Chapter 33 - Full Moon in Scorpio

Chapter 33 - Full Moon in Scorpio

..::The Gnostic Version(s) of the Eden Myth

 In the Gnostic view, Eden was not a paradise, but a jungle laboratory where an opportunistic race of alien parasites conducted a series of bizarre experiments in an attempt to produce a compliant strain of biped slaves.
 Banished from the stars at the dawn of time, these “archons” (Greek for “rulers”) fled to the Earth where they abducted a caveman named “Adam” and sexually assaulted his mate “Eve,” implanting both with false (or screen) memories:
 When they [the archons] saw Eve speaking with [Adam], they said to one another:

“Come, let us seize her and let us cast our seed on her, so that; those whom she will beget will serve us. But let us not tell Adam that she is not derived from us, but let us bring a stupor upon him, and teach him in his sleep as though she came into being from his rib.” [18]
Feared and worshipped as “gods” and “angels,” the Archons depend for their very existence on the energy captured and siphoned from the human nervous system via various control systems - biological and memetic thermostats which allow them to regulate the flow of information and energy through words and images, pleasure and pain:

They say that the soul is the food of the Archons and Powers without which they cannot live, because she is of the dew from above and gives them strength… [19]
Adam and Eve “fell” when the archons programmed them with prohibitions and commandments, changing them from primates living in the eternal “now” to “soft machines” - biological automata at war with their own instincts, parasitized by selfish replicators and paralyzed by double-binds:


Pushed to the brink by a mysterious talking serpent, Adam and Eve partook of the fruit and convulsed with ecstasy as the walls of the Garden fell away to reveal the larger world outside the Garden.

Like lab rats suddenly lifted out of a maze, Adam and Eve could now perceive their own situation clearly for the very first time:

Then their mind opened. For when they ate; they saw that they were naked, and they became enamored of one another. When they saw their makers, they loathed them since they were beastly forms. They understood very much…::..

                                            

                      * * * *


After much cajoling, threatening, pleading and even pushing, Em had finally been able to rouse Homer and even get some food down his goozle. It came back up in short order, too. But, after the first few eruptions, his stomach settled down with peppermint tea, and then soup could be tolerated a little at a time.
   After which, he would zone out into a coma-like sleep for hours.

But, at least he was eating something.
She knew the cannabis was helping him sleep, which was needed, and might help make him a little more easy to deal with. She was slowly 'beefing up' his soups with more vegetables and he began eating thicker stews after a few days. It was a long, slow process, but he seemed to be improving gradually.

Em was amazed at how much Homer had changed, though. He wasn't even argumentative; just moaning, 'Go away', was as bellicose as he got now.
  But, Em didn't go away.

Jethro was doing better, now that he could escape the house and head into town and round about, while Em took care of things at the homestead. His spirits were up, and he'd even gotten a haircut in town.
   'I was beginning to like your Gypsy Davey look!' she told him, brushing his forelock back.
   Jethro just smiled. 'You're a lifesaver, Em. The old man is coming back from the dead, I think. Like Dracula.'
  'Well, you do have all the bats he may ever need here,' Em replied. Jethro laughed, a real laugh this time. She had missed hearing those.

They strolled together down to the barn and Em tossed some feed to the flock...she'd seen the latest biddies grow from last year's chicks into this years's Plymouth Barred Rocks, and fine laying hens. There was something soothing about a flock of hens. They were social creatures and would follow Em about the place, sometimes roosting upon her arm as she sat reading on the porch.

'It's been helpful for me to just stay here a while with you all, at your place,' Em confessed as Jethro joined her on a hay bale. 'I'm free of my usual demands and routines, and well, it's been a nice neutral zone for me.'

'Em, you are a wonder...' Jethro shook his head. 'I can't see how patching up, cleaning up, pampering and pestering old Homer can seem at all helpful to anyone but him...but, I'm glad, nonetheless. I was about to lose my mind, here alone with him. But now, he's well enough that I think I might risk telling Doc Parsons...'

'Aleister? He is...here, still? In Pankhurst?' Em was gobsmacked. She had assumed somehow, that he'd gone off with Jack who-knew-where.

'Oh yes. He and Diana are still thick-as-thieves you know. No...it was Homer. He insisted none of his friends see him at his worst.' Jethro looked at her tiredly.
  'This left it all up to me, alone. Finally, I had to go to Marta and Ernestina; I'd had enough. He needed more help than I could give him by myself...'

Em put a hand on her friend's arm. That great bugger, Homer...  Well, so Al was still about! That was good news. 'We need a real doctor to take a look at him, not that Ernestina hasn't done her best! But Homer won't let her do a real examination...'

'Agreed. I'll head down there to Crowley Place tomorrow maybe.' Jethro decided.
  'I'll look forward to seeing Aleister again!' Em was surprised how much she wished to talk to an old friend, someone who had known her throughout all the many changes of the years, who had even known Alice...
   Still...she wondered of late, where was Jack?

                         . . . . 


                                         

A Full Moon in Scorpio shone down upon Nob Hill House.
  And an oddly clear night of no fog or cloud cover over the City by the Bay made for a bright evening of long moonshadows.
  Inside, a lone candlelit shadow passed by the study windows. It was nearing high-moon, and Daryl had made certain that he would be undisturbed this evening.

Although Daryl wasn't quite Scorpio, he wasn't quite Sagittarius either; even his birthdate of 11/22 was an in-between birth time for a man who lived neither in the past or present, or here nor there; on the 'cusp' it was called, astrologically speaking.
  Still, good enough: he felt mainly Scorpionic in most things, and he felt especially so tonight.

His birthday was fast approaching, actually. Daryl truly did not wish to be reminded; it only drew attention to the reality of being out-of-time, which he was; but to live one's life time-out-of-mind was such a challenge in itself that the less one dwelt upon the whole anomaly,
the healthier one was. Helped to keep the jackals of insanity from howling around the old brainscape.

'Right.' Daryl had allowed the fire in his study to burn down to near coals. The Cup still sat upon his desk, beside the Box to its right. Daryl had felt the Box to be more male or dexter, whilst the Cup, of course, had to be sinister, or on the left-hand or feminine side.

He pulled the shades down all along the study windows and lighted a tall white candle situated between the two objects upon the desk.
  ...Jachin and Boaz.

                                                                        

Not sure about the outcome as yet, he had endeavored to prepare for What Dreams May Come: a derringer in his vest pocket, a knife in his boot in a special sheath sewn into the side leather, firecrackers and matches had proved useful in the past, he'd found...as well as secreting a small stash of petite gold ingots in his moneybelt and a mini-taser in his longcoat, with a light length of rope, fishing line, a flask of brandy, a rain poncho which could double as a small tent, a space-blanket and various high-tech weaponry and communication and transportation devices went into a small backpack, along with, lastly, a compass.
 'So I'll know where I'm going...' Daryl whispered, wondering how it could possibly help in a situation whereof you knew nought.

'Here we go...' he breathed, stepping up to the desk, and inside the chalk circle he had drawn around it, which was also lined in a circle of salt.
  Putting his right hand upon the lid of the Box, then, with his left, grasping a handle of the Cup, Daryl took a deep breath, and began to intone Latin, in a sonorous baritone...

Almost immediately, the fire went out. As did the candle, snuffed by a ghost wind.
  As Daryl recited the incantation, the wind picked up,
blowing his hair and ruffling papers lying upon a table.
The wind began blowing harder, Daryl had to raise his voice to even hear himself speak; he spread his feet farther apart, bracing himself against the blow.

