The great eventful Present hides the Past; but through the din
Of its loud life hints and echoes from the life behind steal in.
~John Greenleaf Whittier
Until lions have their historians, tales of the hunt shall always glorify the hunters. ~African Proverb
What's past is prologue.
Shakespeare
Tempest
History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awaken.
James Joyce
Ulysses
"Don't wake him up! He's got insomnia and he's trying to sleep it off!"
Chico Marx
Night At The Opera
. . . .
Dawn in the desert.
The sun a crimson ball on the horizon. A slight haze obscures the valley.
Can one believe what one sees, or does not? A Sleeping
Mountain or a Smoking Mountain?
To the south, a faint plume of smoke. Is Popo sleeping or gathering strength?
Rafe and Celestino wake and move about camp, eyes to the skies. As Rafe's gaze moves over the area, he listens as he watches, carefully. Just a feeling, but one he trusts. He takes the horses to the river.
On his return, Celestino inquires about Diego and Josephina.
'Gone,' Rafel answers. 'Horses are still here, though.'
Celestino is now worried. 'How can that be? I heard no sounds...no one could have just taken them both without us knowing!'
Rafe sighs. He knows what the two young people were thinking: they would have to head back to camp, where there would be problems...perhaps they could not have remained together.
'No one took them.' Rafe decides. 'Look about, do you see any tracks?' Nothing. There were none.
'They are gone.' It was as he had feared, and hoped.
Deep within, Rafe had only good wishes for his wayward young brother. He knew his wounds would heal, physically. If he lost this girl, though...
'I wish them all the best.' He mounted Tlaloc, gazing off into the north. 'It is only natural...they were in love. What else could they do?'
. . . .
San Francisco.
A hazy dawn here as well. But, the haze of fog, not a volcanic eruption. No silent desert, but a gradual awakening of city life...vendors opening their shops, horse-drawn wagons delivering milk and produce, trolley bells, seagulls...fog horns.
As Emlyn opened her eyes, she slowly owned the thought that she was not in Mexico any longer.
She gazed blearily about with one eye at the familiar-yet-not, room about her...where was she? Was it Mrs. Murphy's? Crowley House? Or even Jethro's? Oh, surely not...
...Sounds from downstairs drifted upward to her; the muffled voice of Rosa at the front door, Rosa singing softly, Manuel chopping wood in the back garden...
Diosa, she was at Nob Hill House!
No stranger to time warps by now, Em closed her eyes, thinking: alright, so that takes care of the 'where'...she wasn't so sure she was ready for the 'when', as yet, though.
She threw an arm across her forehead as she shifted her memory back...it was fading quickly, a cursory phantom of the night...but,
...She HAD been in Mexico! Mt. Popo HAD just erupted.
She and Diego...had...
--Diego.
Em sat up; and a wave of dizziness knocked her back on her pillow.
How, where, had Diego come from? The boy she knew as Diego...her 'Prince Caspian', he was Merlin! She had met with him in Mexico, though...how odd. She had trouble shifting Merlin to Mexico from a Celtic setting.
How had this happened? More to the point, where was Diego, or Merlin, now?
-- Had it all just been a dream?
. . . .
Em made it up, and downstairs.
'Ah, buenos dias, Emlyn!' Rosa called, 'Happy Solstice!'
The Solstice!
Was it only the day after the Midwinter's Ball, then?
-- Not February, not the Feast of the Magdalena... But, December 21st.
...But, there had been a blue moon. How could that be, in February? Only 28 days; it was impossible. You cannot fit two full moons into February! Emlyn's head ached.
'Buenos dias, Rosa...' Em groped for a chair, still reeling mentally.
'You don't look so good, Em.' Rosa poured tea for them both. 'Here. There is carrot and apple bread nearly done...'
Emlyn gratefully fell upon the tea. 'Oh, diosa...Rosa, this is the best tea...' She drank it all down and poured more.
Rosa set an orange before her. 'Vitamin C. Ideal remedy. There was much celebration last night!'
