpected and altogether not the original purpose of his visit. But...the idea was not without merit and he pondered if he could somehow entertain the thought.

  “Well,” Byron said thinking out loud, “there is my speech in February. Perhaps I could...”

  “Choose whatever forum ya loike,” Ned barked. “Just make the Lords hear ya out.”

  Byron said nothing. He sat motionless and realized these final words were indeed the outcome of his visit. He was burdened with a task of terrible importance, but was it even possible? Change the thinking of the House of Lords? It was almost preposterous, yet appealing to a young man like himself. Perhaps...yes, perhaps he was the right man for this seemingly impossible job.

  Observing Byron in deep thought, Ned sat back quite pleased with himself and examined the many gifts that were laid on the table. He picked up one and handing it to the small child next to him. Jerome gleefully tore at the wrapping.

  Ned looked back at Byron and smiled with renewed enthusiasm. “Considor ahl these gifts den a small doon payment on ya promise tuh do some good fer the Luddites o’ Nottinghamshire.”

  With Ned’s last remark, Lord Byron realized thei
r conversation had ended. Everyone’s eyes slowly centered on Jerome, who squealed with delight, having discovered a toy under the wrapping. As the minutes passed, it was obvious to Byron that he and his companions would not celebrate with the Brandreths.

  Slapping his knees with finality, Byron stood up and made his way to the door. Messrs. Pease and Townsend followed quietly, but before stepping outside Byron glanced one last time at Ned Ludd or whatever his real name was. Ned calmly sat in his chair and nodded politely one final time. The unassuming farewell in some respects was not the thunderous applause Byron originally envisioned, but he realized something more precious had been bestowed upon him. Helping the Luddites in a profound and meaningful way would be a poignant reason to address the Lords.

  Yes, he thought to himself, quite a good reason indeed.

  Chapter 6—Garden Dreams

  Love seeketh only Self to please,

  To bind another to its delight,

  Joys in another’s loss of ease,

  And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.

  —William Blake

  Just above the horizon, the sky glowed over a tranquil sea. A new dawn bloomed with overlapping hues of magenta, cyan, and mauve that unfolded gradually over a pristine beach. Its surrounding forest gradually came to life, and the air soon filled with tropical scents and sounds of birds and wildlife.

  Near the water’s edge, Shiro sat cross-legged in the soft white sand. He wore only a simple white tunic, made of cotton weave reminiscent of hand looms used in eons past. It draped down and stirred imperceptibly against the morning breeze that slowly came inland.

  Silent, his breathing was almost nonexistent as he concentrated on the waves which caressed the shoreline. They rolled around and produced a sandy foam that lofted through the air, spewing salt and other scents of ocean life.

  Now was the perfect moment. It was during meditations like this that Shiro perceived his unique vision. A dream, perhaps, but more intense and haunting than the mundane human variety. And unlike a dream, it never changed. Always the same images, returning to him time after time in one particular location. The ocean. With its infinite expanse and soothing sounds, it had beckoned to him since childhood.