..::San Francisco Bay then was filled with abandoned ships of
all kinds. Their crews and officers were in the gold fields
seeking instant wealth.
Ship shortages were talked about even as far away as Horta,
Faial which had sons already in the gold fields.
The letter is dated October 11, 1849 and is information
coming from a trade merchant:
'California emigration mania.' The question is beginning
to pass from mouth to mouth, 'what is to become of all the
vessels sent to San Francisco?'
Of course the old ones will lay their bones there, or on
the way thither, but so many new ones have gone that there must
be a time when they will all return or at least a large
proportion; what then will become of ship-owners and ship-
builders, who are now reaping a golden harvest?'::..
. . . .
This jingle was popular on the docks of New Bedford,
Massachusetts:
Who jumps ship may go to prison
But all the gold he gits is hisn
. . . .
..::Hephaestus (Latin: Vulcan) was the blacksmith of the gods in
Greek and Roman mythology. A supremely skilled artisan whose
forge was a volcano, he constructed most of the weapons of the
gods, as well as beautiful assistants for his smithy and a metal
fishing-net of astonishing intricacy. He was the god of
metalworking, fire, and craftsmen::..
. . . .
"Love is a fire that burns unseen..."
Canto
Luís Vaz de Camões
(Portugal, 1524/5–1580)
. . . .
A soft bell chimed the hour.
Midnight had just sounded, the last note fading into silence.
A beginning befitting a story by Poe. Late enough to be early; and the Solstice was passing...long days of dark had ended. Light would soon return. Less time for dreaming.
What had awoken Daryl, he wasn't quite sure, although twelve
chimes could have been a factor.
Amazed, he found himself on the sofa still; Emlyn lay beside
him, dreaming. It seemed all so very cosy and familiar, and yet
rather a shock all the same...
Too tired to fret about any of it, Daryl was merely happy he'd
invested in customizing an antique sofa into a wide, soft and comfortable enough couch.
Although antiques, like music of classical composers, were
one of Daryl's passions, he cared not for the hard, uncomfortable, rather prissy furniture so often paraded as fashionable throughout ages past. In furniture, if it wasn't comfortable and practical, it was all just so much dross to him. Art was for hanging on the walls.
'"Sleep, silent angel..."' he whispered to Em's drowsing ear, as
he gently retrieved a plaid woolen blanket from in back of the
sofa, and, carefully situating himself at the other end, covered
them both, and went back to sleep.
Let the morning take care of itself then. It was still
midwinter, and the soft night remained for dreaming...
. . . . .
They dreamed of fog...
Or mist, or so it seemed.
Emlyn was not in the City, though. Although by the water's edge,
this place carried not the tang of salt air and sea creatures.
It seemed somehow more, and also less.
Less tangible, less real, and more nebulous and shifting.
Walking down the strand, she could hear waves breaking out to sea. She could vaguely discern a pale sun shining behind the fog cover, casting a flat grey sort of light along the beach. Unreal. Somehow shimmering...
Soon enough, a figure came to view, as the mists parted.
The tall, dark form of a man. Unreal; yet not unknown.
Emlyn stopped in her tracks. It was Merlin. Merlin, her
beloved, her other half.
But, what else was he?
Was he also young Diego, and therefore Daryl, as Deigo now grown?
She gazed in wonder, watching as he strode to her. He smiled,
a gentle quirk of the lips, as he came to stand before her.
'Emlyn,' he took her hands. 'How fare you?'
Em hardly knew anymore.
She looked up at Merlin and seemed to see his features shift;
now seeming a young Diego, then morphing into an older Daryl,
hair slightly greying at temples, bearing a still youthful, but
careworn countenance.
This odd sight soon resolved into one man; Merlin, her knight, who seemed somewhere betwixt and between; perhaps not much beyond her own age, he seemed thirty-ish perhaps.
'Why?' Emlyn asked. 'Why could I never see You before, in him?'
'You know me now. Or one of me,' Merlin answered. A wizard's
answer, full of riddles.
