..::It would also appear that the Church knew that the Fey, or Fairies, because they participated in eternal spirit of the One, were themselves eternal, needing no forgiveness--for sins they transcended--and no priest to intercede for them to a god whose spirit they were at one with...They could see beyond time and tide and understand that their individual consciousnesses...weren't individual at all, but aspects of the one consciousness, which was eternal and did not require the salvational ministry of a Church...
...Therefore the Fey had to be eliminated in order for the Church to take over the communities and instil into them the kind of guilt and fear that encourages converts who can then be transformed into a pliant, captive consumer workforce. The Church recognised the problem and began a gradual process of demonisation, marginalisation, genocide and finally academic ridicule and incredulity::..
..::In Welsh Druidic lore the bird, (corresponding to the Ajna Chakra or pineal and pituitary glands),
is represented as the eagle, a typically shamanic totem bird which symbolises the ascendant spirit. Here the eagle is the god Llew, the father of the Elven Llewelyn Kings of Gwynnedd...
...Sythian Aryans, as the 'Danaan', settled in Eire and Scotland, whilst in Wales were known as the House of Don or the House of Gwynnedd. This house sired the line of Llewelyn Princes...::
The Dragon Legacy
Nicholas de Vere
Morning came; a wan sun barely edging onto the world through a haze of mists; the black thunderheads of the previous evening having retreated with the dawn, to regroup for renewed onslaught at another time...
Daryl had taken up residence of late within Yeats'
abandoned library loft, and today was no different; he sat upon Shane's daybed amongst the scatter pillows, (scattered on floor now as well), surrounded by books, papers and notebooks, and one other item which looked not only out of place here but out of time: The Cup.
This he would glare up at from his tomes from time to time, then resume making notes and even drawings and what appeared to be graphs as well. He'd also dragged Emlyn's makeshift espresso machine into the loft and an odd sight it made sitting on the plain wooden table next to the priceless silver Cup from beyond antiquity. A wooden bowl of apples sat between.
So engrossed was Daryl in his studies that he hadn't noticed when Emlyn entered the library and softly padded across the deep Turkish carpets, then came to stand at the loft's spiral staircase, staring up at him from below.
'Daryl?' she called, putting a tentative foot upon the wooden steps...
He jumped a bit, but was not unduly surprised. 'Up here, filla...', he replied, then returned to his transcribing.
Em smiled as she crested the loft, 'I followed my nose here...'
'Eh?' Daryl looked over her way, saw she was heading toward the espresso machine, and then she frowned and came to a stop as she beheld The Cup.
'What, are you doing, with...That?' She couldn't help but ask.
Daryl sighed and sat back, putting down his pencil.
'Actually, not a thing. Just, looking at it...' he bit his lip and picked up the pencil, began tapping it, '...have some coffee, sit down,' he suggested, frowning at her in turn.
Em did, although she was not best pleased to even come near The Cup. It seemed almost to hover, so out-of-place did it appear; the proverbial elephant in the living room would seem an intrinsic denizen most comfortably ensconced by comparison.
'You have been busy, it seems...' Em took a chair and glanced over the piles of books and papers strewn about.
'That I have.' Daryl set several books upon the floor and crossed his legs, taking up his notebook, and began tapping it with his pencil once more, gazing at Em. 'I have been going over some sadly neglected research which may give us new insight into the problem of Gwydion, and, perhaps, Morgana as well...'
Em was hardly reassured by this. 'What has the Cup to do with it, then?'
Always with the Cup, thought Daryl. 'Forget the blessed Cup...' He stood then and covered it with the velvet cloth, then handed Em a coffee and sat down with his own demitasse. Emlyn sipped her espresso quietly, but thought to herself that Daryl was grumpy enough already without more caffeine.
'So,' he began, 'you are here after escaping Gwydion on May Eve?'
Em began slowly shaking her head, 'Not my fault! Not anyone's, we truly tried...'
Daryl held a hand up. 'Filla, I am not judging! I understand, yes?' He looked at her, and his gaze softened. He opened his notebook and commenced tapping once more. 'I have found in my research, or rediscovered, really, some little-known history that connects you, and perhaps us both, with not only the Cup, but the Fay as well...'