Just as he was thinking that perhaps this hadn't been such a grand idea after all, and maybe it wasn't too late to stop the ritual, the wind began to circle Daryl in the tight space within the chalk and salt perimeter, and as it blew about him, seemed to cocoon him from the feet upwards. As the whirlwind flew about his head, and covered him from tip to toe, Daryl's voice could no longer be heard, and then, a second later, he could no longer be seen...

                       . . . .

A pastoral scene greeted Daryl.
  And looking oddly familiar to him, he thought, although as yet he couldn't fathom why.

Grassy hills of manicured greenswards against a rather aquamarine blue sky hit Daryl with the brightness of a sunny summer's day. Forgot sunshades, Daryl sighed, pulling down the brim of his cap; although he was glad enough that thus far, this was only a minor regret.
  The bucolic scenery was snaked through with compact dirt pathways; copses of trees dotted the hillsides and some small wooded areas showed here and there in the distance.
 

Daryl sniffed suspiciously. Nothing. He could smell nothing of growing things, no flora or fauna, and heard nothing...no birds. No insects, no sound of wind.
  It seemed like a stage set to him. A hologram, perhaps? He decided to strike off for the wooded patch yonder.

Eventually, Daryl entered the small wood. Birch trees, a few rowan, some ash, not many...
  Daryl stopped, thinking: Birch, Rowan and Ash...Beth, Luis, and Nion.
  The first three Letters in the Alphabet of Trees. This got his spider-sense tingling, he mentally remarked to himself; an Enchanted Wood. Or someone, somewhere, whoever created this holographic world, knew a bit about the Mysteries.

A winding path led on into stands of oak and fir. Still, Daryl was uneasy, looking around and over his shoulder. It all seemed too quiet, too...unreal. He'd seen forests in Europe picked clean of firewood, but this was rather pristine. Like a golf course, somehow; it had that cultivated, artificial feel.


                                                                        

Daryl slowed his pace, but still, the only sound he heard was his own footsteps on the pathway. He stopped, gazing about him.
 Though he could hear nothing, nor see any movement, he still felt as though he were being watched.

Slowly, nervously, he resumed his pace along the path warily, with one hand hooked in his vest pocket holding the derringer.
  He had just convinced himself that he was truly all alone in this strange, unreal world when he suddenly felt a hand on his arm.
  Whipping the gun from his pocket he turned, crouching, about to face the unexpected.

Unexpected was right. But not unwelcome.
  'Athena?!' Daryl asked, straightening, as he put the gun away.

Athena looked at the gun. 'Keep it out. We're going to need it.'

                         . . . .
Hurridly, Athena took Daryl's arm and led him down a cliffside into a tumble of boulders. She gazed about her, taking stock, then eased herself along a rock wall into a slight crevice, wanting Daryl to follow.
  Easy for a thin woman, he thought, but, taking off pack and coat, he managed to wriggle through the opening.

Inside was a small cave, tall enough to stand upright, but not leading back very far that Daryl could tell. Still, it was dry and well-hidden from the outside; one didn't notice it at all.

'I can't believe you are here,'  Athena told him, looking grim. 'Jack is gone.'

Daryl certainly hadn't planned on that particular lacuna.
He glanced about and saw a rock outcrop somewhat usable as a seat. He sat.
  'Tell me. When? How?'

Athena sat on a flat boulder nearby. 'As nearly as I can estimate, he went missing about a week ago. But, Daryl, I must tell you something we discovered here, about this place.' Her beautiful tired eyes bore into his searchingly.
   He knew it. Here it would come: the snake in Paradise... 'I'm listening.'


                                                                    

'We stayed rather to ourselves at first, just to get the lay of the land and all. We observed from afar, slept in the woods and caves, ate fish. One good thing: the water is drinkable. There are some good things here, on the surface, at least, like climate control.`But, once you know otherwise...'
   'Athena: what happened to Jack?' Daryl's patience was thinning.

She frowned at him. 'I'm coming to that.' She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, sighing. 'You don't know what we've been through, here...' At last, she grasped a stick, began drawing in the dirt.
  'Alright. We observed the people here for some weeks. They do appear to live somewhat above ground; their dwellings are mostly built into the hillsides, like rammed-earth or hobbit houses, you know?'

'Not a bad sort of ecologically sound architecture,' Daryl commented.
  'Right,' Athena shot him a wry look. 'Well, there was another reason for that, we found. Their houses are all interconnected with an underground system; that's why topside, one sees no transport devices. They have a sort of rail-system also underground, subway-like. This connects all those who have access to the outside.'

'But, far below the surface, you'll find the real underground; and it is there where you'll find the pens of those who have no way out.'
   She stared, frowning at Daryl, her eyes blazing. 'This, I believe, is where Jack may be.'
   Athena leaned her head back against the cave wall.
'Daryl, the underground prisons are still in use. Nothing has changed, there. That is where the people are kept.'

'But, the people you and I, we all saw, out walking about freely...' Daryl began...
  'Those...were NOT people, Daryl.' Athena sat up, her eyes bright with tears.
  Daryl stood, came over to Athena, sat beside her, taking her hands. 'Tell me.'
  'It took a little while, but we could tell there was something a bit 'off' about them. They seemed...' she waved a hand off in the distance, '...like the rest of this place: a little too perfect? Too pristine. Unreal.'

'Did they speak English?' Daryl tried to remain practical.
  'They did. Later we found they were programmed with many languages. They were not humans, but a mixture of hybrids with cloned replicants, as in Bladerunner. The hybrids are a mix of various alien races with human. Oh, it had been centuries in the making, this takeover from within...'

'What do you mean, exactly, Athena?'
'What I mean, Daryl, is this: this is not our timeline.
Not 2076. All this here, is post-post-apocalyptic. Daryl,
here, it is 2101. The twenty-second century.'
  Athena studied him, pain in her eyes. 'And humanity,
has lost the planet.'

                         . . . . 

Daryl didn't know what to think. Focus on Jack.
  'When did you last see Jack?'

Athena sighed, staring off toward the crack in the cave wall. 'About a week ago. He said he was going to try to blend in and find a way to get groceries and maybe medical supplies, if needed. He headed for the nearest settlement,' she inclined her head westward, 'but he never returned. It is my belief, that he was found out, and is now being kept below.'

'I wonder...' Daryl mused, '...What do they keep the people for then? Slave labor?'

'Oh, yes. As always.' Athena regarded him seriously, 'This has always been a prison planet, Daryl. Think of it: we all have only been slaves, wage slaves. And when computers took over, we became slaves to machines. These so-called Hybrid Overlords, are more machine than bioenginering. When a machine becomes smarter than the people, is there a contest at all as to who will win?'

Daryl sighed. Where was the High Council in all this? Or the renegade warriors of Axelis and Yeats and Thelene's rebel faction? Bugger it, Daryl decided...if they had ever had any power to offer aid, surely it would have come long before all of this happened...

'But I don't think that is Jack's fate,' Athena continued matter-of-factly, 'I think they want him for...something else.'

'His mind...' Daryl frowned, clinching his fists.

Athena shook her head. 'Oh, no. Not even Jack's beautiful mind. No, a human mind is too primitive for them. They would only wish to use it for some base electrical experimentations. A meat machine...
  'No. What they'd want from Jack...is in his genes.'

Daryl turned a pained look upon Athena, who had now risen. She took his hands, 'And, of course, yours also.'

                          . . . .


WATCH LISTEN AND LEARN!!
"It Ain't Necessarily So"
Satchmo and Ella

Chapter 32 - Land of the Lost

Chapter 32 - Land of the Lost


..::There is a land across the sea
    where things are kept
    that were lost...
  ..lost keys, lost loves, lost wits..
    and people who have lost them
    come to find them
    but sometimes they find
    they have not missed them::..