Em blinked and began to peel the orange slowly, methodically, as though it was her first.
'Rosa...did anything, strange, happen last night?'
Rosa laughed. 'Strange compared to what, Em?' She opened the oven door and removed the aromatic spiced bread. 'It was Solstice Eve, at the Leeks!'
Emlyn felt about to weep. Or laugh. When would this merry-go-round end?
Rosa divined her mood at last. Cutting some bread, she took her tea to table and joined Em.
'Eat something, you will feel better,' she pushed the bread plate to her confused friend. 'When we found that you and Diego were gone, we figured you left early, for home or elsewhere. Folk disappearing on Solstice Eve is not so rare.'
'-- Diego...' Em frowned at her apple bread...that's the name that Daryl went by, also...
Oh, no.
Em put down the bread. She'd been hungry a moment ago.
How could that be? She cast her mind back...visions of Diego, Daryl, Prince Caspian and Merlin all swirled about her brainscape. Were they all one and the same? HOW?!
'Oh-oohh...' Emlyn's head fell into her arms as she leaned on the table, groaning.
'Emlyn? Are you alright?!' Rosa stood, alarmed. 'Shall I fetch Diego?'
'NO!!' Em popped back up. 'I, am fine, Rosa, thank you...it's
just...you're right, I am still suffering after-effects of last night's...party.'
'If you are sure you'll be alright?' Rosa considered her friend, a hand on her shoulder. 'I am going to the market with Manuel...would you like anything?'
Emlyn shook her head. How about fetching back a case of sanity for her?
Rosa patted her shoulder and assured her they would return soon.
-- Now what?
. . . .
Diego awoke some time later, with a head about as clear as Emlyn's.
Gingerly, he attempted to move. To his astonishment, he felt fine, except for a hazy head. Odd, that.
He put a hand to his abdomen. No tree bark, no broken ribs? He wasn't sore, just...
Confused, he opened his eyes further. This was his room. His room in the City. Did he even want to know... Madonna, what had he done now?
...Couldn't be...no, no...he ran a hand over his forehead, rubbing his eyes and scratching his hair...
He closed his eyes. The last recollection he had -- night in the desert, swimming in the river with Josephina. Then they had returned to camp. And, they...
He sat up, holding his aching head. Couldn't be.
He looked down at himself. Naked, he studied his body.
Old scars, well-healed. It was his familiar 56-year-old body. No luck there, he thought.
'"Shadows begone! Richard is Himself, again..."' Daryl thought sadly.
He made his way into a robe and went to the window, opening it to the cold morning air. Sea breeze, fog. Fog horns on the bay...
It was winter here, that was definite. Probably the day after the Solstice party.
Now, it came back to him...the damnable Cup and Box. He'd loosened his demons again...or was it daemon, singular. His.
His other self, then: Diego, was it? Or just his younger self, back through Time?
He leaned on the window sill, letting the cold seep into his brain and awaken what cells were still firing on all cylinders.
What had driven him to do this? He ran a hand through his hair. It had been a rash impulse at the last minute; he recalled stalling Rosa and Emlyn as he'd slinked back into the library and opened the Box, and unsheathed the Cup, letting them do their Works.
Do what thou wilt...
As Daryl/Diego began to awaken and reconcile themselves to himself, he recalled more and more; all seemed unwelcome in the light of day and conscious awareness.
He recalled being beaten by the Buzzard and his cronies, he knew that was how he'd gotten most of the scars he'd borne into adulthood.
But Josephina/Emlyn...
He leaned his head back. That had been a surprise.
In far memory, nearly forgotten, that was when he had met Anara... He had been in his twenties, and at some point, he recalled 'landing' near Popo, and being found by Rafel's tribe.
And, it was there, sometime later, he had met Anara...
Or the girl he had come to know as Anara, to believe it had been she...the woman of his dreams.
He felt cold, and moved away from the window, leaving it open, as he tied his kimono about. Perhaps the chill air would awaken him from this miasma of misjudgment.
