"1588: Aleasoun Peirsoun of Byrehill, Fifeshire.
'Was conuict for hanting and repairing with the Gude Nicht-
bouris and Quene of Elfame, thir diuers bypast, as scho had confesst be hir depositionis, declaring that scho could nocht say reddelie how lang scho wes with thame; and that scho had friendsis in that Court quhik wes of her awin blude, quha had gude acquentance of the Quene of Elfame...'"
. . . .
Nob Hill House, San Francisco
Emlyn was returned by the weekend, much refreshed and re-inspired by her adventures in the foothills...
She lay late abed, musing over her strange good fortune to have met up with such as she had long been seeking, even though she had realized it not; but once she had shared company with her new friends, she now knew it as something she long needed and had felt incomplete without...
'...You will come to our Harvest Faire, then?' she had asked Jeanne and Shannon before they'd taken their leave the morning after Midsummer Night.
'Of course!' Jeanne had assured her, 'And Jethro's Merry Men will certainly be playing there, you may be sure.' Jeanne slyly watched as her Troubadour and his bandfellows were packing their instruments for the road, and catching his eyesent him a saucy wink, earning a kiss from him, blown her way upon the wind.
Emlyn herself had shared the tent with Shannon that evening, whilst Jeanne had absented herself, presumably taking a couples' tent with Allyn, for so he was named. 'Alan a'Dale' Em had teasingly called him, making him smile. Somehow she knew it was not the first time someone had made that connection.
'Oh, try and keep us away!' Shannon seconded Jeanne's confirmation. 'But will you be meeting with us for Lughnasa, Emlyn? For sure'n the triad should not be sundered!'
Em had told them she would try...
. . . .
She sighed with contentment, back in her bed at home...amazed that she was beginning to actually refer to Nob Hill House as home. She had assured her new friends she wouldn't forget them, (indeed, as if she could!); addresses were exchanged, and Em gave the two women her telephone number at the house as well, although living out in the foothills, they had no service, but perhaps if they ever found themselves with one near, they would call...
Emlyn allowed herself time today, when she had no work and no duties, to recall the Midsummer magic of her trip to the hills...and how different it had been from her May Day excursion! She had been well pleased to have been able to awaken and still find her friends about and not yet taken away by the wild winds. That was better than having only an Elf-stone to mark the night's passing...
She sighed; ah, her meeting with Gwydion was lovely, indeed, but it was knowledge Em sought most, and not yet more confounded mystery. A mark of the Fay, indeed, she decided.
(Maybe Daryl had Fay 'blude'...)
Jeanne and, of course, young Shannon proved to be full of tales and legends and lore, and helpful, practical hints as well; herbal healing knowledge and other homely learning. Emlyn ate up all they had to share like unto a starving bear after a long winter...
'You know,' she had said to them after such a talk-fest, 'Not so long ago, we would be charged guilty as witches for our customs.'
'Indeed,' Jeanne had nodded soberly, 'And that is why we must, for now, live our lives in twain; one face shown only to our true brothers and sisters, whilst quite another we must, alas, present to the rest of the world.'
And Jeanne had told her then, that most cautionary tale of that other, less fortunate Jeanne: d'Arc, the Maid of Orleans, and a thing which had quite stunned Emlyn:
'You know one of the 'proofs' of her practice of witchcraft, was her admission of consorting with the Fay,'
Jeanne supplied, matter-of-factly, 'and that "Jeanne had received her mission at the tree of the fairie-ladies"--
a great beech tree it was, not far from Domremy, and known to all about as the Ladies' Tree, or Fairies' Tree, "Arbor Fatalium, gallice des fayees", beside which there is a spring which cured fevers. She sang and danced there and hung garlands with the other children. And,'Jeanne emphasized, 'she refused to say if she believed the fairies were evil spirits!'
. . . .
Finally Emlyn couldn't lie still, her blood
up with renewed passions, and she betook herself downstairs at last, to find the house quite her own; Manuel and Rosa must have gone out earlier...checking the clock, she saw it was nearly noon.
Humming some tunes she had heared on that gay evening past, she suddenly decided to take her tea into the study and see what she might find in Daryl's books...perhaps a thing of interest to her new-found enthusiasms.
Strangely, she did find some volumes she had not before noticed...actually, quite a few. "Ireland and Wales in Myth and Legend" looked quite good, and, an odd little volume on ye olde witchcraft trials, which, as Em perused it, did indeed have instances detailing confessions whereby men and women were in 'devilish congress' with the Fay...
These she took with her to the window seat and setting her tea upon the sill, she cracked the window open a ways and soon found herself lost amidst the weird tales of the weird sisters...and brothers...
