Tesla's Muse: A Fictional Love Story

By Patricia Otto

Julia Stanton's dreams come true. Every time.

For her superstitious people, a gift like hers is to be feared not admired, so she keeps her ability to herself. Suffocating in her cloistered, patriarchal, Gypsy life, she chafes at the notion of existing on the fringes of society, the status her people prefer. Julia longs to know the wonders of the world she is only allowed to interact with while selling roses to make money for the family.

While riding atop the family wagon when they arrive in New York City in 1887, a sudden potent impulse draws Julia's gaze to a tall, handsome man in soiled work clothes standing on the sidewalk. When she sees flames of light radiating from his body, Julia is alarmed then overcome with curiosity. Obeying her father's constant demands to stay apart from outsiders is no longer an option. Her need to experience the world is overwhelming. She must find this man, must learn about him and his gift. Though it means risking the only life she has ever known. What she doesn't know, is the man with the flames is the man who will change humanity forever.

Three years after arriving in New York City and after several betrayals by financial backers, the genius inventor Nikola Tesla is digging ditches to keep from starvation. Only his walks each evening keep him sane and give him time to work on his inventions, designs he must bring to fruition for the sake of all mankind. When Nikola sees a young woman sitting atop a Gypsy wagon, he is shaken by his electric reaction to her beauty. A few days later, he meets her selling flowers and attraction explodes into curiosity. She tells him of the flames that he thought only he could see and curiosity sparks into need. When she tells him his future, he is dubious. When that prediction comes true, Nikola must discover everything about the beautiful captivating Gypsy with the extraordinary gift.

As Nikola shows her the world, Julia soaks up every nuance even as she opens his eyes to the people he walks among in the pulsating streets of the city.

While they are together, Julia dreams things that she hasn't before. She dreams of her own future. Then, a few nights later, she dreams a different future for herself. Now she must decide which path to travel. Whichever path she chooses, sacrifice and pain litter the way. Her decision will affect everyone, spreading into every corner of the globe, influencing the destiny of us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patricia Otto
• Release date: Nov 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781943860074

Patricia Otto

A few decades ago, I found out that most people don't make up stories about the people they watch while sipping ice tea at a cafe. They do not take a cast of characters from a book or movie and give them a whole new story. Who knew? I thought everyone did that. Then there were the out-of-the-blue-characters. The ones conjured up in my head, telling me their tales, pushing me to write their stories. Sharing them only seemed fair.

Book preview

Chapter 1

December 1873—Central Virginia

It was true. Julia Stanton didn’t want it to be, but not wanting it to be true didn’t make it that way. Even at eight-years-old, she knew that.

She pulled her coat up higher around her neck. Standing on the sloppy ground, her feet were getting wet in her too small boots. Part of her was curious about what was happening, but most of her was scared because she already knew.

Julia peeked around the tree to watch the adults making a ring around Martin’s daia, his mother, who was crying. The other women were crying and rubbing their hands together. The men looked down at their feet while smoking their cigarettes. Sadness hung like the smoke around the camp. The tight circle of vardos, wagons, didn’t make her feel safe this time.

Julia wanted to cry. Because of the dream. About knowing and not telling.

Last night, while she slept, Julia saw Martin fall out of the tree. Martin and his older brothers were playing on the old tree near the river. One of his brothers told Martin to climb higher. He kept saying no so the others called him a baby. He looked so scared. Then he lost his hold on the branch hitting the ground with a thump. It was the same sound as when Daia dropped the watermelon that time. His brothers screamed then there was a lot of yelling and crying. Then her dream changed to what she was seeing now. Martin’s daia crying, the worrying women, the cigarette-smoking men. His daia said Martin didn’t move his legs anymore and he kept going to sleep.

Julia.

Her own daia’s voice behind her almost scared Julia to death.

What are you doing hiding behind this tree?

I was just—

Daia crossed her arms, the bangles on her wrists jingling. What? You were just what?

