"Catharism; from Greek: katharoi, "the pure" was a Christian dualist movement that thrived in some areas of Southern Europe, particularly northern Italy, northern Spain and southern France, former Occitania and Catalonia, between the 12th and 14th centuries. The Cathars were a direct challenge to the Catholic Church, which renounced its practices and dismissed it outright as the Church of Satan."
. . . .
Emlyn awoke stiff and cold in the armchair. The fire was down to ash, and the room rather chilly. She blinked a bleary eye open to access the time: Noon.
Rubbing her eyes and slowly stretching her aching limbs, she inspected the sofa. Only blankets and a pillow there.
Daryl was gone.
. . . .
'Diosa, Daryl, you gave me a turn!'
Emlyn located Daryl in his study, seated before his desk, with papers in hand, looking pale and wan, eyes half-closed, his head resting against the chair's back.
He said nothing but: 'Tea? Please...' in a hoarse croak.
She thought that an excellent idea, and made for the kitchen. Goddess, what a...world, this was, this place...anywhere Jack, Daryl and the rest were, was Something Else again...
But, as the kettle heated, and Emlyn cut fruit for their breakfast, she had to admit that, perhaps, it was she, herself, who was the Key to that Otherworld...for hadn't she mad adventures of her own, with Gwydion, and Alice before him, etc?
She was beginning to think she was a Nexus...
. . . .
Entering the study avec tray, Em found Daryl slumped over books and papers on his desk, elbow bent, leaning head to hand, blearily going through some old tomes.
She set her mouth tight, trying not to upbraid the stubbon...man, whilst she poured their tea and set it with a bowl of fruit before him.
'Did you sleep?' she asked, instead of: What do you think you are doing up don't you know how bloody sick you are you just collapsed you bloody idiot?
Daryl drank the tea in one go and poured more. 'Ahhh...so dehydrated...'
Yes, a man sans head would find that a problem, Em bethought.
He sighed. 'Yes, I...was out. I suppose one might call it 'sleeping'...' He looked at her with bloodshot eyes, 'I am sorry, Emlyn.'
She glanced up from her window seat where she was attempting to reprise her morning before...but said nothing.
Daryl frowned into his book, 'I never should have gotten you involved, I now realize, but, I felt somehow, that you were a part of it. And,' he glanced at her, 'so you were.'
Emlyn remained quiet, thinking...Daryl knew all along, she realized...oh, perhaps he hadn't known what exactly the Cup was capable of, but he had planned on her going, and actually set them all up for it, she now kenned...making it seem as though it was her idea.
'Yes,' he answered, although she hadn't said anything...'Mea Culpa,' at that, he gave a bark of mirthless laughter. 'In order for it to work, you had to come to the meeting of your own free will, and ask to be there.'
Touche' Daryl. However, in his little chess game, obviously he hadn't considered finding himself in checkmate, known as
'Shah-Mat', or: Kill the King...
At that, Daryl shot her a bloody look, and returned to his perusal of hefty books. Emlyn was divided between frustration and anger toward him for being, once more, made his pawn; and true sorrow and pity for him, the man he was then, on that fatefull evening beside a strange sea...wherever, whenever that had been..
.
'What do you know of the Cathars, Em?'
Oddly, she had just been thinking of that sect, and wondering...
'I, know a little. I actually studied them abit when I was younger. They, and the Gnostics, who regard Sophia as the personification of Wisdom, had rather pro-feminine ideals for a medieval Christian cult.'
'True...' Daryl shut one book, opened another. 'Yes, they, much like the Gnostics, held the idea of two Gods or principles, one being good the other evil...the good God was the God of the New Testament and the creator of the spiritual realm as opposed to the bad God who many Cathars identified as Satan creator of the physical world of the Old Testament...'
Em gave a derisive snort, 'Easy enough to see why! What sort of benevolent being would order someone to kill their own children, as with Abraham and Isaac? To blast entire cities, women, children all, to dust?' She shook her head,'Such a so-called 'god' sounds to be quite mad, or chronically constipated, at best...'
Daryl laughed shakily then. 'Ah, Em. I'm glad you're here! Such refreshing insight!' He regarded her with a raised brow, '...Folk have been burned for saying less in truth.'