'I don't understand. What could possibly...how?' Em was at a loss as to any connection.
'Just listen:' Daryl opened a large paperback book:
''The real 'gentry'--the Lords and Ladies--were just that: they were by blood alone, the members of a genetic strain, the Dragon and Grail families--the Fairy Blood...
'One cannot 'become' a member by initiation: a Witch, Magus, Fairy or Elf,'' Daryl looked up from his book and locked his gaze to hers. 'Now, pay attention:
''These are all terms which describe the gentry. The latter--Elf--is a word which originates from 'albi', meaning a white or 'shining one'. From albi derives the French Cathar name Albigensian =
(Albi + Gens), meaning 'of the Elven blood'
--et quid erat demonstrandum!'' Daryl shut the book.
'Let me see that!' Emlyn reached an eager hand out and Daryl hesitated, then surrendered the odd tome.
'It is a 21st century book...fringe esoterica, you understand. I had forgotten about de Vere, and Gardner...they, along with the Da Vinci Code, incited a small wave of Catholic outrage against their claims of bloodlines and such...'
Em frowned as she studied the book. 'This is all rather, ah...'
Daryl leaned forward and retrieved it. 'It is all over the map, really. The significant part I already
read to you.' Em was not mollified and, in fact, determined then and there to have a long look into this 'fringe esoterica'. Later.
'There is...another bit I noted from de Vere, however: he mentions 'the Elven Kings of Gwynedd', that is, 'the sons of the god Llew, the Llewellyn Princes'.
'Possibly there is a connection there, too; with your Welsh background.' Daryl drank off his espresso, 'I rather think that this may be so, in light of Gwydion's, ah, interest, in you.' Daryl frowned and began his pencil-tapping again.
Emlyn considered this. 'I had thought that simply because Gwydion is of the Twyleth Teg, he was a sort of genius loci of Wales...' She paused. 'This 'de Vere' you mention, the author...any relation to Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford?'
Daryl smiled, 'That he is, or was.' His grin faded.
'Yes, and who, some say, or Kit Marlowe or Ben Jonson,' Daryl waved a hand, 'or the Akon of Swat, whoever but Shakespeare, actually wrote Shakespeare. But, who knows? One thing I do know,' he rubbed his forehead, grimacing, 'especially after all this bloody research, is that, when looking into history, so-called, one may find as much to confirm a thing as to deny it, or offer an equally plausible
explanation...' he sat back, sighing.
'Yes, alas for Nicholas...his explanations, his history...but really, only his honesty, got him killed. At a relatively young age. Assassinated, it was rumored, in 2013.' He looked intently at Emlyn, 'You see where taking on the Church and the Royals will get you. So, we must take care, Em. Even now, even here.'
Emlyn finished her cup and set it upon the table. She stood then and went to the railing, surveying the stacks all around them. Books full of secrets. Apocrypha. Heresies. Truths... 'History...and honesty. A dangerous mix, that...'
Daryl nodded, 'Indeed.'
She turned back around and regarded him. 'You have appropriated Yeats' crow's nest.'
Daryl smiled. 'A good name for it.' He looked out upon the sea of books.
'And, have you heard from him at all?' Em asked casually, attempting a bit of investigation into the Mystery of Disappearing Yeats.
'"Bolt the bar and shutter
For the foul winds blow
Our minds are at their best this night,
And I seem to know
That everything outside us is
Mad as the Mist and Snow...
Horace there by Homer stands,
Plato stands below,
And here is Tully's open page.
How may years ago
Were you and I unlettered lads
Mad as the mist and snow?
You ask what makes me sigh, old friend,
What makes me shudder so?
I shudder and I sigh to think
That even Cicero
And many-minded Homer were
Mad as the Mist and Snow..."'
Daryl's head hung over his book, but he did not seem to be reading, his eyes closed now.
'That's Yeats, so it 'tis,' Emlyn commented softly, nodding once. She sighed. 'Would that I could journey there, and see William Butler's plays...' She sat upon the other end of the day bed, and took up one of the scattered volumes, paging through it slowly. 'Library poetry...' She looked up at Daryl, smiling.
'I suppose it was, yes...' Daryl moved over, not comfortable suddenly with Emlyn seated so nearby. He cleared his throat, and reached for a frosty bottle of water, 'But, no, I have not heard from him,' he frowned in thought, 'oh...since we returned with Jack, I believe.'
