"1655: It might be here very seasonable to enquire into the nature of those large dark rings in the grass which they call 'Fairy Circles', whether they be the Rendezvouz of Witches, or the dancing place of those little Puppet Spirits which they call Elves or Fairies."
* * * *
"Every moment beginneth existence, around every 'Here', rolleth the ball 'There'. The middle is Everywhere.'
--Nietzsche
. . . .
'Mr. Yeats!'
Emlyn exclaimed, (cursing Chortling Daryl), 'Ah! Oh, do come in!'
'Watch your head!' Daryl warned him.
Yeats removed his hat and bending somewhat, passed under the door frame and entered. 'Daryl. Emlyn,' he nodded a greeting.
'Really, Daryl, you are too much sometimes,' she shook her head slowly. 'You live for dramedy, don't you?'
'Where did you learn that word?' Daryl frowned at her, 'Jack, no doubt...' Em's silence confirmed this, 'remind me to beat him.' Daryl indicated the Spanish chairs, 'Welcome. Yeats, have a seat if you like...these are safe for sitting,' he added.
Mendelsshon had segued into Mozart's 'Magic Flute' with the arrival of Yeats.
Yeats strolled about the room, inspecting items, even lifing a sheet here and there. He paused before the flaming blue fire a moment, then turned and regarded Daryl. 'Anything new?' he asked. Apparently he was no stranger to Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe.
'Ah, since you were here last, probably not. I've been much too busy south of the border of late.' Daryl stood, hands in pockets, watching Yeats.
'Ummm...' Yeats ceased his circumnavigation about the room and took one of the Spanish chairs. Em took the one beside him, noting that Yeats' knees came up past his armrests.
Wickedly, Emlyn found it satisfying that, for a change, men would find 'her' chairs not of the most comfortable fit.
'Well?' Yeats addressed Daryl, 'I suppose we had best get on with it. It IS here, is it not?'
Daryl regarded Em and Yeats a moment, as if assessing the situation, then he nodded, and, oddly, went to the Cabinet of Curiosities that Em had found so...enchanting.
Taking a small key from his vest pocket, he unlocked the bottom doors and, upon opening, Emlyn could plainly detect the scents of sandal and spice within. Daryl reached inside and brought forth with both hands, an object wrapped round with a purple velvet cloth.
This he brought over to them, set it carefully upon another of the Spanish chairs, and dragged a small table next to it. Lifting the item, he sat it gently upon the table and took a seat in the chair. He looked up at Yeats, who, Emlyn saw, was now leaning forward eagerly...even his eyebrows seemed quite eager, she imagined.
Inhaling, Daryl reached forth and slowly drew the cloth from the object. As it was unveiled, the song ended, and a new one began, Em recognized: 'In the Hall of the Mountain King'.
Strangely, the tune seemed to fit the moment perfectly, for, upon the humble wooden table before them, sat what surely was a very old, and no doubt, priceless artifact...
It was a Cup, or more accurately, a stemmed bowl, for it was large for a drinking vessel. It was most certainly gold, an old gold, and heavy, one could tell. It was ringed with a silver edging with rivets about the rim, and three equidistant handles upon the sides, obviously of old silver. It had some ornamentation, nothing fancy, which only added to it's air of antiquity; it verily appeared a thing out of Legend...spiral designs surrounded the centre, and upon the stem which rested upon the table, Em could make out what appeared to be a triskele, fanning out from it's hub, in what surely appeared to be a Keltic design...
'Oh, Daryl...' she breathed, '...it's quite magnificent!'
The men simply stared at it, enraptured as she.
At last, Yeats began to slowly shake his head.
'I can't believe it's really here.' He spoke in a low, hushed voice. 'Is it? If so, this...' he cleared his throat, '...this belongs in a museum!'
Daryl, also leaning toward the Cup, looked up at him, 'You know we can't do that. As much as I would like to display this for all...that, I fear--' he nodded at the object which seemed almost to have a glow of it's own, '--It would never allow...'
'It would seem almost...sacreligious...' Emlyn agreed.
All kept their voices soft and low, in reverence to the Cup.