"Mistakes live in the neighborhood of truth and therefore delude us." Tagore had the right of it...
He couldn't kid himself and say that he had not wished for such a thing to happen. He knew it had been possible, if not probable. But it was Anara, always, whom he sought.
Truthfully, he had had no idea what he'd been doing when he'd opened up the sacred objects to whatever Influences had been present, waiting for their chance, on that magical in-between Eve, which had only been last night.
Perfect then, for a timewalk between the here and now. An interlocution, a mere parenthetical perambulation, obiter dictum.
He'd thought he was just having a bit of fun, then?
It was the worst thing he could have done.
Daryl fell back on the bed, groaning.
He should have known, he told himself, putting a hand over his eyes to block out the light, the realisation.
He ought to have, paused. Thought things out. Planned for any eventualities...like any good guardian.
But no.
Instead, he, or his daemonic other, had done...what, exactly? He'd arranged compositions designed to impress, to stun, to captivate all, and presented them; beguiling jewels torn from the earth's heart, he'd set in silver, glowing with moonlight, and gave them to Emlyn, fully intending to enspell...
...and let 'whatever' forces do what they would, eh?
Telling himself that he'd just opened up an old box, given a Midwinter's gift to his ward, and had generously contributed to the evening's entertainment, that was all --
-- Was certainly not All.
What actually had happened, Daryl now had to admit to himself, was that he and Emlyn had gone back in Time; back to when he was twenty years old, and had first been found at Mt. Popo by Rafel's tribe...
...Only, somehow, by Cup or Box, hook or crook, Emlyn had also been there, at age seventeen.
And, there and then, they had been Diego and Josephina, their other, gypsy selves.
And that had not been a good thing, surely...?
--Not open to question! Unforgivable!
He'd enthralled his young ward, whom he was supposed to take care of, and once he'd won her trust, he had -- once again! -- spirited her away from all that she'd known, into a world of danger, death, and Diego...in all his donkey-reeking glory!
His desperation had unmanned him. 'I'm utterly unable to do the right thing any longer...may as well admit it, I'm completely mad...' Daryl paced, heaping recriminations upon himself, as usual.
Was he psychopathic in his egomania? Or a simple sociopath, so sure was he about his views of the world, so at odds against it.
Congratulations, Daryl: once more you've done it again, he told himself with the firmness and the conviction of a medieval theologian who believes in several contradictory theories at the same time.
He sighed, '"Another fine mess you've gotten us into, Stanley..."'
Softly closing his door, Daryl listened at the top of the stairs. Silence. Good.
Maybe Emlyn was not here. Perhaps she had been returned elsewhere...or, she may still be sleeping.
He crept down the stairs, a ghost haunting his own house.
Quietly, he poked a head into the parlor. Nada. He could not resist a look at Rossetti's portrait of the Magdalene, however...had she a part in all this somehow?
The Feast Day of the Magdalena, it had been.
'What do you know?' he whispered to her. She wasn't saying.
He peeked into the kitchen. Rosa's handiwork was evident by the welcome aroma of warm spice bread on the table. Hm. Tea still warm. He poured a cup and cut a slice of carrot bread. Delicious.
Gods, this was certainly better than having the daylights beat out of you by a Buzzard and left atop a pyramid as a human sacrifice, he had to admit.
He swallowed the bread and tea in a gulp.
Alright, then. Have to face it sometime: the study. Taking the teapot, Daryl prepared to do battle.
Deep inhale, then; Daryl opened the study doors. And, there They were...the Infernal Instruments of his Iniquity.
He shut the doors behind him, and took his teapot and tea within.
'What did you do now, hm?' He inquired of the Infernal Instruments. Cup and Box were silent. Waiting.
Waiting for...next time? What then?
Daryl reached up, pulling down the blue shades against the grey phosphorescent fog. He flopped down upon the bay window seat, and drank his tea, frowning at the Cup and Box.
It hadn't gone as planned, if he had even had a plan to admit to. Always, always, seeking a way to bring himself closer to Anara, and always finding himself further from her...and deeper in dung. He leaned his head upon his hand and sighed.