...Or beheaded, Em did not add.
But Daryl plowed on, regardless...'Human souls were thought to be genderless souls trapped within physical creation cursed to be reincarnated until earning the Cathar equivalent of Enlightenment.
'And yes, Em, there were sometimes more women than men Cathars.
They were given more power and a kind of respect, seeing perfected forms as genderless. Although they referred to themselves as the "Good Men" (Bons Hommes), they gave women the greatest opportunities for independent action since women were found as being believers as well as Perfecti.' Daryl looked up from his text.
'But, here, Em. Read for yourself. I think it might explain a thing or two, about last night...'
Daryl leaned over his desk and handed a heavy volume over to her; it was in French, and Emlyn grasped it with both hands. Meanwhile Uncle returned to his fruit, and tried to drown himself in tea...
Em read of the Bon Hommes:
" Bernard of Clairvaux, for instance, although opposed to the Cathars, said of them:
'If you question the heretic about his faith, nothing is more Christian; if about his daily converse, nothing more blameless; and what he says he proves by his actions ...
'As regards his life and conduct, he cheats no one, pushes ahead of no one, does violence to no one. Moreover, his cheeks are pale with fasting; he does not eat the bread of idleness; he labours with his hands and thus makes his living.
'Women are leaving their husbands, men are putting aside their wives, and they all flock to those heretics! Clerics and priests, the youthful and the adult among them, are leaving their congregations and churches and are often found in the company of weavers of both sexes."
Good for them! Emlyn thought. For what one had to choose from back then, and life being rough indeed, one needed community to survive...it was not a bad road to walk. Until, of course, the bloody Church caught up with one...
Intrigued, she studied on:
"The soul was of utmost importance to the Cathars and was described as being immaterial and sexless. Because of this belief, the Cathars saw women equally capable of being spiritual leaders, which undermined the very concept of gender held by the Catholic Church and did not go unnoticed.
'The women that were accused of being heretics in early medieval Christianity included those labeled Gnostics, Cathars, Beguines as well as several other groups that were sometimes "tortured and executed".
Of course, Em thought, grimacing...she wondered then, what had happened to her, after Daryl's...demise... Best not to think of that, Em, she told herself, hoping she may never know...
"Killing was abhorrent to the Cathars. Consequently, abstention from all animal food (sometimes exempting fish) was enjoined of the Perfecti. War and capital punishment were also condemned - an abnormality in Medieval Europe. In a world where few could read, their rejection of oath taking marked them as social revolutionaries."
Viva la Revolucion! Em nodded, taking a bite of apple, Eve-like. Ah, here was something of note:
"The principal legacy of the Cathar movement is in the poems and songs of the Cathar troubadors, though this artistic legacy is only a smaller part of the wider Occitan linguistic and artistic heritage."
Oc, Em thought, I knew it. Her mind drifted back to Midsummer's Day and Jethro's Merry Band of Troubadours...
But her eye was caught by a sobering piece:
"Arnaud-Amaury, the Cistercian abbot-commander, is supposed to have been asked how to tell Cathars from Catholics. His reply, was "Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius." —"Kill them all, the Lord will recognise His own."
Expedience quite beyond all reason, thought Em.
Then, turning a page, she came upon this:
"A popular though as yet unsubstantiated theory holds that a small party of Cathar Perfects escaped from the fortress before the massacre at prat dels cremats. It is widely held in the Cathar region to this day that the escapees took with them Le Trésor Cathar. What this treasure consisted of has been a matter of considerable speculation: claims range from sacred Gnostic texts to the Cathars' accumulated wealth."
Oh, dear.
'Le Tre'sor Cathar...Daryl...?'
Daryl guiltily bit his lip, not looking up from his text.
'You knew!' Em closed the book. 'How could you, Daryl? You knew from whence came that Cup!'
He sighed, and closed his book in turn, and, putting a hand upon the desk, slowly heaved himself upward. A hand went to his head and, as he obviously went quite pale, Em knew it was not just for dramatic effect. 'Daryl--?' She came to his side and escorted him to the window seat. 'Here. Sit.' She commanded.
'Unnhhh...' Daryl plopped down, swallowing, and leaned his head against the cool windowpane. 'I...perhaps I should go back to bed...'