"I saw it, Daia."

Saw what?

I saw what happened. I saw him climb the tree. I saw him fall.

Don’t be foolish, child. We were not even in camp when this happened.

But I saw it when I was asleep. I saw it. Julia looked to the crowd. "Now Dadus is going to walk up to Martin’s daia and talk to her."

Julia’s dadus, her father, approached the crying woman.

She is going to look up at him and then she’s going to take his hand and put it against her forehead. Then Martin will scream Daia. I want my daia." And an owl will make its noise and his daia will cry."

The moment those things happened, Julia’s mother was beside Julia gripping her arm with a pinch. Hush, Daia hissed in her ear. "If your dadus hears you, he will beat you until you are black and blue. Or perhaps you want others to hear you then think you’re mad. Do you want to be taken away? Locked up in some goujo place with crazy children who are not Romni?"

Julia squeezed her legs together to keep from wetting herself. Her heart pounded as she blinked to keep the tears from spilling.

Not another word about this, Julia. Daia grabbed Julia’s shoulders. Not ever. Do you understand? Her daia shook her.

Julia squeezed her legs tighter. Her daia’s face looked scary but really scared too. "Yes, Daia. Yes, I won’t say another word."

# # #

December 1873--Gospic, Croatia

Pain.

Like the hands of the Devil reaching inside his belly, wrapping his guts around long bony fingers and twisting.

Nikola Tesla pulled his knees up until the cramping eased. His skin, itchy and dry, felt thin as parchment. Each wrinkle in the bedclothes sent a shock over every nerve ending. His head pounded mightily, bringing waves of nausea that clogged his throat.

Nikola. Son, drink this.

His father’s voice grated against his skull, but he offered the water Nikola’s body demanded. His father’s large hand slid behind Nikola’s head to gently lift before touching a cup to his mouth. The rivulet of sweet, salty water slid down Nikola’s throat. He suppressed the urge to slurp the whole glass. Measly sips did little to satisfy the fluids his body craved.

You must go slow, son. You don’t want it to be too much for your stomach.

More, please. Just a bit. His father helped him again. Nothing had ever tasted this wonderful even if it took every ounce of energy just to swallow.

Nikola opened his eyes. Milutin Tesla was still on his knees beside the bed. His poor father hadn’t stopped praying since the cholera took hold of Nikola. He could guess the words of his father’s prayer—spare him. Please don’t make me bury another son. I humbly beseech you, dear Almighty, not to test my faith that way.

Nikola’s brother Daniel’s life ended after being thrown from a horse when Daniel was twelve years old. Nikola was only five when it happened, but even a dozen years later and in the fevered madness of cholera, he remembered every detail. His hysterical, inconsolable parents, refusing food or sleep day after day. The bleak and cheerless weeks becoming months that followed. His father had never been the same. Daniel was, always had been, Milutin Tesla’s hope for the future. Father always said that Daniel was the Tesla who would change the world. Daniel would be the one.

Nikola recalled that it was at Daniel’s funeral that he made the decision to be the son to be proud of. Where Daniel had been the charming, exceptionally talented son, Nikola would be the determined educated son. From then onward, Nikola soaked up information like a dry sponge tossed into a lake. Studying the sciences, religion, culture, and mathematics, he committed pages of text to memory. Over the years, Nikola was fond of demonstrating his competence by reciting entire poems. A feat his father deemed a quaint parlor trick.

His father never understood. For Milutin, the pursuit of knowledge did not put food on a man’s table or a roof over a family’s head. Good works, not arbitrary learning, brought God’s favor and, in turn, the Almighty provided. To Nikola, learning was as basic as the body’s need for air or water. Over the years, many heated debates occurred, carving an ever-growing chasm between him and his father. His mother always ended their arguments saying when two mules were kicking at each other they could not see eye to eye.

