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.'
. . . .
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