He gave up. Again.
They could never be together, he and Anara. Not in this life...isn't that what Emlyn's Merlin had told her? She had seemed reconciled to this fact. Why couldn't he do the same?
Thoughts swirled and danced in his fevered brain...images of himself with Josephina by the campfire, sword fighting with Rafel, hunting deer, and finding the shepherdess at the pools, playing violin that night, and all the stupid things he had done, to win her heart, her coracao...
Anara/Josephina/Emlyn...all these combined into the mermaid/fox/woman who tormented him, one way or another.
Wasn't there a Japanese folk tale of a woman who became a fox at night? She was feared as a demon, he recalled.
'...Stop tormenting me...' he groaned, rubbing his head.
He stared at the armoire, closed the doors. Locked it.
Put away the key. Fin de sie'cle. Fini.
...As if that would do any good...
. . . .
Evening came early.
Or thus it seemed, when one was used to spring already.
Daryl tuned his violin in betwixt attacks on Dvorak, when he heard someone at the door. It opened, and someone entered without a key.
This could be interesting...
A familiar figure stood in the parlor's entryway.
'An--Emlyn.' Daryl stared, transfixed. Utterly speechless, for once.
'Yes. Hello, Daryl.' Em removed her coat, her gloves, her hat.
'You...where have you been?' He hardly knew where to begin.
'Out back. In the garden.' She entered, and as per usual, took a seat upon the sofa and began to remove her boots.
It was all so ordinary, it seemed unreal. Daryl was uneasy. 'But, there is nothing there.' He stared at her.
'It is winter.'
'Yes. It is the Solstice, today.' Slowly unlacing her boots, as in a dream...
-- No dream this.
Daryl leaned across his wing chair, and set down the violin. He arose and went to the decanters. Everything seemed too uncannily commonplace. It gave him chills.
By all the gods, if she calls me 'uncle' again, I...
'A brandy?'
Emlyn paused in her boot removal, considering the fire for a moment.
'Why not?'
'What were you doing in the non-existent garden?' He brought her a snifter of Armagnac, a deep amber, dark in the midst of mid-winter.
'Oh, you know, there are always small things to weed, to plan for spring. It will be February, before we realise it...' She sipped the brandy, set it on the tea table. 'Being outdoors, even in the cold, and pulling weeds, it helps me to feel more...grounded, as Jack would call it.'
No sound but the fire crackling and the slow tick of a timepiece. No light but firelight. The parlor stood dark, no candles lighted. Last night's garlands of green and holly strewn the doorway lintels and mantle in the shadows.
'Emlyn, I...' Daryl stood beside the mantle, staring into the flames, thinking... if he could but disappear into them, as he had done once before.
'Yes, Daryl?'
What should he do? Apologise? Beg her forgiveness? Hold her, take her hand? Or stay the hell away from her, before she smacked him again?
One never knew...
Better be an optimist and a fool, than a pessimist and right, he told himself.
He sat beside Emlyn, who had curled her feet under her and was also considering the fascination of fire.
'I honestly did not know what would happen last night. You, you do know we had...traveled, Elsewhere, from the Solstice Ball, yes?' Tentative, Daryl took small strokes into uncharted waters.
'Oh, yes, Diego.' Emlyn retrieved her brandy. 'I am only too aware that we both went Elsewhere. Together.'
Daryl took her words like a slap in the face, he nearly recoiled. He studied the carpet. No one spoke for some time...
Well, best man up, cowboy, Diego told Daryl.
'Emlyn...' he held his snifter in both hands, slowly twirling the liquid round, 'I don't know what I can say to you. I, I can only offer my sincere...apologies, if, at any time, I have, or had, done anything to offend you.'
Em glared at him across the sofa.
Daryl raised a hand, 'I, I know,' he stuttered, 'that sounds trite, and that we were in real danger, and our very lives were threatened...but, I feel all that was rather beyond my power to control!' He looked over at her at last.