                       . . . .

Such a one did I meet, good sir,
Such an angelic face
Who like a nymph, like a queen, did appear
In her gait, in her grace.

She hath left me here alone,
All alone, as unknown,
That sometime did me lead with herself
And me loved as her own...


-- Holy Land of Walsinghame





                                                               

                                                       


                                                                     
                       * * * *


'I knew there was something different about Samhain this year.'
  Emlyn, once more, was bumping along the dirt road leading back up into the hills from whence she had just departed; seated beside Marta now, they were heading up country to Guano Acres as Jack had
named it; a hidden cave on the property served as a 'mine' for making 'bat bombs' out of the potassium nitrate rich bat dung.

Here in the Guevara's small cart, were the ingredients for Homer's treatment; fresh vegetables, fruit and herbs for that irascible gent's hopeful recovery.
  'I didn't see Jethro there,' Em confessed, rubbing the dust from her eyes. 'Idiota that I am, I simply tried not to dwell on it and turned my thoughts away and back to my old obsessions...'


'Em...don't blame yourself! A waste of energy best turned to positive thoughts and actions for Homer's well-being, no?' Marta, of course, was spot-on with her comment.
  'You have been busy elsewhere. And, truly, we did not hear of his illness until recently, when Jethro came by.'

'His symptoms?' Concentrate on the practical and helpful.


'Difficult to diagnose, there are many conditions that all have similar symptoms. A low fever, no energy...it is strange seeing Homer without his old irascibility! And, no appetite. That is the strangest thing of all...' Marta looked worried, though she spoke lightly.
  'Complications from his...lifelong abuse of the temple of his body! He has desecrated his temple.'


At last, they heard the belling of the hound pack as they crested the rise and were met by an assortment of redbones, bloodhounds, a couple of black and tans, mixed breeds and an import from back east, the new breed of American foxhound, and...even a curious young pig, Em noted with small surprise.


Their escort loped, or trotted, along beside them, tails at the wag, having recognised Marta and her cart and steed. Em wondered if any of the old dogs still knew her after all this time, but she shouldn't have worried. Scent is an indelible marker amongst beasts and humans both.

Em was helping Marta unload the cart, just as she heard the screen door slam; and there stood Jethro, stuffing in his shirt tail and thumbing his braces up over his shoulders.
  He ran a hand through his dark locks, thick and longish with wild curls now like a gypsy lad, thought Em. He looked younger, thinner, but she detected dark hollows about his eyes and his smile seemed a pale shadow lacking his usual exuberance.

She took her basket of goods and setting it down before him, embraced Jethro hard and long. He sighed and looked over her shoulder, shaking his head.
  'I was wondering if you would come...'
  Em held him apart, looking into his eyes.
 'Of course. I'm here now, yes?' She attempted a smile.

Jethro just nodded, then went to aid Marta. 'This is the lot, Jethro,' she told him, handing him a basketful.
 'We must get him to eat something nourishing! No fats, and, diosa! -- nothing fried! Fresca, not frijoles!'

Em picked up her own basket and followed them into the kitchen. While Marta began work on a soup, Jethro took Emlyn to the back rooms where she could hear a soft snoring.
  Staring down at her old friend Homer, Em couldn't fathom such a change in so short a time: he looked nearly half a Homer's worth in weight now; but he seemed to have lost muscle as well. Loose skin made his face look old and sallow, and dark shadows marked his cheekbones and eye sockets.

Emlyn endeavored not to show how Homer's changed state affected her, and merely bent an ear to his chest to better listen to his heartbeat and breathing. She lightly felt his forehead; hot and damp. After some moments, she looked at Jethro and motioned him out with her and back to the kitchen.



                                                                     

Marta had a good chicken stock going, adding: carrots, celery, three different kinds of greens, and herbs:
  '...Feverroot, tumeric, borage, cilantro, cumin, cannabis, comfrey, sage, thyme, wormwood, and muy importante: milk thistle!'
   Marta displayed a muslin bagful of the healing herbs before dropping it into the pot.
  'I will make a tea now, and this you will have him drink at least thrice a day.' Marta regarded Jethro and Em.     'Emlyn, pay attention: write all this down, if you must...'


Em did, noting that this was where the ginseng and Chinese herbs came in, along with others which she recognised: goldenseal and catmint, bergamot and ginger, rue and yarrow...and, of course, the milk thistle made an encore appearance.
  As the tea brewed, Marta handed Em a sage bundle.
'Burn this and smoke him, as soon as he is strong enough for it.'



'Well, that's all I have time for, today,' Marta told them as she headed back out to the cart. 'I have other patients to see. Homer is in good hands, now...' She smiled at Em as Jethro helped her into the seat and she took up the lines. 'His body needs time to heal and repair. Have good hope!
  'I'll be back in a week, no? Perhaps Ernestina will have time for a visit then as well. She may find something I cannot as yet see and may recommend an additional course of treatment. Til then: Soup. Tea. Rest. Sleep is the great healer.'

Emlyn and Jethro waved her off as the pig-and-hound escort saw Marta to the gate.
   Em put an arm about Jethro's waist. He sighed, frowning at Marta's dusty retreat.


'I'll stay on here, as long as you like, Jethro,' Em told him, looking up at her old friend's face, much changed and weary with worry.
  Jethro tried a smile, but it became a grimace. He looked down at her.
  'That'd be a mercy, Em,' he said at last, as they turned back for the house.


Emlyn's heart went out to her old friend as she watched his shoulders hunched forward, head down as he scuffed along. She put a hand on his shoulder. 'The soup will have to simmer for an hour at least. Homer will sleep for a while now?'
  Jethro nodded.
  'Is the creek still running?'
  He looked out and over the treeline at the bottom of the hill. 'It is, barely.'
  'Let's go see...' She took her friend's hand and they
walked down to the creekside together.

                            . . . .

Meanwhile, at Nob Hill House...
 
Daryl sat at his desk in the study, leaning back in the old oaken padded and studded desk-chair, boots on desk; studying the objects displayed on the desktop before him:
  The Cup, which he had brought with, naturellemente; and beside it, The Box, recently acquired with many sincere assurances to St.John, of Daryl's sworn oath of utter ignorance of where, who or how he had come by it's ownership. This, coupled with liberal greasing of St.John's ever-ready palm with silver procured him the Box and a pair of raw emeralds which Daryl was having cut, polished and set into silver filigree earrings for Yvonna.


For it was Yvonna; and her excellent dinners, which had successfully greased the wheels of many of Daryl's commercial deals over the years. To remain in that capricious lady's good graces did behoove him.


What to make of this fine and enigmatic artefact, though?
Daryl consulted his almanacs and decided that tonight would be fairly propitious for ceremony.
  Tonight, the moon would be in his sign of Scorpio, and Daryl bethought that favorable. Closing his almanac, he stood at last, stretching, and intoned:

              'The Moon's my constant mistress
                And the lonely owl my marrow,
                   The flaming drake
                 And the night-crow make
                 Me music to my sorrow...'


                         . . . .


The creek was down to a near-trickle. Well, it was summer's end...but still, Emlyn had not seen it so low in recent recollection.
   'It isn't as I remember, I must say.'



'No,' Jethro agreed, 'but then, nothing is as we remember anymore.' He looked at Em then, for perhaps the first time. 'You look well enough, Em.'


'We missed you at Samhain,' Em lied smoothly. She returned his searching gaze with one of her own.
  'Did you now?' The newly wary, guarded Jethro was back. He took a seat on a warm boulder beside the softly trickling creek.