'We all are manifestations of the Universe, split into
different forms, to explore itself. Our Oversouls are thus also
split into many people, or lifetimes, as you would see it,
although Time holds no tyranny in my world. All happens
simultaneously, although from your perspective, you can but
perceive one lifetime, at a time.'
Emlyn could somewhat gather this enigma into a semblance of
reason, but the particulars eluded her. She would ponder all
this another Time.
'Yes? And, what of Daryl? Is he also part of You, then?'
'He is.' Merlin's soft gaze bore into her soul.
'And I,' Em endeavored to comprehend, 'I am also part of you?'
Merlin gathered her into his arms. 'You are. As we all are
part of one another, and the whole of creation.'
Emlyn gratefully sank into his close embrace which was like
melting into a warm pool of silk.
Nothing mattered, all was as it should be, there was nothing to figure out, nothing to beat one's head against, trying to fit it perfectly into the box labeled 'Reason'.
All that: belonged to the world of tyranny where Time ruled
supreme.
Emlyn did not wish to rejoin that world...
'Listen to me, my heart,' Merlin held her a little apart, earnestly viewing her features. 'I have come to reassure you. Do not fear what you feel within, what the heart knows as truth.
'We decided, your sister, Anara, and myself, that it would be
granted unto you and Daryl both, a place together beyond Time's
iron grasp, where Chronos would be banished, and age, as you know it, would not factor in.
'You both so longed for true love; to find what you knew
Elsewhere. We could not deny what your hearts so earnestly
craved. What you need to go on... '
'You, and Anara, brought us together then, as Diego and
Josephina?' Emlyn asked, although she knew then that this was,
in fact, what had transpired.
'Yes. We felt culpable, as we had also felt the same toward you, and he. And, although our spirits are engaged in the Great Work here,
and this is our reason for being, we are still very close to you in your world. We also think of you, and, beloved, we longed for you, as well.'
'...And so, perhaps loving not wisely but too well,' he
smiled, 'we would meet, you and I, like this, in your Dreamtime.
We should have realised that, being as we are so alike,
you would find yourselves caught in Dreamtime, from which you
could never fully awaken.' Merlin sighed.
'As much as your world spins wildly and noisily, and as
full as it is, of people, deeds and distractions; neither of you
could fully extricate yourselves from our hold upon you, once
you had come to us, Here. You both are much too aware of the
Otherworld to be entirely snared by the pull of the mundane, to
the exclusion of the Space Between.'
Merlin took her hands in his.
'And this is how the both of you have been living: neither fully here nor there.'
'"Between,"' Em repeated. 'As in, the changing of seasons, the
Solstices.'
Merlin nodded. 'The Veil is thin, at such Times, and others.' He raised her hand, kissed it gently. What was he feeling? She wondered...did he not thrill with longing at her touch, as she did now? ...She knew Someone who did.
'Enjoy one another,' Merlin told her. Had he read her mind? Nothing in his too-familiar features betrayed anything but compassion.
'Now is not the Time for seeking ghosts of the past, and castles in the air, let them go. All that you have, whilst on the Earth, is the Eternal Now. Live it. Be it. Embrace the Time you have. It is all too short, your day in the sun....which is as it should be.'
'This old planet you occupy is a full schoolhouse, and cannot bear for long the wanton and wayward trample of too many heavy feet. But, while there, occupying a physical existence, you have both been given a boon not offered to many. The comfort of one another.'
Merlin took a long finger and lifted her chin, planting a
soft kiss upon her lips. Gods, how it stung.
'Seek us no longer, Here. You are There, now, and in one
another you will find us also. Remember, I, in thee, and thee in
me. Remember, All are One.'
Emlyn saw the mists come from the sea, and fold about them
thickly now, enveloping them in its opaque mystery. This meeting in the mists was as satisfying as fairy food to a dreamer.
Soon Merlin faded from view and she herself seemed to exist only as mist upon the waters...
'...But if I don't build castles in the air, I don't build castles anywhere...' Was Emlyn's last thought before Morpheus overcame her.
. . . . . . .