They sat watching it, as if waiting for it, somehow. The blue flames from the fireplace reflected eerily in the deep gold of the Cup, and Emlyn noticed then, along the sides bordering the spirals, what she at first believed to be asimple design pattern was actually writing.
'Ah...Daryl, there is writing upon it! Is it French? Or Oc?'
'"Honi soit qui mal y pense,"' Daryl read, sitting back at last. 'It is the motto of the Most Noble Order of the Garter of Great Britain.'
'"Shame to him who thinks evil of it,"' Emlyn translated. 'But, why would a British maxim be written in French?'
Daryl and Yeats gazed at one another, saying nothing. At last, as usual, Daryl side-stepped the question, 'It is quite old...from the 1300's I believe...'
'Where is it from?' Emlyn sat back, and riveted Daryl with a look which demanded answer.
He sighed, 'Well, from Scotland. That, is where I was when I...came by it. And it had been there for some time. The French and Scottish were on friendly terms, off and on...'
'I believe...' Yeats began, '...that possibly someone, decidedly a Knight, however, perhaps, not of the Order of the Garter, seeking asylum in Scotland, brought it with him.
The Mother Church was making things uncomfortable for certain of Her Crusaders after they had returned from the Holy Land with riches, and acquired land...much coveted by others...'
'Ah. The Templars.' Emlyn was somewhat acquainted with tales of the Order of the Temple . Indeed, many were rumored to have fled the inquisitions and left for Scotland.
'That appears to make the most sense,' Daryl agreed, 'but, it is a Mystery, still.'
'Perhaps the writing was added, at a later date, by another,' Em proposed, 'someone who was not the origianl artisan.'
'Yes, I've thought that as well,' Daryl nearly smiled...then he eyed the Cup intently.
He found himself raising a hand toward the Cup.
He paused then, and looked at Yeats, who frowned, then nodded. Daryl reached out, and took hold of the Cup's silver handle nearest him.
The music stopped.
Inhaling deeply, Yeats roused himself and also reached slowly toward the handle on his side and clasped it. He and Daryl regarded one another silently for a moment. Then they turned to Emlyn.
She looked at both the men, then, licking her lips as her mouth had suddenly gone quite dry, tentatively reached out, and grasped her handle.
The fire died...
...No light within the chamber now, except what could dimly be seen as a muted glow coming from the Cup. Almost a soft hum Emlyn thought she could discern as well.
'You did not bring the artefact!' Daryl hissed at her. Not a question, more of a rebuke.
'No, Daryl, I did not,' Em whispered. So he had heard it too, or felt it. She believed she could feel a subtle vibration in the Cup as well.
'Hush...!' Yeats commanded.
The three sat holding onto the Cup as it thrummed gently between them. Suddenly, to Em's musician's ear came soft, but unmistakable sounds of chanting. She glanced up at Daryl who caught her eye and bit his lip, he had heard it also; obviously this was a first for him with the Cup.
The faint vibration increased along with the audible chanting, and the Cup seemed to glow brighter, somehow more golden... The Presences about the attic room loomed larger, as if an invisible host was crowded about the Cup as well, awaiting it's next move. It hadn't long to wait--
--It was the work of a moment; all at once, blue sparks like unto petite lightning snaked about the Cup's edges and the Triad's hands as well. The next sound heard came as a low rolling thunder, and with a crack of lightning, the three were blasted back against their seats, seemingly insentient.
. . . .
Emlyn found herself, with Daryl, who was holding the Cup tight against himself, running along a dim, narrow stone passageway. They were oddly dressed in somewhat tattered rough robes and the sandals upon Em's feet were little protection as she hastened down the corridor, knocking into objects in the dark. Footsteps sounded behind them, farther off, but, they seemed to think, not far enough...
The corridor ended and Daryl handed the Cup to Emlyn, then
knelt down and felt about the rough stone walls. Finding what he had sought, he grasped the large stone at the bottom and began to pull, push and work it out from it's place. Taking off his cloak, he wrapped it about the Cup, and hid it within the opening, and together they pushed the stone shut against it.