"1653: Yorkshire: A Countryman, who, going home from his labour, and being very sad, for he was full of heavy thoughts not knowing how to get meat and drink for his wife and children, met a fair Woman in fine cloaths, who asked why he was so sad, he said it was by reason of his poverty.
'She said to him, if he would follow her counsel, she would help him get what would serve to get him a good living, by the doing of good and helping to cure the sick.
'Whereupon she led him to a little Hill, and she knocked 3 times and the Hill opened, and they went in and there was a soft light within it like unto Twilight, and came to a fair hall, wherein was a Queen sitting in and in great state, and many folk about her, and the Gentlewoman that brought him, presented him to the Queen, and she bade him welcom, and asked the Gentlewoman to give him some white powder, and teach him how to use it, which she did, and bad him give 2 or 3 grains of it to any that were sick, and it would heal them, and so she brought him forth of the Hill, and so they parted.
'And this was the plain and simple story that he told before the Judge, the whole Court and Jury, and there being no proof but what cures he had done for very many, the Jury did acquit him."
'...Find something interesting, Emlyn?'
'Oh! Holy Cats--Daryl!' Em sat up tossing the book and spilling her tea, 'DO rather give me some warning next time, would you!?' Emlyn was quite jumpy enough reading of witchcraft trials without Uncle Daryl popping out of Nowhere upon her. She brushed tea off her skirt and picked up the book and her teacup. 'Honestly! If I'd spilt tea upon your book, it would have been only your fault! Bounder!'
Daryl reached a long arm over her shoulder and plucked the book from her hand. '"Witchcraft Trials in Europe"?' he raised one brow skyward, and returned the book to her. 'So, am I found guilty, then?' He sat at the other end of the window seat and crossed an ankle upon his knee.
'Yes, Daryl, you managed to scare the devil out of me...' Emlyn sighed. 'What brings you back to the City?'
He smiled his half-smile and again regarded her with raised brow. 'Well, Miss Page, with your kind permission,' he nodded to her,'I actually am here on business.' He leaned back, putting an arm across the sill and gazing out the window at the panoramic view. 'I will be meeting with a client later who is interested in an item at the shop...'
'May I come?' The words were out of Em's mouth before she had time to think.
The smile disappeared and the brows fell into a sharp line. Daryl grimaced, 'Well...I hadn't...'
'Please, Daryl? I've never seen your shop. And I do so love antiques...' Em carried on as though it were true, wondering why she was pursuing this course so doggedly.
Her guardian gave a world-weary sigh, as though much put-upon by demanding children. 'Oh, alright. But please do not touch anything!' The glaring recommenced, sharper now. 'The appointment isn't until later this evening. The gentleman, my client, won't be free until then.'
His gaze tracked back to her, 'So, why the interest in witchcraft trials...and antiques?'
Emlyn wasn't sure how much to disclose to Daryl...but, she may need his input; always informative, that which he deigned to give, and, too, she may need his house. If ever her friends were in town, perhaps...
'Well, I am just returned from the Sierra foothills, once more, and--'
'Ah,' Daryl raised a hand, 'I see. Midsummer revels, and all that, eh?'
'Rather, well...yes, in a way, there was indeed, music, singing and dancing, and we did all bathe in the river at the Faery Pools...' (Daryl's sneaky smile returned), '...but
I met the most amazing women there...' (again Daryl's brows shot to the ceiling), '...Jeanne, and Shannon, Irish and Scottish they were, and sisters in Gaia, as am I, you know, and such tales they told! I'm even learning a bit of Gaelic...'
'Gle' mhath! cu'm ort!' Daryl enthused, 'That's "very good, keep at it", if you wish to take note...'
'And it figures you would know sommat,' Em replied, knowing polygloted Daryl, but she did make mental note to ask more on this, and, in fact, 'have you a Gaelic dictionary about?'
He did, it seemed. Fetching it from a high shelf, he brought it to her, and she thumbed through it's well-worn pages. As he took a seat at his desk. Daryl studied her a moment. 'You...didn't mention Gwydion.' He pronounced it:
"Gwy-DIE-on."
'No. He wasn't there...' Em said evenly, not looking up from her book.
'Ah. Well,' Daryl leaned back in his chair, elbows behind his head, 'the Sidhe "Ride Out" only twice a year; Beltane and Samhain.'
Emlyn glanced up over her book with a wry look. 'Indeed.'
'...Scottish, eh? Interesting. You would think that the Irish have the chief claim upon the Fay, but as they migrated to Scotland, the Fay seemed to follow, as they did here, you know,' he shot Em a look, 'are you familiar with Thomas the Rhymer?'