Emlyn awoke, groggily...opening a hesitant eye, (one never knew
where, when or whom one would be upon waking); she discerned
what would appear to be a sunny day beyond the dark curtains.
Dark as well, here in the parlor. She blinked awake, yawning,
as she sat up.
And beheld Daryl; lying at the sofa's other end, asleep, the
plaid blanket covering them both.
She smiled a little, gazing at his recumbent form; sleep snatched years of care from him as he relaxed into Dreamtime.
She recalled then, something she'd dreamt the night
before...she'd been walking along a beach somewhere...
But no, it faded from her recall. She looked back at Daryl,
wondering.
He must have covered them up before falling out. She warmed to
the rare notion that he could be, given a chance, fairly
thoughtful. And he had braved lying on the sofa with her all
night, so not to awaken her, nor leave her by herself. Though a
large-ish couch, it was still rather a sacrifice of sorts for a
6-foot-something person with a comfortable bed just up the stairs.
Good on ya, Diego.
At that point, she saw Daryl open his eyes, and look upon her.
'Buenos dias, Josephina,' he greeted her, voice hoarse, dry.
'Buenos dias, Diego mia,' she answered, grinning.
Daryl sat up, stretching, and ran his hands through his tousled
dark curls. As he bent to and fro, she heard his bones crack.
'Sleep well?' she asked wickedly.
Daryl looked pensive, staring at nothing. 'I did, actually.
Had a dream...' he frowned, '...rather odd. Don't recall,
now...' He yawned, slumped over the blanket.
He blinked at the parlor windows. 'Looks to be a fair day
here in the City by the Bay.' He smiled gently, sleepily at Em.
'How about taking a ride somewhere?'
. . . .
'It's a grand day out, yes?' Daryl was full of joie de vivre this
bright winter morning, as they climbed into the carriage.
Manuel accompanied, sitting outside in the drivers seat. Rosa had begged off, planning to visit friends elsewhere.
Just the two of them, then, cosied together here in the coach.
All to the good...
'Didn't want to risk taking the landau, as the weather can turn
in an instant,' Daryl commented. 'Where we're heading is not far, and there are several nice inns and rest stops along the way if we're caught in inclement weather.'
Emlyn felt like a kid out on a Sunday drive. How different
things seemed now, with so much out in the open between them.
They seemed less at odds now; more simpatico.
Like two old soldiers, who had seen action in the same war,
perhaps.
She began to relax, hoping for bad weather...a cosy old inn overnight could be a favorable neutral zone. Time for a parlay.
At the least...
'You've a destination in mind, then?' She knew he always had
something simmering on his back brain.
'I do.' He raised an eyebrow, and managed that crooked grin at the same time. 'It is a small town just inland and south of here. Many
Portuguese settled there. They even host bullfights.'
'Truly, Diego?' Em was mildly surprised. She knew there were
many Portuguese, as well as Italiano, and Spanish of course,
in California. Add: Irish, Russian, German, Aussie, French, Welsh, Scot, Chilean, Chinese and all the rest.
'Truly. And I thought it might be nice, to, you know, revisit
that...particular ambience.'
He nearly seemed to blush, Em noticed.
'Indeed, it would.'
Daryl rallied. 'I have a travel-basket of coffee, cake and fruit
here, to snack upon...' He indicated the picnic basket secured
on the carriage floor. 'But we shall lunch in the town.
Wonderful Sopa de Peixe!'
'Now I am anxious to see this place!' Em agreed. She had longed
for that delicious-sounding hot pot meal ever since she had so
looked forward to it back in the gypsy camp, before Diego had
been kidnapped. (-- How long ago? A decade for her, it had
been.)
Daryl regarded Emlyn. 'I thought you might be.' He gazed out the
window at the rolling hills, green with blessed mists and cool
winter temperatures. Stands of oak trees dotted the Hobbit-
humped hills. Tuscany, Umbria, Provence, Cataluyna...Portugal
here too.
'I also may check out one or two antique shops whilst there...got wind of a lead through an old contact of mine, St. John, back in the City.'