Em considered this. 'Where is Jack?'
Daryl regarded her, 'I'm not sure. The lab?'
Em closed her book. 'I just thought that, after last night, you know, with the music and singing, and having Athena here...who, by the way, I like very much; I believe she has a positive influence upon Jack...he likes her, that's obvious...I simply thought that, well, he seemed so much like his old self last night. It gives me hope.'
'Yes. Of course.' He stood then, swinging his legs across to the floor. 'Indeed, you and Athena appear to be becoming the best of friends. I hope I wasn't interrupting...anything...' he regarded her with one eyebrow raised in inquiry.
'Of course not, Daryl! We were pleased to have you, and Jack, join us. If only things could be so easy, always!' Em sighed, ' Will things ever be...normal, Daryl?'
Daryl couldn't help but laugh. 'Normal? Ahh...' He
looked at Em, 'What fun is that, eh?'
. . . .
Daryl soon regretted his jest, as Jack appeared below then, shutting the library's double doors behind him. Daryl looked upon him, his smile softening, and closed his eyes.
'Jack!' Emlyn called, going to the railing and waving, 'Up here!'
Jack ran a long finger along the stacks as he approached the spiral stairway. His footsteps echoed as he gained the loft, 'I smelled coffee...'
'Duly anticipated...' Emlyn was at her beloved apparatus drawing a fresh steaming jolt of caffeine for Jack, then she decided it would best be adulterated with more water, before offering cream.
'Merci...' Jack was feeling French. Em wondered why. The blessed Cup made her nervous...
Jack flopped upon the bed vacated by Daryl and began to peruse the research material adorning most of the loft space. 'Interesting...you are researching the Cathars?' He reached forward, taking an apple from the table and began to polish it on his shirt.
Emlyn glanced to Daryl and he at her; charged, electric glances. Daryl took a seat in another armchair as Em joined Jack upon the end of the daybed.
'Yes. And other histories, and variations thereof...'
Jack smiled and closed the book. 'Indeed.' He sipped his coffee gingerly. 'Last night was grand.
I do like Athena...' he looked up at Daryl, all receptive and ingenuous.
'Yes.' Daryl was glad Jack was 'coming 'round' at last, but...the lad needed to learn better defenses. 'She is, one-of-a-kind...' He smiled a slight, quick flash of a smile; a magician's trick-smile. 'You sounded good last night. Although, more practice time would stand us all in good stead...'
'Exactly what I was thinking...' Jack agreed.
'Absolutely!' Em shook her head, 'I haven't held Felix in my arms in too long!'
The men simply looked at her, saying nothing. Finally, a '"Felix"?' from Daryl.
'My mandolin.' Em blinked, 'After Mendelssohn, of course.'
Daryl smiled and gazed into his empty cup. Really, though, he'd had enough rocket fuel already; having been up and at it early despite their late night's revels. Head humming, insomnia. Espresso ever the cure for lack of sleep?
Daryl knew better...he would no doubt crash hard later.
'You know Mendelssohn wrote not only about the Faeries, but forget not his Opus 32, Melusine.'
'One of my favorites,' Jack offered, settling back comfortably, knowing of old that Uncle Daryl would soon venture into the Land of Tall Tales:
'Indeed...and this may be of interest to you, also, Emlyn, as it concerns...' Daryl nodded in the direction of the now-hooded Cup. 'You recall the motto we found written upon it?'
'"Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense?"' Emlyn did recall.
'From the Order of the Garter, you said. How does that tie in with Mendelssohn's 'Melusine'?'
Daryl was staring down at the book by de Vere. 'Yess...'he slowly raised his head, 'There is a rather, esoteric, occult meaning behind many mysteries. And, perhaps, this may be one. Alright,'
he crossed his legs and sat back with his espresso.
'First, as to Melusine, or perhaps we best begin with her mother. This was a well-known tale from the middle ages which was much translated and later popularized in 'chapbooks' about the UK...