                                                                            

Em sighed and sat down beside him, removing her shoes.
Dangling her feet in the small waterfall, she told herself to be patient.
  'Did you even say a word to Allyn? Or Sean, at least?'   Em couldn't very well tell her old friend that she had been kidnapped back to Massachusetts, and had only just managed it back.
  Not to mention everything else...

Jethro tossed pebbles in the creek. 'No.' He ran a hand through his hair. 'It's been too crazy. Ole Homer looks pitiful now, but he was like a bear with a sore ass, sorry, Em...but, you know how he gets. He only got real sick here just the past week or so...' He sighed once more.
  'At least he's sleeping now. You should've seen him before...' Jethro shook his head. 'Not pretty.'


'You did the right thing telling Marta and Tina, Jethro!' Em was getting an idea as to what Jethro was inferring.
  'Herbs can help...there are a lot of things, treatments that could help. Maybe the worst is over.'


Jethro looked at her, his gypsy curls over one eye.
  'No, Em, you don't...see, still. I think he's done himself in with all his hard-drinkin' and awful eating habits, you know how he is! I try to cook with corn oil and such but he's a lard man...' He tossed his handfull of pebbles.
  'Ah, that's nothing really. It's the hooch. It's killin' him, Em. He'll go goddam yella and die if he keeps on....'

Emlyn didn't know Homer was that far gone. She was so used to him, always just 'being Homer'.
  'He can change, Jethro. He will have to. We can cure him.'

'Kill or cure,' said Jethro, standing. He held out a hand to Em. She arose, dusting her skirts.
  'I'm gonna destroy that dam still...' Jethro was looking over across the meadow and beyond.


'There's plenty of other things this farm can produce,' Em took his arm as they climbed the hill back to the house. 'Corn. You could make your own bio-fuel, and sell it. Remember Jack and Al's steam thresher?'

'Sure do. Where is Jack?'
  Jethro didn't know.
  Neither did Em. 'I don't know.' She paused. 'But he would want to know about Homer. I'll send messages tomorrow...you can take them to town and take a break. I'll stay here with Homer.'

'Thanks Em.' He smiled a near-genuine grin then. 'He's over the shakes, and he isn't sick as much as he was.
Seems like he rarely wakes up, though. Won't eat. It's scary.'
 
They reached the ridge-top and looked out over the hills toward the sunset, hazy in late-summer heat still, no breeze.
   'See if you can get him to eat something, will you, Em? I bet he would do it for you.' Jethro squeezed her hand.

'I'll have him fat and sassy again, you'll see.' Emlyn
looked up at Jethro, then took him into a close embrace.
  'You're not alone, alright?' She hugged him harder.
   Jethro sighed; a soft sigh of relief.

Emlyn took his hand again. 'C'mon. I bet the soup is about done now.'
  Hand-in-hand, they walked that sunset trail back home.
                           
                          . . . .

Chapter 31 - Bay Daze

Chapter 31 - Bay Daze


                                                                 
                             


..::The legend of the Quest for the Holy Grail became known exoterically in the 12th century AD, in Europe; but it was known in esoteric schools long before...
  In Wolfram von Eschenbach's Parsifal we read about a certain man called Kiot, a Master of astronomy, who found in Spain a book written in Arabic characters by Flegetanis, "the first who wrote on the Grail".
  But Flegetanis was a heathen; he was said to be of the lineage of Solomon, and to have worshipped god in the image of a calf::..

Eleanor Merry
The Flaming Door

                              . . . .

"According to the "Prieur'e documents," then, the Merovingians were descended, via Arcadia, from the Tribe of Benjamin.
  ...The Tribe of Benjamin took up arms on behalf of the followers of Belial -- a form of the mother goddess often associated with images of a bull or calf. There is reason to believe that the Benjamites themselves revered the same deity...It is also worthy of note that one of the clans of the Tribe of Benjamin was the clan of Bela.
  In Arcadia the cult of the mother goddess not only prospered but survived longer than in any other part of Greece."

Baigent, Leigh and Lincoln
Holy Blood, Holy Grail

                               . . . .

..::Gerard de Sede, in a remarkable book called La Race febuleuse, claims that the Merovingians were descended from matings between extraterrestrials from Sirius and the Tribe of Benjamin in ancient Israel, and other notions about them are equally remarkable::..


                                                                              * * * *

The day was fading into a soft sunset on Russian Hill as fog slowly inexorably crept in on little chicken feet like Baba Yaga's house invading the dinner hour.


At a nondescript shopfront, where, outside, it appeared to be closed for the evening; inside, towards the rear of the building, patrons were parting beaded curtains and gathering for a respite from the fog and encroaching chill of approaching autumn's long fingered darkness to come.

As a casual band of musicians gathered in a slightly high risen stage corner, smoking cigarettes and chatting, taking tea in small delicate glasses held in etched bronze bases, or vodka in same, the curtains in back parted to admit a tall man with longish dark hair in a shadow of an overcoat and tartan scarf, accompanied by a shorter broader older gentleman whose presence exuded an air of both watchfulness and laisseze-faire with an equal mix of menace and amusement.


A waiter approached the two, and upon recognising the tall man, held out his hand smiling, and pumped theirs as he then led them to a slightly more discreet location in a corner booth. They removed their topcoats and settled in with their order just as the musicians began to play a sinuously winding melody in a soft minor key.


'So. You are still doing...business, in the south?' St.John inquired as his eyes darted continuously about the cafe', taking stock of the patrons and noting the exits, no doubt, Daryl remarked to himself. St.John did not sit with his back to an entrance, but then, neither did Daryl.

Daryl nailed him with a glance. 'Not so much. I was there to get the ball rolling is all. Ah, 'business' proceeds well enough on its own now.'
  Daryl knew St.John was aware of his revolutionary concerns south of the border; Daryl had provided the capital; what the Constitutionalist Army wished to put it to use for he did not ask. He knew without knowing. And, apparently, Villa was doing fine on his own, by all accounts.
  Sometimes, but rarely, Daryl-as-Diego missed his soirees in Sonora.


'That's good to know.' St.John flicked a half-cocked eyebrow of some might and not a little shade Daryl's way. 'I'd heard rumor of your being held in a prison and near-execution, it was said. But, apparently it hasn't done you any lasting harm.
  'Ah, the devil takes care of his own, they say!' St.John leaned back against the booth's corner, arms spread along the padded sides.


'And you, old friend? Still beating the bushes for whatever ark or graal may fly out of them?' Daryl murmured behind a finger draped casually across his lips.


St.John shot Daryl a narrow look, but then his scowl was transformed into raised brows and a smile of sheer delight as Yvonna approached, her blonde radiance piled into curls gathered atop her head giving her statuesque figure yet more loftiness as she slowly languorously made her way to their table bearing a tray of cognacs and a bottle of riesling.


St.John fairly leapt from his seat, as Daryl followed somewhat slower, a wry grin upon his face. Yvonna ignored Daryl as St.John gallantly took the tray from her to table and waved her into his seat, seating himself beside her.
  'And who IS this last vestige of chivalrous and gentle men?' Yvonna deigned to flash Daryl an inquiring look before turning back to St.John who had captured her hand and was bent upon lightly favoring it with a soft kiss.
  Yvonna was unhappy with Daryl, he knew. He had, as usual, left without a word and stayed gone too long. As usual.

'Yvonna, my sweet, allow me to present Mr., ah...St.John,' Daryl pronounced it in the English as "Sinjin".


St.John then proceeded to murmur what sounded like sugared sentiments of hushed Russian endearments against Yvonna's ear, whilst that lady chucked throatily and nodded, agreeing, 'Da, da...'