Em was not.
Daryl crossed his legs up upon his desk and leaned back far in his seat, a sure sign of a wild and winding tale to come:
'Thomas of Ercildoune lived in the Scottish Borders about 500 years ago, near the Eildon Hills - where Michael Scot the Wizard instructed three imps to split the single hill into the three peaks...'
Em's eyes bore into Uncle Daryl, as if she
were willing him to get on with it already...
'...yes, well, Thomas is supposed to have met the Fairy Queen in the Eildon Hills and she took him with her to Fairyland for three years. On his return he had the gift of poetry and prophecy and usually made his prophecies in rhyme. He predicted the Union of the Crowns which came to pass in 1603...'
Emlyn decided she best get a word in or Daryl would wax quite pedagogic, 'Why did we arrive outside of Jack's house, Daryl? It was storming!'
Daryl blinked at Em's supervening once again, 'It was the polite thing to do! Timewalkers do have etiquette, of a sort. One does not simply pop in--' She glared at him, '--UNLESS of course it IS one's own home!' He glared back.
'Otherwise, one knocks, naturally.'
'Unless one is sneaking up on someone...' Em supplied.
'Hmm.' Daryl ignored this jibe, 'I believe I shall have tea, and check on the garden...we'll be leaving around 6ish for
the shop...' and off he scuttled.
Em regarded her own tea, spoiled, and empty cup.
'...Bloody Daryl...'
. . . .
The evening which followed had been swallowed by drifts of fog long before the sunset. Daryl and Manuel rounded up his dapple grey, Galahad, a beautiful beast with black points, and they were off into the mists of twilight and Russian Hill.
It was an eerie trip as they couldn't see much ahead of them, giving Emlyn the feeling that their coach would tumble off the edge of a great hill into the bay...and, there beswallowed by the Elder Gods...
However, their trusty Galahad braved all such illusion and delivered them unscathed to Daryl's shop, a non-descript door with a single small lamp above the address and the rather unimaginative sign reading:
"Antiques".
As Em approached, she noted a smaller sign:
"Enquiries By Appointment Only".
How one was to contact Daryl for said appointment remained a mystery.
'Daryl, how--' she began.
'By word of mouth,' Daryl read her mind again. He hadn't been doing much of that, she had to admit, and was grateful.
Just having Daryl about was unnerving enough on it's own.
He checked his pocket watch, dismissed Manuel with a word, and, withdrawing a large key, inserted it into the lock, leaned against the door and pressed upon the doorframe in several different places. The door opened, and Daryl made a sweeping gesture, bidding Em to enter.
'Franchir le Rubicon,' he proclaimed enigmatically.
'There's no going back?' Em looked at him, 'Truly, Daryl?' But she crossed the threshold.
She could see little within, there was no illumination except the ambient light from the few street lamps without.
The shop was located on the corner, apparently.
Em noted odd forms about; small and large lumpen shadows, most draped with sheets giving the place a disused, haunted air. She detected a scent, not unpleasant; spicy. Woodsy.
'Upstairs, here,' Daryl reached within his coat pocket and withdrew an electric torch, which lighted their way up a narrow wooden staircase which creaked and groaned with protest at every step. Em allowed Daryl to preceed her, fearing cobwebs...
Upon turning a corner, they encountered yet another door at the top.
This one reminded Em of the entrance to Jack's laboratory; a
panel displaying a series of buttons and blinking lights, which Daryl pressed in presumably some coded order and the heavy metal door clicked open. Daryl pushed it wide and they entered into complete darkness, except for his torch.
He turned it upon the wall to their left and pressed a switch. A dim light grew from amber sconces on the walls, similar to the ones in Jack's Massachusetts House library, becoming bright enough to see well without hurting one's eyes.
'Cold in here,' Em was glad she'd worn her long woolen coat and hood.
'Has to be. Some items, most, really, can't take much heat, or light. Degrades them over time...but, we can have a little something for warmth, just for now...'
And he went to the corner where a hearth was and speaking in low tones, he passed a hand over the fireplace and blue flames leapt up in a trice.
'Show off,' Em remarked, earning a half-smile from Daryl as she approached the preternatural elf-blaze, which, as she held her hands above it, did emit a sortof half-warmth, similar to the half-light...
Emlyn turned to warm her backside and gazed out upon what slowly became revealed under a warm amber effulgence: items with shapes and ornamentation decidedly antique, but exactly what they could be, she couldn't guess. Decidedly odd, this side of the river...