Turning opposite of where the Cup now lay hidden in it's cold cell, Daryl was feeling about the wall again. His fingers found whatever niche they sought and with Em's help, they jimmy'd a heavy stone away to reveal a small opening, just big enough for someone to crawl through.
He pushed Emlyn into the dark dank hole and then followed her; on the other side he took hold of an iron ring and pulled the stone door shut upon them.
'Avancer,' he whispered, as they crawled down the damp narrow tunnel, none too soon apparently, as they now could hear the advancing footfalls of many feet and dim voices on the other side of the wall.
Shaking, Em crept slowly downward, cold, bruised, cut, bleeding and as time dragged on, becoming quite claustrophobic...then, thankfully, she bethought she could detect a faint light ahead of them...
She could now smell the salt tang of ocean air and dimly hear waves upon a shore...yes! The shaft was opening wider now and they soon found themselves within a sea cave; and, luckily, the tide was out.
It was early evening she saw, as they exited the cave, and a moon hung over the sea in a slender crescent. Faintly, the western sky was still illuminated with a misty glow.
Emlyn felt dead tired, shivering with nerves and cold, bloody from scrapes inflicted in their urgent flight...
Daryl looked like a wild man, hair rather longer and darker, hanging in wet strands about his grimy visage, bearded now, and bloodied as well.
Too tired to say anything, they walked down the narrow strand of beach and then began to climb up a rocky hill to the headland of the bight. Emlyn followed Daryl up, clambered onto the bank, then nearly ran into him as he suddenly halted before her.
Looking up, she could just make out in the growing dark, a tall dark man in mail, a large sword in one hand. Behind him were others, who began to fan out encircling them.
'Adieu paniers, vendanges sont faites...' He said, approaching...
"Farewell baskets, the vintage is over," Em heard and understood quite well. They'd been found out. There was no escape.
The man in mail came closer and, as he did, despite the facial hair, Emlyn recognized someone she well knew:
It was Yeats!
'Hors de l'Eglise, point de salut,' his voice, hard and low, pronounced as though in judgement:
"There is no salvation outside the Church."
The avenging knight advanced upon Daryl who, with arms out, backed away along the cliff's edge, frowning, as though not believing what he saw, nor what was upon him...
Emlyn froze in horror, watching, as Yeats-as-Knight turned slightly to the side, then grasping the great sword in both hands, swung it up and around, taking Daryl's head with it's lethal arc...
'Sorcier!'
. . . .
All was dark and still within the attic room full of secrets.
Emlyn took a deep, shaky breath, then dared open her eyes; just in time to see the blue flames leap back into life upon the hearth. She jumped at that, then blinking, stared about her and frowned. What had just happened here?
The Cup sat quiet, still, enigmatic, before them. Yeats sat back stiffly in his seat, head back, eyes shut, a look of frozen pain upon his features. Daryl sat slumped over, but thankfully his head was still attached.
Emlyn leaned over to Daryl, afraid to wake him, but she certainly didn't want him to fall over. She didn't fancy hauling possibly two large insentient men about.
'Daryl,' she said low, putting a hand upon his arm.
Nothing. Then, weaving slightly, Daryl began to fall, 'No!'
Em cried, catching his shoulders before he toppled. Yeats came back to himself then, blinking, and gazed at the shadowy scene before him, with a rather blank look about himself.
'Mr. Yeats, help me!' Em looked over her shoulder at him, trying to prop the still unresponsive Daryl back up.
Yeats rallied, and looking grim, came over to Daryl and knelt at his side, taking him in hand. Em relinquished Daryl while Yeats held his shoulder, then put a hand to his head.
'Feverish,' he pronounced, and looked about. 'See if you can find a couch or table to lay him on...'
Em went about, pulling sheets off likely looking objects, and at last found an old settee, hard and uncomfortable, but serviceable. Taking Daryl's legs, whilst Yeats wrestled with the rest, they at last had him laid out upon the thing, and Yeats took off his coat and folded it over him.
'Damn it, old man...' Yeats muttered as he knelt beside Daryl, taking his pulse. He sighed, 'He'll be alright, I think... Emlyn, take this torch; downstairs there is a service area where there are tea things and a small gas stove. Do get some strong hot tea made? With sugar. Alot.'