Daryl popped his cork.

 

Literally; as he had taken the liberty of grabbing the bottle of wine and freeing it for the pouring.
  'Something wet to cool you down a bit, perhaps?' Daryl offered smoothly, holding glasses out to his erstwhile 'friends', now busily ignoring him in favor of each other.


'Ah, merci, mon ami!' St.John grabbed both glasses, passing one to Yvonna. 'To beauty!' He raised his glass to her.
  Daryl rolled his eyes and clicked his glass to theirs, drinking. 'To beauty...' he murmured into his wine, wondering if taking St.John here had been such a good idea. He had wanted a little private dinner and a lot of conversation, with much forthcoming on St.John's part, hopefully.
  Thus far, however...

'Yvonna, darling, so how have you been?' Daryl finally managed to crowbar his way into the conversation.


Yvonna remained facing St.John, smiling into his eyes as he was into hers. Slowly she half-turned Daryl's way. 'Oh, I? I have been vonderful, dahlink! Marvelous, indeed, yes...'
She turned back to St.John. 'And vere have you been hidink zis lovely gentleman?'

'I have only been awaiting your notice, Madame...to bring my light out from beneath my bushel,' St.John released her hand finally, and leant against the seat, one arm draped proprietarily behind Yvonna.
  'Do you think you might just shift your 'bushel' over a bit?' Daryl asked, scowling at St.John who had been inching ever closer to Yvonna between them. 'I'm rather clinging to the edge here, you know...'


Yvonna lifted her chin and gave Daryl a withering glance before rising. 'Far be it that you would be clinging my way! I must see to the crepes. I'll leave you 'gentlemen',' she looked incredulously at Daryl, 'to your conversation.'  She turned to St.John, who had busily scurried up and was back at her hand once more, escorting her from the booth.
  'Until later, then, perhaps,' he told her huskily, as his eyes narrowed like Napoleon's contemplating capture of the pyramids.


The two men reseated themselves and poured more wine just as a waiter bore down upon them with a first course of a steaming basket of freshly baked onion and rosemary bread, bunches of red and green grapes, oysters and caviar, with two small glasses and a bottle of vodka on ice.
  'Ah. Our vigilant hostess is a fountain of mercy indeed...' St. John helped himself to the vodka and oysters, '...to minister thus unto our pitiable state of privation...'


'By the looks of your 'bushel', you have not 'privated' very much, old boy...' Daryl couldn't help himself; really old St.John was pouring the oil on rather fulsomely, even for him.

'A good beginning makes a good ending, Old Boy...' St.John
merrily blitzed through the caviar and biscuits, and the vodka, Daryl noted. Best get to business before he's past all redemption. 'Your lady friend has rather a nice set-up here. Her import connections are first rate, going by their freshness...'


'They're going, all right...' Daryl dipped a biscuit-full of the smoky rarity while he still could.
  '...And speaking of imports...'


'Yes, yes...' St.John sat back at last, and switched to cognac. 'The, ah...item concerned.' His small swift eyes spanned the room once more. He took forth a silver cigarette case from his inside pocket and scanned the space behind him in its reflection. 'Cigarillo?' Daryl shook his head.
  'It came to me from a certain contact I have in Spain, actually,' St.John continued, lighting up. 'Near the French border.  He claims to have eh, 'encountered' the item at an old Templar church on the road to Santiago...'

Daryl's ears pricked up. 'He was not a pilgrim, himself, though, this contact?' He kept his voice steady, casual. This sounded too good to be true, he thought. Best go slowly, and try to remain calm...


'Hardly.' St.John blew blue smoke from his nostrils with an air of disdain. 'He was a 'gentleman of the road', but not in any ecclesiastical sense. Ah!'

St.John's features brightened as their waiter returned with a large tray bearing a whole salmon, baked potatoes with yogurt and sour cream, and whole corn on the cob. A covered dish of black-eyed peas and mustard greens seemed to provoke Daryl into weird raptures far beyond that which their humble presence usually inspired.
  Daryl sighed with pleasure. 'It would seem Yvonna has forgiven me,' he murmured to himself.


'Eh, quite,' St.John dismissed Daryl's oddities as being another one of those strange 'American things', and stubbing out his smoke, tucked into the repast foregoing Daryl's much revered dish, and concentrating on the basics.

At last, their hunger somewhat slaked, Daryl poured a tad more wine and hoped that St.John would be well-lubricated enough now to wax loquacious without wandering wildly off subject.
  'So, your man in Spain, then. Is he here now, in the City?' Daryl hoped.

'Ah, who? Oh, no, no...he is off again. Actually, I believe he is Brazilian. Mostly just flits to and from Portugal. But he does get about on occasion...' St.John's gaze seemed to focus now upon the kitchen doors and keen hope of the reappearance of Yvonna no doubt, Daryl noted.


'Did he...mention any of the properties of the item?' Daryl enquired. 'Ahem. St.John? This Brazilian?'
   'Eh? Ah, well, now, let me see...' St.John, the old rascal, proceeded to drag out the show somewhat, again reaching for his cigarette case, eyeing the scene behind him before lighting up.
  'Yess...' Smoky sibilant affirmation was born away on a cloud, as the 'lovely gentleman' continued with the history of his latest purloined property. 'He did mention a most peculiar eccentricity of the thing. One which I, myself, have witnessed and can indeed, confirm.'

'Would this be the way in which the thing changes it's age?' Daryl had leapt upon that little crumb dropped by St.John as though it were the last matzo ball in the soup.


'Ah, noted that slip, did you?' St.John frowned, with a grin. He exhaled, cleared his throat, tapped some ash.
  'Odd thing; when he brought it to me at first, it seemed almost new. This of course, put me off at once! I've no truck with the modern, as you know. But, I do trust this particular source; known him for many years and, at least as far as business is concerned, I trust his opinions...
  'Well, I agreed to hold it for a time, as he explained that the item would...change, you see.'




'And it did?' Daryl prodded.
  St.John's eyes flickered about. 'Indeed. When I next beheld the item, it was weathered and seasoned as if by centuries! Still intact, mind you! But, with wood...corners were worn, some inlay was loose...but even if one were to shine it up, still it would not have come anywhere near to the pristine state in which I first beheld it.' St.John stubbed out the cigarillo.
  'So I purchased it. And, I have found, that, over time, although the item itself changes, it doesn't actually 'go' anywhere, that I have seen. It is never disappeared. Always remains in the same place. Sometimes older, sometime newer.'


Daryl was becoming nearly beside himself with excitement, which he hoped was hidden behind a suitable poker face.
  'A rara avis, indeed...' Daryl remarked evenly, looking to the kitchen now as well, as though he had other things on his mind. 'Still, one wonders to what use such a thing could be put? It has no other qualities? Have you noticed any effect upon the observer, yourself, for instance?'


'Not really,' St.John raised heavy brows, matching Daryl's casual demeanor. 'As you say, it is an oddity. Perhaps, not worth mentioning...'  He drained his glass of wine.
  'Some dessert, perhaps...?' His eyes were trained upon the kitchen now, too.


'Why not?' Daryl raised a hand, and the waiter, who had been chatting with the balalaika player, scuttled back to the table and cleared the dinner things. Daryl bespoke certain suggestions in his ear then sat back with an air of satisfaction.


'Anything other acquisitions of note?' Daryl saw St.John frowning then. Obviously he had hoped to pique Daryl's interest with the Box alone.
   'A few items. Not sure if they're quite along your avenue of research...' His eyes strayed back to the kitchen where, at last, and on cue, Yvonna reappeared, carrying glasses and a bottle of port.