'It tells how in the time of the crusades, Elynas, the King of Albany (an old name for Scotland or Alba), went hunting one day and came across a beautiful lady in the forest. She was Pressyne, mother of Melusine. He persuaded her to marry him but she agreed, only on the promise — for there is often a hard and fatal condition attached to any pairing of fay and mortal — that he must not enter her chamber when she birthed or bathed her children. She gave birth to triplets. When he violated this taboo, Pressyne left the kingdom, together with her three daughters, and traveled to the lost Isle of Avalon.' Daryl paused and sipped, then took an apple from the fruit bowl. He regarded it a moment.
'The three girls — Melusine, Melior, and Palatyne — grew up in Avalon. On their fifteenth birthday, Melusine, the eldest, asked why they had been taken to Avalon. Upon hearing of their father's broken promise, Melusine sought revenge. She and her sisters captured Elynas and locked him, with his riches, in a mountain. Pressyne became enraged when she learned what the girls had done, and punished them for their disrespect to their father. Melusine was condemned to take the form of a serpent from the waist down every Saturday. In other stories, she takes on the form of a mermaid.
'Raymond of Poitou came across Melusine in a forest of Coulombiers in Poitou in France, and proposed marriage. Just as her mother had done, she laid a condition, that he must never enter her chamber on a Saturday. He broke the promise and saw her in the form of a part-woman part-serpent. She forgave him. When during a disagreement, he called her a "serpent" in front of his court, she assumed the form of a dragon, provided him with two magic rings, and flew off, never to return.'
'I love it.' Jack's eyes were closed, enjoying the mindscapes within. 'And, to relate this to the Countess of Salisbury, then?'
Daryl finished his apple, and drank the rest of his demitasse. 'Ah. Well. Just this: for the temporary loss, and retrieval of a lady's garter, it would seem odd, don't you think?--to create a fraternal order about the entire, brief episode?
'One is to believe perhaps, that with courtly love, and chivalry being the order of the day, that any such act would be deemed worthy...but, surely there is more to it than that, oc?'
'Oc, indeed!' Em looked up from the Dragon Legacy book which she had been surreptitiously perusing throughout Daryl's long-winded impromptu lecture.
'It has been a long while since I've heard Occitan...Alice used to speak it at home...'
Daryl shot Em a sharp glance. 'Indeed? It would seem that there is more to our Mrs. Stein than would first appear...but, to return to our tale...
'The entire business would never have been so immortalized, if it had been any other lady's garter so unfortunately lost. However, it belonged to the Countess of Salisbury, who was also the Maid of Kent; 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci', who acted, it is said, as Queen of the Fey and the Witches in merrie olde England at that time...it was, of course, a red garter.'
'Ah!' Em shut the book, and picked up another, studying it, 'So, the king was sanctioning the countess's ah, 'moonlighting'?--is that the term, Jack?' she smiled his way.
'It's perfect,' Jack returned her grin.
'In a way, yes,' Daryl replied. 'The red garter of the witches, you see, also relates to the red belt of the Cathars.'
Jack stood, stretching. 'Well. I'm inspired anew! Back to it, then...perhaps you'll come visit the lab later, Daryl? I'm working on a healing symphony; or at least that's my hope...'
Daryl seemed lost in his own faery tales, staring into space. At last he looked up at Jack.
'Sounds wonderful. I surely shall. Later this afternoon, then.'
Jack took Emlyn's hand, kissed it and made a mock-courtly bow, 'Milady...', and off he went clattering down the spiral staircase.
'Well, it is getting on...' Em began, as she stood, and Daryl followed suit. 'You've given me much to think about, Diego.' As Daryl took apart the espresso machine to rinse it out, Em picked up a third book, Tennyson, and put it atop the other two, 'May I borrow these? Just for today?'
'Hm? Oh, yes, fine...just don't lose them...act like a librarian, would you?' Daryl waved a hand her way, concentrating on the task before him.
Em put a hand on his shoulder, making him jerk.
'Merci.' Then, down the stairs she fled, congratulating herself on having secreted the 'esoteric fringe' book of de Vere's on the bottom of her borrowed stack.
As she headed for the door, however, she could hear Daryl intoning to himself:
'"She found me roots of relish sweet
And honey wild and manna dew
And sure in language strange she said
--I love thee true"...'
WATCH AND LISTEN!
Waterboys: Mad As The Mist and Snow
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lfzL1yLh9no
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