Intuiting that Yeats needed time alone with Daryl, Em took the torch and managed to find her way downstairs... Lord and Lady, what had happened? What did it all mean? And, what of Daryl now...?
Stumbling about, Em searched along the walls until she found, behind a curtained area, the small stove, matches and kettle and water. Her hands were shaking she noticed, as she lighted the stove and put the water on. She found several candles, however. Apparently the power had gone out, by whatever means, here before.
The homely routine of making tea steadied her somewhat and, finding the sugar bowl at last, she believed she had accomplished her task. Loading a large tray with candle, teapot and cups, rattling as she shook slightly, she slowly made her way back upstairs, half-fearing what she might find there...
Yeats had pulled a chair round to Daryl's couch and was regarding him intently. Daryl was sitting now, propped up with a pillow behind him, legs still stretched out before him, staring blankly ahead.
Emlyn set the tray down beside Yeats, then went to fetch round a chair for herself. She gazed at the Cup as she passed; such an altogether fearful and awesome spectacle it had become this night...seeing the velvet cloth, she picked it up and covered the Cup. She pushed the heavy chair over beside Daryl.
Yeats had poured for them all, and was adding sugar to Daryl's cup. 'See if you can rouse him, my dear,' he handed it to Emlyn.
Em leaned forward and placed a hand upon Daryl's arm, 'Daryl?' she asked. Nada. 'Diego, como estas?'
Daryl at last slowly turned toward her.
'Oh, Diego!' Tears welled in Em's eyes, unbidden. She could not help seeing over and again, that dreadful scene she had just witnessed in her mind's eye. She wondered if she would ever be rid of it.
'Please come back! Take some tea, por favor!'
She took his hand and placed it about the cup, holding her hands around his. 'Diego, you must. You are in shock. Drink something, the sugar will help...'
She helped maneuver the cup to his lips and finally managed
to get some tea down him. Daryl closed his eyes again, then lay his head to the back of the couch. 'I feel ill...'
Yeats sprang up, yanked open the curtain and opening the window, manhandled Daryl to it just in time for a mighty heave-ho...
'I'm alright, I'm alright...' Daryl mumbled as Yeats took him back to the couch. Daryl fell upon it, and pulled the coat over him, 'Cold...' he muttered, shaking.
Yeats shut the window whilst Emlyn soaked a tea towel in tea and washed Daryl's face...poor Uncle Daryl, he looked truly low. She had never seen, or even imagined indomitable, cocky Daryl as any other than his robust self. I suppose losing one's head could do that to a man, Em mused...
She rinsed the towel and soaked it again in tea and held it against Daryl's head, somewhat cooler now. Em looked over at Yeats in silent query. Now what? And what, exactly, had all this been about? And why? Had it been worth it?
'You...you were there,' was all she could muster to say to him.
Yeats, elbow bent upon the armrest and leaning a hand over his chin, regarded her earnestly and nodded. 'Yes.'
Em couldn't think what else to say then. They sat together awhile in the soft candleglow and the silent ghostly blue flames in the hearth, watching over Daryl, who seemed to be asleep, breathing deeply.
'I'll take us back,' Yeats announced finally, 'I think he is up for it now. Give me your hand, and take Daryl's' Yeats
waved his other hand at the hearth, putting out fire and candles both.
Emlyn took his hand and Daryl's, and after a brief space of black nothingness, they found themselves in Daryl's parlor, with him lying on the sofa. Em thought Yeats must be well-practiced in his Timewalks to have made such a precise 'landing'.
'I'm afraid I must leave. Sorry, but it is urgent.'
Yeats took his coat carefully from Daryl's prostrate form, and setting his hat upon his head, regarded Emlyn and the Cup, which, somehow, had managed to tag along.
'Do NOT touch it again!' he admonished, and was gone.
Em found a blanket and settled it around Daryl, who, feeling his forehead now, appeared to be quite cold. This rather alarmed her, although putting a hand upon his chest she could feel him breathing. She built up the fire and got it going, then telling herself that Daryl wasn't about to expire or disappear anytime soon, she fumbled her way into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
It rather startled her to see the brightening of the sky and to realize the dawn was now come. She felt quite wrung-out...