As now was expected, St.John hefted himself, with rather less alacrity than the first heft; and motioned Yvonna into his well-warmed seat.
   Daryl took the wine opener. 'Allow me,' he leaned his upper body toward her, at the same time holding the port to port, as it were, and let fly.
  Pouring glasses for three, he handed Yvonna hers. 'Do join us, cherie. Surely you can spare a minute now for your old friend.' He fixed her with a smoldering look.


Yvonna was mollified and feeling much friendlier by now, and was persuaded into showing equal attention to both 'gentlemen'.
  'But do not let me interrupt! Continue, please.' She sipped her wine daintily, lashes aflutter.

'Speciba,' St.John's look matched Daryl's smolder with a slow burn. 'I was just telling my old friend about a certain cache of jewelry I recently had the good fortune to acquire from South America...an emerald to rival the brilliance of your lovely eyes, ma chere'...'

Talk of jewels and jewelry trumped all, in Yvonna's game.
  'Oh? Indeed?!' She glanced at Daryl. 'Are you interested in this gem, my little onion?'
  'I may be. My little artichoke,' Daryl parried. She could be a prickly one. But tasty; well worth it once you made it past the sharp points.


'It would be truly a delight if you would perhaps, deign to allow me the honor of bringing these recent acquisitions by for your perusal...purely as an indulgence to me. Sometime you may find yourself with a few moments wherein you would be amenable to whiling away some time with an old wizard such as myself, perhaps?'
  Oh, that St.John was a sly old fox, Daryl sighed.

Yvonna was no babe in the woods, however. 'Why that sounds delightful, St.John! Doesn't it, Daryl, my little horseradish?'

Daryl agreed it did indeed, much to St.John's consternation.  The waiter then came bearing a tray of cheeses and fruit, and a small Sacher Torte, cut into threes.
   'Perfect for a cosy company such as ours,' Yvonna dished up the torte, which was heaven on the tongue. 'Nothing like just a taste of it's sweet delight! This leaves you wanting more, always...' She finished off her last bite with a flick of her small pink tongue, then betook their plates and herself off with lowered lashes and a smile.

Daryl and St.John watched her figure exit the floor with the sashaying hips of a seasoned actress whilst somehow remaining as light upon her feet as a ballerina, which she had been, back in St.Petersburg.
    'Emeralds...would pale next to her...' St.John growled into his port, never taking his eyes from her.


Daryl, alas, had to agree. How, indeed, had he managed to stay away from the City for so long?




                                            . . . . . . . . . . . . .

                           . . . Strange indeed, after all this time...

Em found herself back in Pankhurst with a couple of hours to spare until her train west to the City was due. Although she had managed to leave Mrs. Murphy's under the cover of a cool near-dawn twilight, she still had not escaped her landlady's eagle eye and convincing her that she truly would be returning and not to worry had taken more time planned. At least she knew to pay months in advance now. And not to leave the house without 'tay and a biscuit'.


Still, Em had arrived in her old stomping grounds none the worse for wear, saving a sore seat, from the six-hour stagecoach ride in.
  She'd taken a spot of lunch at noon, and was wandering about the shops until train-time, when, perusing the Chinese herbal shop, she bethought she beheld a familiar silhouette purchasing a bag of herbs.
  It can't be, she thought; it's never...
  '-- Leon?!'


It was he! Leon Guevara whirled about, equally stunned to see Em.
  'Em! Is it really you? Where have you been?!' He came to her and took her into a brotherly embrace.

'I? Where have YOU been? How are you? How is Tina, and Marta? And...Marco...?' Em was practically stuttering, as she took her old friend's hand and led him outside to a bench.


'We have been here, Em.' Leon studied her closely. He sighed. 'We have all wondered about you. Such rumors about your disappearance!' His gaze searched her face wonderingly. 'But, we are all fine. How are you, then?'

'Fine as well. I'm living in the foothills now, north.' Em smiled at him, amazed at this fruitful synchronicity.
  'You are all back in town then, to stay?'

'We have been here, yes, nearly a year now. With no problems.' He paused, peering at her seriously. 'At least, not with our family. Em, you haven't heard about Homer?'

Emlyn started. 'Homer? What happened?'

'That is why I'm here...' Leon proffered his bag. 'Ginseng, and other herbs...for Homer. I'll be dropping them off at home, then mama, Marta, is heading up the hill to take a look at him. Ernestina, is back at work at the clinic, I must pick her up later. But, he's...not doing so well, Em.'

Emlyn bit her lip. She made up her mind then.
  'May I come with you, Leon? I think I will go with Marta then, if I may, to see Homer.'

Leon smiled and squeezed her hand. 'A very good idea. And mama will love to see you.'

                          . . . .

Chapter 30 - Soror Mystica

Chapter 30 - Soror Mystica


"'My name is Charles...Charles of Glastonbury, at your service." He bowed his head.
  'I want you to know that I think you are one of the most beautiful young women I have ever met.'

I started to blush, and he said, 'No, no. Do not be shy. What I have to tell you is truthful and important.'

'What do you mean, Charles?'

'I am a wizard. I am a man of power in the ancient way of Wyrrd.  To do the work that I must do on this earth, I can never be married. I could never ask you to be my wife.'

I was stunned. I thought to myself -- can he read my mind? Does he know how deeply in love with him I am?

'We know these things because, whether  you believe it or not, we have been together in many lifetimes. One day, not in this life, but in another, I will come to you on a black stallion and carry you away to become your spirit husband.

                             

                                    Postman



 But in this lifetime we have much work to do. We must be careful you and I, because to lose each other would be a tragedy. To lose ourselves in each other would also be a tragedy.'"

Woman of the Wyrrd
Lynn V. Andrews

                       . . . .

 "There in the Gaelic tongue the prayers and songs rose and fell, with a Christian overlay, to the unflagging devotion to Sophia, first called Brith (or Brid), then St. Brigid, the Mary of the Gael....

What Sophia offers is a view of the earth beyond the ego's arrogance, an empirical experience, at long last, of the Holy all about us...

The presence of the feminine is essential to the masculine for spiritual rebirth, and vice versa. Even the alchemist required a soror mystica, a mystical sister, to perform the opus."

Alice O. Howell
The Dove in the Stone

                          . . . .

                        
And a right gorgeous day it was in San Francisco Bay; the sun had chased the fog across the hills cornering it for the nonce, but it knew it would escape and return later. The waterfront, ship-shape,  glistened and sparkled, seagulls cried and swooped about fishermen who sold their catch straight from their boats in harbor. ('Madonna, the mess! Blasted birds...')
 
Aye, a fine day for some business, Daryl bethought as he strode past the trawlers and touristas, heading farther down the Esplanade past the ships to the hulking warehouses along the piers.
  Taking a deep breath of salt air, coughing, Daryl pulled his hat lower against the sun and wind. This was more like it, he told himself; time to get back into the swim of things.





Musing thusly in other vaguely nautical terms, Daryl pulled up at the last pier beside a small inlet where stood an old much-weathered warehouse like all the others. After locating what passed as a front door, Daryl knocked a tattoo upon it: three long, three short, three long again.

    He waited awhile, pulling his scarf tighter against the wind and glancing about him. Finally, shuffling steps sounded behind the door and keys turned, bolts shot, and at last it swung creaking slowly open ala a James Whale epic...





Daryl entered, locking the door behind him. Inside was rather dark despite the upper area consisting of mostly windows; most were so caked with grime no light showed through.
  As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he made out a figure shuffling away from him, waving a hand.
  'Come! Come, I've been expecting you!'