'I cannot claim power over events, as such. B-but, my actions, toward you...I...' Daryl was coming undone...
his head fell into both hands and he rubbed his forehead, shaking it slowly. He looked up, and sighed, '...I was twenty years old, Emlyn.'
And I was in love, he nearly added.
'...I see...' Emlyn said at last. What could any of this possibly mean? Was he...somehow saying that he had no control over himself then? That hormones had gotten the better of him, and it was something best shoved under the rug and forgotten now?
She moved her legs back onto the floor and sat up straight. She also took her brandy and downed it in a gulp.
Daryl sat back against the sofa, and leaned his head against it, clutching the brandy as if it were his last hold on the world.
She despises me, of course. How could she not? This is probably the last I shall ever see of her...his emerald enchantress...
'"Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: it might have been."'
Emlyn stood and went to the walnut bar, bringing the Armagnac to the table. She returned to the sofa and set it before them, pouring a healthy dose for herself.
Daryl raised his head, not sure exactly of what he had just heard her quote, or what it could mean. He ran a hand through his hair, and inhaled deeply, pouring another dram for himself. He drank deeply and set down the glass.
'You, you do not despise me...?'
Em sipped, and tucked her feet beneath her once more.
'-- On occasion.'
Now Daryl was completely confused. 'Oh.'
Emlyn let him stew in his juice a while. She leaned over and poked at the fire, adding a small log.
At last she reached into her pocket, and brought forth a slip of dirty, crumpled paper. This she handed to Daryl.
'For Diego. From Josephina.'
Daryl stared at the worn, torn paper, eyeing it as though it had appeared out of thin air. He retrieved it, and sat back to read...
As he did so, Emlyn recalled what she had written:
"Dear Diego:
I received your letter.
Do not despair! You will not be prisoner long.
I am working on securing your freedom. I watch from afar, and when the time is right, you will be freed.
I want very much to see you, and for us to speak together of what we know and can recall...
Have hope!
Yours, Josephina"
Daryl scanned the letter, his face anxious. Finally, he closed his eyes, and folded it, put it into his vest pocket.
Emlyn was not sure how to broach the subject of What Now? But, she had a notion that neither did Daryl. What was obvious is that the man was sorry about something.
He needn't be.
'Daryl...' Em sighed, 'And I, am not seventeen.' She looked at him, one arm open along the back of the sofa.
'And, this is not my first Midwinter's Ball.'
She turned toward him, and leaned her head against her arm. 'I am not altogether a babe in the woods, Daryl; merely by going to the ball, with you; all the while knowing what can happen there, well...don't you find me the least bit culpable in this whole caper?'
Daryl merely stared before him, somewhat stunned. -- Unsure.
Em continued, 'Please stop treating me as though I were a china doll, or a child! I'm nearly thirty, Daryl! In my time, I am already an old maid! Please converse with me as though I were adult, do!' Exasperation was starting to show.
'I'm no longer anywhere near being your ward, now. I am adult, and a free agent. You know I have a mind, Daryl. I'm not afraid to use it.' She paused.
'I, I was beginning to fear that...you had despised me, for going along with you so readily...that you, you thought me rather forward...and certainly no lady.'
She lifted her head, gazing at him.
'Do you regret...our time together?' Hurting, nervous, her voice caught...
'Cara mia...!' It sounded like an expletive.
Daryl set down his brandy and leaned one arm on his knee, staring at Em. 'You, you...no! Of course not! How could you think such a thing?!'
Em looked down, nerves getting the best of her now. A tear dropped onto her skirt.
'Non, non, ma cheri...here...' At last, Daryl got a clue, and came to sit beside her, offering a handkerchief, as he put an arm about her shoulders.
Pulling her close, he whispered comforting words into her hair, 'There now, little fox...it will come alright. We are quite the pair, eh?' He looked at her, one finger wiping the tears from her cheek.
'Whatever happens, yes, you can talk to me, and I will try not to be patronizing. I, I am unsure of, just where I stand, you see. I want to do, to do well by you...and please believe me, I would never wish to hurt you!'