Nikola tried to find a comfortable position beneath the sheets. A cool damp cloth wiped across this face. It hurt yet felt glorious. Reciting a poem in his mind, he attempted to divert attention from his sensitive skin. The ticking clock in the next room was as loud as a church bell pealing when you were in a belfry. Without even looking, Nikola knew that the tongues of fire that he often saw emanating from his body in times of stress were dancing beneath the sheets.

Nikola opened his eyes. Dear father.

Yes, my son.

You have been my steady companion since I fell ill.

Where else could I be? Your recovery requires constant prayer.

Nikola swallowed another sweet sip his father offered. I know we do not agree on my future.

A life of a clergyman would provide you with stability. An anchor you urgently need.

For you that has been true, though my heart is not led to the same calling. Nikola ran his tongue over his dry lips. Perhaps I will be inspired to get well if I know that upon my recovery you will let me study engineering.

His father looked at him. Even through the haziness of fever, Nikola could see the pity in his father’s eyes. Father thought Nikola was failing and could not bring himself to endorse the merits of the clergy to his dying son. Yes, Nikola. If you get well, I will sanction your pursuit of engineering.

Thank you, father. He closed his eyes and willed his mind to quietness, commanded his body to rest. At the edges of sleep, Nikola heard the door to his room open then close.

How is he? his mother asked in her velvety smooth voice.

His father pressed on his bed as he was getting to his feet. He lives…for now.

# # #

11 years later, June 6, 1884—

The shoreline came into view at last. Though Nikola knew the ocean was not infinite, his time on the Saturnia made him question that reality. The days had been long and grueling. Transatlantic crossing was a marathon requiring patience, stamina, and courage. His first week had been marred by seasickness and long dizzying hours spent in his bunk. Every time he ran to the rails to lose his stomach contents, the memory of his days in the grip of cholera came rushing back.

The sailors assured him he would get his sea legs. After a week, they were proven right as the sway and lift of the boat riding the swells became more of a nuisance than anything else. He came to realize that being at sea had beguiling merits and that viewing the night sky was worth any amount of discomfort or peril. In the cloudless nights during a new moon, when the sky was black, the heavens were without parallel. Seeing from horizon to horizon, without impediment, was an immensely humbling experience. Most nights Nikola went onto the deck to lie down in an isolated space. With his head cradled in his hands, he scanned the sky for hours, committing constellations to memory, allowing the serenity of the sky-scape to flow down on him, wondering if God hid among the billions of points of light or if He was the brilliant points of light.

In those hours, his mind would wander. Random scraps of thought would spark questions that would forge designs in their answers. He would fashion the solutions into complete plans. Detailed memory was a process Nikola had perfected from an early age. In terms of creativity, this ocean adventure was most productive.

He shaded his eyes with his hand in an effort to make out the city. He was finally here.

America.

The country of possibility, where rich men invested their money in dreams, getting richer while being able to build the next dreams then the next. The place where his inventions could be brought to fruition. The very notion stood up the hairs on the back of his neck.

He squinted against the sunlight. The New York skyline was a low concentrated mass of angles and squares. The harbor was as busy as a Paris street. Nikola took in the whole scene as the ship approached the docks. Gulls squawked for food, boats chugged, expelling black smoke into the hot June air in streams so thick they seemed alive. As the Saturnia drew close to the pier, Nikola could see more details. New York seemed more a hornet’s nest than a city.

The city proper was on a strip of land crammed to the point of fracture with people and buildings and wagons and animals. A haphazard assortment of old and new edifices stood on either side of streets scratched crudely into the earth. Structures seemed wedged into every available space, poles with as many wires as could be secured to their myriad arms draped over the streets like a thousand spider webs. Smoke billowed from trains, from metal trash barrels on the street and from places unseen.