Daryl caught up with the man as he rounded a wall stacked with what appeared to be large paintings, mostly covered by sheets, but here and there a dusty gilt frame and bit of the oils showed through.
  And, behind that wall, was a larger version of Daryl's Antique Shoppe.

Stacked cheek-by-jowl like meat in a butcher's freezer were rows and rows of armoires, chests, credenzas, chifforobes and canterburys, sideboards, lamps, hutches, chairs and chesterfields, davenports and duchesses, lowboys and whatnots...

Daryl snaked through the narrow aisle betwixt them, trying not to lose his elusive host. He could hear the shuffling steps still, and knew his quarry hadn't gotten far.
  
He couldn't help becoming distracted, however, by the oddities stacked here and there on and about the furniture; a lamp shaped like a caduceus, complete with serpents entwined and a radiant solar cross pinnacle, intricately carven chests bearing insignia of the Lily and the Rose, alabaster jars etched with winding labyrinths, what appeared to be a game board designed in the Tree of Life motif, wooden boxes containing the golden glint of jumbled grave goods...

At last, detecting the scent of strong tea, Daryl followed his nose to the back of the room where a small space was designated as a closet-kitchen, with a compact sink and stove.
  Amidst all the great pile of priceless antiquarian treasures hovered his host at a rickety wooden table, attempting to pour tea for two into fine, delicate chipped china cups.
  'Allow me, please, St.John; do take a seat...' Daryl rounded the table just in time to right a cup before it tipped over.

'So! What brings you back from the Netherworlds?' Was St. John's comment as he sat heavily onto a rather unsteady Chippendale.

Daryl took his tea and sipped, staring about him for a time, before he finally sat across from the man. He then eyed St.John closely; hadn't seen him for at least a year, he reckoned...not much the worse for wear, he still appeared bright of eye and bushy of brain; his long white hair stood out in a aureole about his tanned reddish face etched with many weather-worn lines of experience. Wizened, thought Daryl. Although to tag him: 'wizard', would  not be far off the mark; along with 'knave', 'reprobate', or 'scoundrel'...not to mention, 'thief'.

Daryl looked down, stirred his tea. 'Oh, you know me...I can never stay away long. Duty calls; business to attend to.'
  St.John raised bushy dark eyebrows. 'Duty calls, eh?'
He raised a finger, regarded Daryl, then leaned over to rummage about in a crate upon the floor. 'I believe I may have something in your line of enquiry...let's see here...'

'Ah! This is it...' St.John straightened, hauling with him a heavy cloth-wrapped item. Setting it between them, he unveiled what seemed to be a small wooden chest, with finely detailed carvings and a golden script etched in delicate lines about it.
  Daryl leaned over, inspecting it closely. 'Nice artwork. Well tooled. How old?'
  'Oh, hard to say. It keeps changing, you see...' St.John smiled slightly behind his hand.

Daryl shot him a look, but rather than fire off questions, he simply bent closer to the box and took out his spyglass.
'Haven't you any light in this mausoleum?' he growled.

'Ah, only the light within...Sol Invictus!' St.John declared as he reached up and unlatched a chain on the wall which loosened a chandelier above the table and brought it swiftly down and jerked to a stop just above Daryl's head, Phantom of the Opera style. St.John clicked on the lamp with a slight grin as Daryl had flung himself backward.

'Thank you.' Daryl sighed, pulling himself together and blinking at the radiance now dueling with the surrounding murk, and returned to his task.

'Hm...most interesting!  There appears to be Hebrew writing along the bottom...as well as Persian script. Also, some German phrases...and Greek.' Daryl frowned as he turned the chest around and over. 'Catalan? And...Occitanian!' He glanced over the box into the older man's eyes, noting their gloating smile.

'Where did you find this...?' Daryl wasn't sure he'd get an answer; his contact was usually less than forthcoming.
  'Ah,' St. John demurred, leaning back in his rickety chair. 'That would be a tale best told over dinner, methinks...'


                               

Daryl decided then and there that even were he en route to have surgery, or hastening to his wedding, he would make time for this tale to be told.
  'Dinner sounds wonderful. I know of just the place, on Russian Hill...'

                           . . . .
                           

Emlyn found her Triad sisters just as the ceilidh was winding down and many of the celebrants had gone home for the night.  The big bonfire was burned down to a glow and
several there were who would attend upon it most of the night; indeed, some were rolled up in cloaks and blankets, intent upon fire-watch 'til morning. Though it may seem to burn out, and would be dampened, fire danger was a real threat not to be taken lightly hereabouts come Samhain, or Summer's End.

'Ach, there she is.' Jeanne sat with Shannon outside upon the deck of the Bear's Den. The musicians, including Allyn, were busy packing it up for the night. Jeanne caught his eye and he bent to give her a kiss before he betook himself off with the Bards to who-knew-where.

'We've been waiting for you,' Shannon told her, as she scooted over and motioned Em to sit. Emlyn sat, and picked about the left-over garlands, weaving a crown of wild oats and laurel pensively. She sighed softly.

'What say, Cambria? You were never meeting up with a Certain Someone now, were you?' Shannon bent round to see if she could discern a blush to Emlyn's cheek in the moonlight.
   Em bit her lip and set down the unfinished garland. 'I suppose I was...'

Jeanne leaned back and studied the stars. 'I divine no heavenly portents above. You'll have to simply tell us what the matter is.'

Em looked up. 'Oh, sometimes I feel so...as the Italians say, like, "un isola infelice" -- 'an unhappy island'...'
  Shannon immediately took to petting Em's shoulder; in Shannon's view, everything could benefit from much petting and even more sympathetic noises.
  'Ah, now! What has been  perpetrated upon our sister as would give her grief on New Years Eve? Was it not your Knight, your spirit-husband who met wi'you, then?'

'Oh, aye,' Emlyn replied, looking most unhappy about it.
'It was he. But...you see, he only came...to say goodbye.'
   Silence then. Shannon ceased her petting. She and Jeanne quietly took Em's hands in theirs.

'Oh, I'm fine. I,' she paused, biting her lip again, 'I rather knew, or suspected...that was how it would go with us.'
  'And you're truly alright, Em?' Jeanne inquired gently.

'I am. I'm reconciled. He said, that we both had our work to do. And, that in this life, one thing we had to learn was to work alone, or rather, apart from one another, on this earthly plane.' Em shook her head slowly. 'I am simply so used to things going this way...first with Alice, then Lev, and Marta and Esperanza, and then Josephina...'
  She stopped. She smiled then and squeezed their hands.
'I am just so glad I have you two!'

'Oh, heavens girl! Of course you do! Have you been able to get away from us yet, then?' Shannon gave her a friendly
shove. Em smiled, looking down and blushing.

'He sounds a fine man, lass. Would you wish for him to be any way other than what he is, or to shirk what he came to do, just to spend time with you?' Jeanne looked serious.
  'If you think on't, 'tis probably the reason you love him, yes? That he is all that he is.'

'"Et in Arcadia, Ego"' Emlyn suddenly raised her head. She blinked, turning to look at her sisters. 'It's...something I saw in a painting recently. I was researching Arcadia, after Jeanne told me of it. It's a painting by Guercino. But, I wonder...I wonder why suddenly, he comes to me here...' She sighed, returning from her reverie.
  'But Oh, Jeanne, you're absolutely spot-on; I love him for what he is. Even though that is the very reason we are apart.'

'"And in Arcadia,  I...am..."' Jeanne repeated. 'How odd, now...'
she trailed off.

'But, do you not ever wish that you had, you see, someone,
a man, with whom you could,' Em sighed, frustrated, 'talk to, you know! Work with, laugh with... Oh, I can talk with Jethro a bit, and with Jack, or we used...but, you know what I mean, yes?'