Taking her tea back to the parlor, she was reassured to see Daryl's face with a more healthy glow, although perhaps it was just the firelight...bending, she felt his cheek and he seemed normal enough...whatever passed as normal for Daryl.
She curled up in the armchair opposite and sipped her tea, wondering what had happened this night... Somehow, she felt as if she had truly been Elsewhere and had just made that awful trek through the stone passage and the sea cave...she half wondered why her hands were no longer scraped and bloody. She felt quite done in.
She didn't even notice when she finally fell asleep...
. . . .
'I like well your new name, Emlyn.'
Em found herself once more beside the seashore, however this was a peaceful place, one she recognized as being the abode of her sister of the Otherworld, Anara, who kept company beside her.
'I'm told it simply means 'work' or 'worker',' Em replied,
as she strolled beside her sister, her future-self.
'Aye. It also means 'industrious' and 'around the valley.'
Anara smiled her way.
Em liked that, 'around the valley'--it described her Pankhurst self. That, too, had been the place she had worked most industriously.
'Anara...' she began, not knowing if she ought to broach the subject of her experience with the Cup, but wondering all the same if her sister-self might shed light upon it, 'I had the strangest experience, with a very old Cup--'
Anara turned, facing her and put a finger to her lips,
'Speak not of it! For that is from another World than this, and contrary to us here! It belongs in your world, not ours.' She took Em's arm and recommenced their walk.
'You might ask Thelene of it, but let us speak together of other things now,' Anara gazed at the sea beyond them, 'what I am here to impart to you is just this: You alone, Emlyn, are your own salvation. Look not to either gods or men for that.'
'I will say this, the time of which you spoke, was a Dark Time for us all. It was the beginning of the end, an age of Iron, of Ignorance and War and Greed and Want. Folk turned against their Mother Earth, and trampled green and growing things under feet of iron and turned the earth into a battlefield fed by blood. All in the name of one god or other...such was a ready excuse.
'Women were treated worse than animals or slaves and not much has really changed, in your world. What you know now of the Future, is the result of all that: a world full of toxic poison and decay.
'But, that age is passing. It is in it's death-throes.
A new age is waiting to be born. In it, you will realize your true natures. You will no longer live like savage children, begging for an omniscient Father to save you from yourselves.
'Humankind must now put away the things of childhood and
become adult, and resume their role as care-takers of the planet. The great secret is only this: you, and you alone, are responsible for the health of the planet, and you alone are responsible for yourselves, and for one another.
'Preachers, men, of one kind or other have fed the folk the Great Lie to make infants of your kind; that they are weak, and helpless, and ignorant, and incapable, and require an all-knowing Father who demands constant praise and worship or hell will come upon you. Obviously, hell is already upon the people, and by their very helplessness and willfull ignorance, thus was it brought about. A populace that feels intrinsically powerless is easily malleable and controlled.'
'That all sounds fair and reasonable, Anara...' Emlyn knew it was so, but it seemed quite impossible, knowing how things, and people, were, for it to change anytime soon. 'I cannot imagine people acting as other than they are, however. Basic human nature would have to undergo a great permutation!'
'Yes!' Anara stopped and turned Emlyn toward her, 'That indeed is the plan!' She smiled at Em's puzzled look, and led her to a large driftwood log and they sat together.
'It has been a plan long in the making, but it has been implemented in secret, over many thousands of years! And yet, now that we are coming to the End of An Age, and entrophy has given way to catastrophe, our efforts have increased exponentially.
'Desperate times require desperate measures, it is said, and indeed, that is the juncture we now come upon. Might, obviously, does not Make Right.
'We have been forced to extemporize, as we are now under much pressure all round, but, at last, it may be said that a light is seen at the end of that long dark tunnel!' Anara took Em's hands in her own. Em shied away from any thought of dark tunnels.
'My sister, it is well that you have found your sisters-in-Gaia. Hold together, and become like the oak, planted firm, and focused on your goal. Know that we watch over you, and will send to you the knowledge and help that you may need in days to come.
'You are not alone. Stay strong, and rest now, Emlyn. You have done well...'
. . . .
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