"'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.
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...
. . . .
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