                         

'Oh, certainly,' Jeanne answered. 'You want someone more like us!'
  Everyone laughed heartily at last. 'And indeed, who wouldn't?' Em agreed.
 
'But, your, ah, guardian, then?' Shannon coaxed. 'Daryl. He seems most well-informed! Goodness knows he has a thing or twa to speak of!'

What about Daryl? Em wondered. He remained an enigma. As much as she found herself needing to be away from him, Emlyn also had to admit she needed to speak with him, share her thoughts with him, be with him just as vehemently.
  Of course she would never confess to this perfidy. And, she certainly would never allow thoughts of, ah, anything more.
 'I appreciate his perspicacity.' Emlyn the Oblique.

Jeanne and Shannon looked at one another. Then, knowingly,
at Em.
  'Naturally,' Jeanne said. She stood. 'Come, Em, let's have a last turn about the bonfire.'

As the 'fire' was just dying coals now surrounded by snoring revelers, Em raised a brow at this, but took Jeanne's hand and in turn, hauled Shannon to her feet.

The night was now quite still; the moon hidden beyond the hills. The Triad strolled arm in arm, Eire, Cambria and Caledonia together welcoming the new year.

'Your situation, sister, sounds very like the tale of the Lily and the Rose. Do you ken?' Jeanne began.
  'No, Jeanne, I dinna ken,' Em answered.


                             

'It's a true tale, so they say, as are all the best, from the 12th century. Two children who were born together, by their separate mothers, in the same house, on one day, and in one hour...'

'--the girl, Blanchefleur, was the Lily, and she was grandmother to Charles the Great on the mother's side,' Shannon continued, leaning toward the others. Jeanne gave her a look, but nodded.
  'The Rose, was Floris.  The lad, was the son of Fenix the King of Spain and heir, through his uncle of the kingdom of Hungary...'

'--History, however,' interrupted Jeanne, 'reveals that he was actually Charibert of Laon.' Jeanne and Shannon exchange a look.
  Jeanne continued, 'However, back to the original tale. When the King of Spain saw how they loved one another, he wished to separate the two. He sent Floris to school in Andalusia. He went, only because he was told Blanchefleur would follow.'

'--She dinna a'course!' Shannon took the lead, 'Oh, and Em: do you know why, now?' She came to a stop, the others halting as well.
  'The Queen had her sold! To merchants from Babylon! And -- do ya know, she was sold for A Cup!'

'That's so...' Jeanne mused, looking down. 'Rather telling, in your situation, is it not?'
   Emlyn pondered upon this not insignificant development.


Shannon went on, 'Aye...a precious Cup, said to have been forged by Vulcan himself. Upon the Cup, was engraved Paris meeting with Athene, Juno and Venus.'
  Em's ears pricked up. This was becoming rather a revelation after all. 'What happened to the girl, Blanchefleur, the Lily?'

Jeanne resumed the tale, 'An eastern ruler, Amiral, bought her and had her imprisoned in a tower. Meanwhile, Floris returned from school and was told that she was dead.'
  'So he said he would but kill himself, then!' Shannon declared.
  Patiently, Jeanne continued, 'Aye. So then they had to admit to the truth of it. Naturally, he went in Quest of her, riding a horse, half red, half white, and on its body was written: 'Only he is worthy to ride me who is worthy of a crown.''

Shannon inhaled and gathered wind for the next recitation:
'He found her, in a land governed by seven kings.'
'--Mark you that,' interposed Jeanne. 'For did not Arthur dream of the Great Bear, the constellation of 7 stars, when he made a dream journey there and met the 7 kings who each wore a star upon their forehead. There Arthur, recognised himself as the King of the 7 Kings.'

                            
'Back to the story...' Shannon continued blithely on, 'Tho' the tower was guarded by four Watchers, Floris hid himself  'neath a red cape within a large basket, covered by masses of red roses! But the wicked Amiral, discovered him there, asleep with Blanchefleur and raised such a row! He was to kill them both, said he!'

'--But,' Jeanne continued, 'Floris and Blanchefleur each begged to be slain in place of the other, again and again, until Amiral at last took pity upon them, and the sword fell from his hand...' She stopped, and bent to pick up some stray flowers lost from a celebrant's garland.

'What happened then?' Emlyn asked. 'What of the two lovers?'
  Jeanne and Shannon gazed at each other, then smiled. Shannon looked skyward to the stars. Jeanne raised a gardenia to her nose and said, 'They were at last wedded, and lived together a hundred years...they died in the same hour and on the same day...' She stuck the gardenia behind Em's ear.

'That sounds good to me...' Emlyn allowed. She turned and stepped back up to the deck and retrieved her shawl, wrapping it about her, and resumed her seat on the bench.
   Her sisters followed and sat beside her once more.

'I find that part about Blanchefleur being sold for a Cup, rather interesting. A cup with Athene etched upon it,' Em pondered.

'Charibert of Laon, the real Floris,' Jeanne remarked, 'actually journeyed to the east, seeking the treasures of the old Persian mysteries at the court of the Caliphs. The
tale of the two lovers, some regard, as metaphor concerning the marriage of eastern and western mystery teachings.'

'That t'would be the real marriage of the Lily and the Rose,' Shannon commented pensively.

'I wonder, though, about your Cup, Emlyn,' Jeanne gazed at her narrowly. 'From what I have heard of your experiences, it would seem to 'bring to life', via some sort of dream-walk, only that which lies deeply within one or more of the dreamwalkers. It is revealing to experience, what lies hidden in the depth of the soul.'

Emlyn mused upon this. True, Athena's journey only took them into her imaginings. And Shannon got to experience what was for her, a great frolic upon sacred lands and to see the crop circles which has so intrigued her fancies.
Perhaps Daryl had previous inklings of his Cathar past even before handling the Cup.

'I think you're right, Jeanne.' Emlyn suddenly saw things much clearly now, as with True Sight.
  And something else too: She began to think that there was sommat more about creating one's own reality oneself than all her imaginings about being merely adrift in a wild wind hurled hither and yon by the Fates.

'Ahhhhhh-unh!,' Shannon yawned hugely, stretching. 'I'm for nowhere now but me bed. 'Tis been a night...how about you?' She stood.
  Jeanne followed and they took Emlyn's hands and hauled her forth. 'Bed and sleep, Cymry...you'll find the answers there in your dreams.'
  'Perhaps much more as well,' hinted Shannon, as the Triad trundled off for home.

Goodnights were said, and as Emlyn endeavored to quietly climb the creaking stairs to her bed at Mrs. Murphy's, past the snores issuing lustily from the rooms of the other boarders, she realised something else as well; it had come as no real surprise to her that her Knight, (she had still a hard time calling him 'Merlin' or even thinking of him thus), and she were not destined to be together this lifetime.
  She realised, to herself, that perhaps, after all, that was what she truly wished as well.

Closing her door softly behind her, she locked up and sat upon her narrow bed, thinking.
  Another notion had come to her. That she had set all this up for herself to experience, somehow. And, that it was something we all did.
  Perhaps Daryl had not 'found' his Anara, because he set himself up in the same way as she. Perhaps, indeed, as she had come to see; he, too, was the author of his own fate.

Emlyn lay back upon the little bed and stared out of her window at the stars. It was good to be home, back together with the Triad once more. She needed the company of her sisters in spirit. And there was something else...
  She decided then, to make a trip to the City soon. To San Francisco.
  With that determined, she pulled the covers about her and didn't even know it when she'd fallen asleep...

                         . . . .