'Daryl,' Em sighed, 'You have not yet been to bed! Except for collapsing upon the nearest surface!
--WE have not slept, nor rested well enough for all this...this...'
'--Revelation?' Daryl supplied.
'--Stress.' Em finished, sitting next to him. 'No more strong tea for you.' Sighing once more, 'I'm going to find Manuel, to get you upstairs to a proper bed, and I shall bring you fruits and soup. You are to stay there, all day, if necessary! But you require sleep, and rest, Daryl! As do I...'
She shook her head, 'After last night, surely you know you are not invincible!'
He groaned softly. 'I feel quite otherwise, I assure you.'
He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. 'Why you put up with me at all, I have long wondered...'
'Yes, so have I...' Em agreed, smiling.
'...Is it because we were acolytes together Emlyn?' Daryl murmured, 'Emlyn', a genderless name...think on this, Em. You must admit, that, for many long centuries, perhaps, we both have fought the good fight for freedom...freedom from ignorance...freedom to choose...'
Daryl was rambling again, Em thought to herself.
Goodness, the man needed a Keeper. Someone quite large and well-muscled, with a strong Cage and Key. Then, thinking of what she had just read, perhaps he had indeed had just that at one time...
He stirred again. Would the man never take rest?
'...I suspected, although I didn't know for certain, the origin of the Cup...but, after having it in my care, it...spoke to me, almost.' He opened his eyes then, 'You heard the chanting, too! I had to know more, Em! And, well, following on pure instict, noting the triple handles and triskele, I knew we needed a triad to access...whatever secrets the Cup held...'
'Oh, Daryl...and they say Pandora ventured where she should not have!'
But his eyes had closed again and it seemed that he might have at last worn himself out. Finally.
. . . .
Thelene met in council with Axelis upon the beach head.
She had been prompted to call upon him after hearing wind of several rumors going about the Chambers of the High Council regarding her 'secret' confidences with the League...apparently secret no more...
'So you see...my presence there has become a liability, and a danger. It is no longer safe for me here, on my own beloved shores...' she gazed out upon the ocean, sadness etched like cicatrix upon her features.
'So be it,' Axelis stood, 'We have long known and prepared for this.' He put a consoling arm about her shoulders, 'Lady, our Crystal Ship awaits thee.' He bowed slightly.
Thelene smiled a sad smile up to him, and lay a hand upon his on her shoulder. 'Ah, my good friend...I am sorry to add my burden upon your already heavy load...'
'Burden!' Axelis stepped away, regarding her, 'Would that I were laden with such fair treasure daily! The League welcomes you, Thelene; often we have wished for your good council and presence amongst us. This pleases us all greatly.' He took both her hands, 'And it pleases me, even more, selfish rogue that I be!'
Thelene smiled in true well-being then. 'Thank you, Axelis, you relieve me greatly!' She looked over her shoulders about them, scanning the shoreline, 'However, I would have a small space of time to take care of some parting business...I shall meet with you here tonight, then, at sunset.'
Axelis bowed, and took his leave, saluting Thelene as a sister-in-arms, and faded from view.
Walking back along the strand, Thelene blinked tears away as she beheld, perhaps for the last time, what she had come to know as her new homeland, where she had come to do service for the High Council lo these many long years; for long and long it would be, before she came again to this
fair country, she knew.
She stopped short suddenly; a dark shadow ahead emerged from behind a stand of cypress. Thelene's heart began racing. Had she been too late? Was her doom come upon her, so soon?
But, the figure stood and resolved itself into the likeness of a tall man. By the attitude of him, Thelene relaxed, recognizing Shane Devin Rowland Yeats.
Here indeed, was Unfinished Business, in the flesh...
She strode unhurried toward him, who, for his part, merely stood his ground, waiting for her. Yeats had come to parlay with Thelene; perhaps even to apologize somewhat for what he now knew as a dangerous hidebound mindset he had long harbored.
This, he now realized had become the wedge and hazard between them...
But, seeing her with Axelis, his heavy hand about his Thelene, had sent cold into his belly and hard it was for him now, to thaw that chill...
'Shane.' Thelene greeted him curtly.