Oh, there were chairs here and there, naturally; heavy ornately carved dark crouching beasts, which Emlyn observed approvingly, sat rather closer to the ground than did modern seats, which, with her rather vertically-challenged height, she found herself coveting. A soft pillow on the seat and back, she imagined, and they would do quite nicely...so very dungeonesque.
Daryl was still addressing the panels on the inside of the doorway and had done sommat with it, Em bethought, as soon she could hear soft music wafting about the room. Ah. Midsummer Night's Dream. A favorite of Daryl's, it seemed. Well, admittedly, she did enjoy it much, too.
The blue fire, the music of fairy-land, the sunset-glow of the curious room, all conspired to give Em a feeling of other-worldliness...most of the objects in the room, outside of the obvious chairs and tables and cabinets, were draped with sheeting. But, as she warmed up abit, she strolled slowly about, inspecting the large, heavy cabinets which were uncovered, intrigued by the intricate inlays of richly colored woods, some in Oriental, even Egyptian-looking designs, some carved with strange beasts about their sides and tops; unicorn heads with horns thrusting skyward crowned them, nymphs and satyrs frolicked along edges. Em could make out representations of Zodialogical signs, inlaid Hebrew characters and Runes, even different herbs and tree leaves; she recognized Oak, Ash and Thorn, Hazel and Rowan, Mistletoe, Belladonna and Mandrake and Poppy carved upon one particularly fascinating cabinet, with what looked like alchemical symbols, painted with gold leaf upon a plethora of small drawers which invited further inspection...as Em drew nearer, she fancied she could detect a spicy scent somewhere between sandalwood and cedar, and, instinctively her hand reached out to perhaps just touch one of the carvings, but as she did so, she suddenly felt as though Presences were gathering like shadows about her, heavy and silent, but waiting...she drew back her hand and it went to her mouth. She bit a nail, and looked up off to her left, to find Daryl hovering over her, frowning.
'Do. Not. Touch. ANYTHING.' He breathed.
Emlyn recalled then, Jeanne speaking of Pandora's Box. Perhaps some things were best left alone.
'It's all so beautiful, Daryl!' She straightened up and backed away from the mesmerizing cabinet of curiousities.
'Why haven't you some of these items in your house?' For, although Nob Hill House had fine furniture, it was all contemporary (to the late 1800's), and certainly nothing so remarkable.
Daryl cleared his throat and taking Emlyn's arm, steered her away from the cabinet, which, Em thought, she could detect a soft sigh from, as they moved apart.
'Actually, some of these things were at the house, when the Society was there. I had them moved here. Perhaps you can guess why...?'
Actually, Em could. These items were imbued with such Presence! Although only she and Daryl were in the room, it was beginning to feel rather crowded.
'Oh, yes...' she admitted, wryly. Wishing to dispel the spectral air about, she turned to one of her favorite chairs, 'These chairs, though, I rather like! I bet they would fit me well. I do so tire of being unable to reach the floor with my feet when I sit! Alice and I customized our furniture, taking off height from the legs to make them more comfortable. I did save a couple of pieces, they're at Crowley Place now, though.'
Daryl regarded the low heavy chair in dark wood, with legs thick and sturdy as a ballerina's. 'Spanish, these. Heavy as a Percheron.' He held out a hand, 'Go ahead. These you may sit upon, if you like, there's no magic in them...'
Emlyn sat with some satisfaction. '...that I know of.'
Daryl amended, making her eye him suspiciously.
'I'm teasing...'
Em dismissed his japes and found that the chair arms fit her a treat and she could rest her feet firmly upon the floor.
Spanish...milagro.
'People back then were much smaller, even the men, for whom furniture was made for and by, I know.' Darly leaned a hand upon the chair's back. 'This is a nice piece. If you like it so well, you may keep it. It did not come from the house. It was brought here from Mexico, although possibly from Spain, originally.
Not that old, 1700's...' He rubbed the chair's back like a cat's fur.
'Diego, that would be lovely! Muchas gracias!'
Daryl bowed.
'May we keep it in the parlor? It's much too large for my room...' She looked about. 'But, diosa, how will you move it? Not down those narrow steps surely! How did you get all this up here?'
'Nothing beyond ordinary means, Em. There's an elevator at the other end, see? And a dumb waiter for the smaller objects. This building has it's own generator.' He nodded, 'It would look well enough in the parlor, I suppose. I'll have Manuel help me fetch it down for you manana...'
He began looking over the chair, then Daryl turned to the door. 'Ah, there's our man now. Late, too. Would you mind, Em? Just press the green button on the panel, that will open the door.' Daryl bent over the chair, inspecting it intently.
Emlyn arose and obediently pressed the green button. The door opened and she found herself staring into the chest of a rather surprised Yeats...!
. . . .
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