A horrifying surge of noise bombarded his ears, metal screeching against metal, voices in ever-building stages of emotion, forlorn brays and annoyed whinnies, the din of tens of thousands of hooves on thousands of cobblestones was overwhelming to the ears. Then the overpowering stench violated his nostrils. The bowels of hell could not smell worse than what was now assaulting his nose. Death—rotting meat, decomposing fish, overripe produce, swirled with the oily acrid scents of industry.

Cautiously making his way down the uneven gangplank, Nikola stood on solid ground. The lack of movement was alien to his legs. Walking without the need to compensate for the ocean swells would require relearning how to walk.

Tesla looked around at the swarm of people exiting the ship heading for the Castle Garden Immigration Office to find employment. He had no such need.

He checked the inside pocket of his coat for the letter of introduction his old supervisor Charles Batchelor had written for him. Take this straight to Edison, Batchelor had directed in his usual booming voice. Don’t let him turn you away before he reads it as is his habit. The letter had been simple and to the point. Edison, I know two great men, Batchelor had written, one is you and the other is this young man.

Making his way into the crowd, Nikola stopped a man pushing a cart draped with sausage links. He tipped his hat. Good day, sir. Could you direct me to the offices of Mr. Thomas Edison?

The vendor pointed up the street. Follow this road for five blocks then make a right.

Tesla thanked the man then made his way into the crowd. He was about to ask again for direction when he passed the open door of a shop. A man inside was cursing at a machine. Nik went through the doorway. What seems to be the trouble?

The man kicked the machine. It doesn’t run. I’m afraid it’s beyond repair.

I have some experience with machines. Would you mind if I try my hand at fixing it?

The man gestured at the silent machine. If you think you can.

Nikola removed his coat before studying the apparatus. Just shy of an hour later, when Nikola tried the starter, the machine purred to life.

Wonderful, the man said, peeling a bill from a wad of money he pulled from his pocket. You’ve saved the day. He handed a bill to Nikola.

Everything needed a good cleaning. Nikola was about to refuse the money, but his growling stomach reminded him that he was broke. Thank you, sir, I appreciate your generosity. Perhaps you could direct me to the offices of Thomas Edison.

The man complied. Nikola had little trouble locating Edison’s office. It seemed everyone he asked knew the man, some spoke with an air of respect, others with a spit on the ground.

He entered the building of the Edison Electric Light Company and found the office of the inventor. He peered through the doorway to see a man hunched over a high desk. Nikola’s first glimpse of Thomas Edison gave him a shock. The man, so famous to him, whose accomplishments invoked such admiration, was no god-like titan, but rather a stooping figure with graying hair and wearing a hand-sewn gingham smock. Nikola cleared his throat. Mr. Edison?

The man looked up from his work at the same moment a young boy ran by Nikola into the office. Sir, the boy said on panting breaths, there’s trouble at Anne and Nassau Streets.

Edison scowled. What sort of trouble?

A problem with one of your boxes. A great flash sent a ragman and his horse ten feet into the air then the horse took off down the street at a great clip with the ragman hanging on for with fear.

Edison went to the doorway. Foreman, he yelled, stepping passed Nikola. Cut off the current at Nassau and Anne. Get a gang together if you can find anyone. Then fix the damned leak.

Edison turned and his eyes widened. Who are you?

My name is Nikola Tesla, he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. I have come from Europe with a letter of introduction from Mr. Batchelor." He handed the paper to Edison.

Batchelor? What’s wrong in Paris now?

Nothing that I know of, Mr. Edison.

Well, that’s novel. Edison read the note and gave an undignified snort. Two great men? That’s some recommendation. What do you do?

Tesla described the work he had done over the last year for Continental Edison in France and Germany. I have great hope for my induction motors. I believe alternating curr—

Hold it. Edison held up a hand. Spare me that nonsense. America is set up for direct current. It’s not dangerous. Furthermore, people love it. It’s all I’ll ever fool with. He stroked his chin. Though maybe I can give you a job. Can you fix a lighting plant on board a ship?

Absolutely, sir.