Emlyn sniffed and wiped her eyes. 'It's just nerves...'
'Of course, querida, we have both been through, what? -- Heaven and hell, and back again, no? It will take time to reaclimate to terra firma...'
'-- Such as it is, here,' Em remarked, sagely. 'I, I'm alright, Daryl...' She attempted to return his kerchief.
'Keep it.' He gave it back, wrapping his hand about hers. 'Feeling better?'
'Somewhat...oh...!' Emlyn leaned her head back against Daryl's arm. 'It will take some time, before we know how to act.'
'No doubt,' Daryl agreed, 'But until then, let us just take things as they come, step by step...'
'Pas a pas...' added Em, in Oc.
'Just so.' Daryl agreed. 'Don't try to second-guess me. Talk to me. And I, I will try to be more...available.'
They paused then, allowing emotions to settle as the evening deepened. Questions, improbabilities hovered in the air about them. Time enough later, for all that...
'This is nice...just relaxing here, by a real fire, ' Emlyn observed, daring to snuggle against Daryl. Oddly, it seemed not so
strange.
'It is,' he agreed. 'A real fire, soft cushions, clean clothes!' He began to chuckle. 'I really did stink, didn't I...?'
Em looked up at him, smiling. 'I truly didn't notice. I think we all did.' She leaned her head against his shoulder. 'I do not think I could live the gypsy life, day after day, no matter the weather...I have been too spoiled here.'
Tentatively, he kissed her hair, 'I hope so.'
Em sighed. 'But, I will always remember that time, that place, you...as Diego.' She looked at him, and ran a light finger down his cheek. 'I don't even want to wonder about things, how they came to be, or why. Not yet, not now. But I will always remember, and I will keep such memories close to my heart.'
Daryl stared ahead, not moving. He was afraid to, fearful of having this moment, this Now, taken from them somehow. Such an air of unreality still seemed to surround things...Emlyn was not running away from him screaming...that was a miracle in itself.
None of this seemed real...this house, the parlor, the furnishings, and certainly not this girl, here, with him in spite of it all.
He did not want this moment to end.
'Do you know what I remember most, though?' Em inquired, reaching for her glass. 'Your music. Daryl, you were a prodigy!'
He shook his head, a crooked smile on one side of his face. 'Hardly that. I was overly cocky and everyone was extraordinarily tolerant of my folly.'
Em shook her head. 'I adore your playing. As magical and incredible as your arrangements were for the Solstice concert, I loved hearing your Sarasate best!'
'Hmm...' Daryl chewed on that mentally for a while. 'Sometimes, a simple solo can say more than an entire orchestra...' He smiled, and kissed her hair once more. 'Ragged, but right...I felt the passion of the moment.'
'I could tell. We all could.'
As Emlyn leaned into Daryl, she closed her eyes and wrapped her arm about his waist, settling in, determined to enjoy the moment, for what it was, and for as long as it lasted.
Daryl felt the same way. 'Shall I sing for you an Irish gypsy lullaby, Josephina, cara mia?' he whispered into her ear.
Em 'Mmmm'd,'softly, against his chest.'Si, por favor, Diego, querido...'
Humming a middle 'C', Diego began to softly sing as the fire crackled, and rain began to patter against the windows outside...
'"We were born before the wind
C
Also younger than the sun
G
'Ere the bonny boat was won
G C
As we sailed into the mystic
C
Hark, now, hear the sailor's cry
C
Smell the sea and feel the sky
G
Let your soul and spirit fly
G C
Into the mystic.
Em F
When that foghorn blows,
C
I will be comin' home, Mmm hmm hm
Em F
When that foghorn blows,
G
I wanna hear it, I don't have to fear it
C
And I wanna rock your gypsy soul
C
Just like way back in the days of old
G
And magnificently we will flow
G C
Into the mystic..."'
LISTEN! Into the Mystic Live Van Morrison
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEvsDuJYEnI
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