'Thelene...' Yeats melted at once, in the presence of her regal and now, somehow fragile beauty. 'Let us walk together, gra'dhach annsachd...'
Thelene regarded her mate curiously; it had been a long season, seemingly, since he had called her his beloved darling... She nodded and accepted his company as they headed on down the seaside.
Yeats, for his part, saw not the peaceful, enduring shoreline, but ghosts of that horror he had experienced in the Otherwhen, time-passed. He shut his eyes and would have closed his ears to the sounds of waves beaching if he but could...
Thelene noted his distress. 'What brings you to these shores, my cridhe?' And, long had it been, as well, since she had referred to Shane as her 'heart'...
He stopped and turned to her
then, taking her hands. To her amazement, he bent upon one knee before her.
'Thelene, beloved...' he hung his head, staring at the sand, 'Will you forgive this madness that has long held my soul frozen in ice, in fear and hate and prejudice? For I have seen into the depths of my soul and it was revealed to me thus. Indeed, I despaired of even finding that I still posessed a soul at all...'
Thelene looked upon him with awe bordering upon fear, 'Nay, Shane...stand, man! You afright me with this talk of soul-loss! Speak reusan, Yeats!' She frowned, helping him to his feet.
Stand he did, rather shakily, for his heart was in his mouth, but, thanks to her whip-words of reason, he'd a grip upon himself again. 'I've been to the Beyond and Back, Thelene, and I liked not what I beheld there.'
Thelene nodded then. 'You've been travelling the Warrior's Walk, and sure you have taken the Immram of the Ui Chorra.'
Yeats regarded her, wondering if this was good or ill.
'Know you not of it then? Ui Chorra were three brothers who in the service of hell's legion, set about plundering the churches of Connacht, in later times. After the eldest had a vision of heaven and hell, they repented and restored the churches. They set off then, in their three-skinned boat, drawing in their oars and committing their destiny to the wind...'
Threes, again, thought Yeats. But he said, 'Something very like, wise Thelene. Indeed, very like.'
'You looked into the face of the Devil himself and found that it was your own face, looking back.' She finished, feeling she now understood her man better, since he had at last come to this pass that all Warriors must face.
She studied her dear, brave and fragile mortal mate, her heart ached with shared pain for him and his hard journey.
His feet had long tread the rough roads of his Karma, his Dan, from that fateful day hence; it was a Threshold he had now crossed over, and she was glad for him.
'Be of good hope, my Old Lion...you have worked the task of Sisyphus long and long. Take your easement now; you have gained the other shore.' She took his hands in hers and held them to her, kissed them gently.
'Indeed, "peace hath her victories no less reknown than war,"' Yeats surprised even himself to be quoting Milton to Thelene. Had she seen his past and his shame and sorrow which had brought him thence?
She smiled gently upon him. 'All such: but leaves in the winds of time and here and gone.' For her Folk, the days of
men were small things, yet she did grant them their due, for the love of this One. Indeed the Gentry had long taken his tribe into their hearts as their own, as they had ever done with the bards, poets and troubadours of the Kelts.
'So now, will you ship your oars and take sail with me, on the winds of Destiny?' Thelene regarded him with serious mien. 'For our Ship sails from thence tonight, at the sun's setting.' She nodded to him, it would be thus, for her, if not for he; he saw then.
'Tonight...' he whispered. Yeats had not prepared for this, not at all. To leave it all behind, now, at this crucial crossroads...the Order, his young brothers, Jack, Aleister, Emlyn, all...the great work...
'Do you think what we do here, what I have done, to be of so little regard, Shane? You can do the work, with us, here!' It surprised him little that she knew so well his thoughts. 'But you will not be thus alone in it. I will be at your side, as you long have wished.' Thelene held his hand against her heart, and looked deep into his world-weary gaze.
'Thelene...you are taking leave of the High Council?'
She nodded. He took her hand, kissed it. 'And, you invite me with you...upon the Crystal Ship...tonight, then?'
'Yes, Shane! Must I beat you about the shoulders with it!?' she laughed then, that familiar musical sound like silver bells across a fair meadow, a sound he had long missed, and wished never to be far from again.
'Come, my Cu'Chulainn, we have need of you.'
. . . .
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