Good. It’s the S.S. Oregon. Edison scribbled on a piece of paper then handed it to Nikola. Fix it and I might have something more permanent for you.

Thank you, sir. Nikola left Edison’s office, his emotions churning like a river. He was safely across the Atlantic and in America for less than an hour. Already he had money in his pocket and a job. This country really was full of promise.

Though Edison had been less than enthused about his induction motor, Nikola was certain he could persuade such a great inventor to see the merits of alternating current over direct current.

As he made his way back downtown toward the docks, Nikola could not help feeling that his life had finally begun.

Chapter 2

February 1887—Central Virginia

Julia learned long ago that her dreams always came true. Every detail. Every time. Quilt squares of the future patched together in sleep. Intimate. Vivid. Some were frightening. Most were confusing. Martin’s accident was the first time a dream came true but hardly the last. As a child, she was afraid of what she saw. As a teenager it made her feel more clever than everyone around her. At twenty-one, it felt more like a curse than a gift.

Last month, a dream of her sister Amelia, and Amelia’s betrothed Joseph, in a naked embrace, moving as one, their moans visible in the winter air, had been one of her most bewildering visions. Even now, remembering a dream of such intimacy made Julia’s cheeks warm as the familiar shame washed over her.

When Amelia announced last week that she could not wait another moment to be Joseph’s wife, Julia understood the dream. Amelia was boro—with child. She could not wait until spring to wed.

To their people, the Romni or what the outside goujo world called Gypsies, a pregnant woman was marimé—impure and should be isolated from the clan, not the center of attention the way a bride was on her wedding day. The way Amelia was today.

Julia shielded her eyes to gaze around the camp. Bright sun struggled to pour warmth onto the celebration, to give cheer to the landscape. The sun’s directness felt good on her face and bleached the ring of canvas tents framing the campsite. Yet even the festive clothes of the guests couldn’t infuse color into countryside still fast asleep.

Everyone was here. That is everyone who could get here with only a week’s notice. Julia knew the vurma—the points on the roadways her people used to communicate with each other—were efficient but it couldn’t work miracles. Usually, big news like a wedding date took weeks to make its way to all the clans. Amelia would not change her mind despite their father’s displeasure.

The wedding guests stood facing each other in two crooked lines forming the ceremonial lane that first the groom then the bride walked down. Joseph, looking dapper in his father’s tan suit, had already walked down the lane and jumped the broom. Now he waited for Amelia, his hands clasped in front of him, an almost undetectable crook of his brow hinting at unease. Julia couldn’t tell if he was excited at the prospect of being Amelia’s husband or nervous that at any moment Dadus would point an accusing finger at him for sullying his daughter.

Julia pivoted to see Amelia walking slowly toward the lane of guests looking chilled and timid. While timid was not normally a word she used to describe her headstrong younger sister, given the dream, it seemed fitting.

A heavy cape hung from Amelia’s shoulders to her ankles. Julia suspected it was as much to hide under as to ward off the February chill. Her dark hair, braided for the last time, hung down her back in a thick rope. After today, her sister would wear her hair in a bun and cover her head with a diklo—headscarf.

As Amelia made her way down the aisle toward Joseph, the guests shouted out their good wishes. You look so happy. You look beautiful. Many years and many fat healthy children to you.

Julia smiled at her sister. You look beautiful. Joseph is a lucky man. Your babies will be handsome. Amelia locked her gaze to Julia’s. Fear churned in Amelia’s dark brown eyes and set her mouth in an unnatural smile.

Julia relaxed her own expression, hoping it would encourage her sister to do the same. Everything is going to be all right, she whispered.

Watching Amelia pass, Julia caught sight of their daia standing on the other line. Petite hands fidgeting and eyes glistening, Jetti Stanton had been crying all morning. The whole time they were getting Amelia ready Jetti kept repeating that her daughter was to be a woman, that she was joining Joseph and his familiya, that Amelia’s path would be with her husband from