A slight chill of wariness crept into Emlyn's mood at the
mention of 'antiques'. Where antiques and Daryl were concerned,
there was always the attendant whiff of the nefarious, dubious and
diabolical.
She bit her lip. She would keep still on this, she would.
It was something she would have to get used to, somehow; it
was Daryl's business, after all. It was how he made his way in
this brave new world he'd chosen. It was how they had come by
this coach and the handsome dapple-gray Galahad drawing it, Nob
Hill House, etcetera...
There was, for him, rather a golden side to Time Travel.
Still, it took a bit of getting used to, some of these 'antiques'.
...To put it mildly.
High Noon and hungry, later:
'Diosa...!' Emlyn breathed quietly, reverently, as she set her
spoon aside, savoring her Sopa de Peixe. 'It is truly everything
I'd hoped for, and more. I must know how this was made! What is
that under-spice? Just a hint... Oh...' Em spooned up another taste of heaven;
'...Oh, ooh, Diego...' She seemed in the throes of a true passion now, her eyes closed in culinary ecstasy.
Daryl smiled as he noticed the few other diners noticing them, especially Emlyn.
How he longed to hear that "Oh, Diego!" from Em...only sans the soup bowl.
'I thought you would enjoy this.'
'I love it, Diego!' Em fell to, heartily. 'May we take some
home, somehow? Where can I find a Portuguese cookbook?'
Em worked her spoon with efficiency now.
Daryl was grinning, able to forget himself for a moment. 'We will find something, I'm sure...'
He returned to his own bowl, a fresh loaf of sweet bread, massa sovada, accompanying.
was from Portugal?'
'Umm...do tell, Diego,' Em was quite happy to listen, her mouth
rather busy at the moment.
'Sim. Joao Rodrigues Cabrilho. He was employed by Spain, but
Portuguese by birth. He sighted San Diego Bay around 1542, I
think.'
'The Portuguese were great sailors, I know,' Em broke off a
piece of the delicious bread. 'And world travelers.'
'Indeed.' Daryl continued, '-- All upon most early voyages of
discovery. Who knows how early? They say that the Templars, and the Scots, and Vikings of course, all had navigated routes to the New World long before Columbus....'
Daryl warmed to soup and topic: 'The Templars, it is rumored, came to mine copper, and even titanium. Found about the Great Lakes region in abundance. Titanium, not so common. Only a few places in the world have a bit of it. They had to find a way to conquer the Damascus Steel blades of the Saracen. They found it in titanium, making Light Blue Steel blades.'
'Or so it was said...anyway, the Portuguese later traveled here on whaling ships, mostly.
'Years before the gold rush in California, Yankee traders
plied the California coast purchasing hides and tallow for the
New England market. American whaling ships were in the Pacific in the 1700s.'
Daryl broke bread and waved a piece at Em, 'That is how Portuguese cuisine gets it's flavorful variety!' He bit. But continued:
'The first New England whaler stopped at Hawaii in the 1800s.
Pineapple was brought back to the Azores from Hawaii and planted there.' He paused, as he finished his bowl, and asked the waiter for another.
'More sopa, Josephina?'
Emlyn nodded, her mouth full.
'Sailors from the Azores, most of them, on these whalers and
trading vessels.' Daryl sat back, sipping his coffee.
'Over the centuries, whalers and explorers not only recruited
the young Azorean men as crew, but brought plants and animals of
foreign lands to the islands.
The waiter brought more sopa and bread. 'Obrigato!' Daryl and
Emlyn both said together.
'Mesmo saboroso!' Emlyn told the waiter, who favored her with
a grin.
'Ah! Voca fala Portuguese?' He inquired, refilling coffee cups.
Caught well, now, Em looked at Daryl, who obligingly, regretfully told the man that they knew but a little...
'...But we enjoy Portuguese culture and cuisine.'
Emlyn paused briefly in her earnest endeavor, 'Sim! Very much so!' She looked at Daryl, then back to the waiter.
'If we...were to return with a covered pot or dish, may we
purchase some of this wonderful sopa to take with us?'
'You may. Of course. If there is any left!'
'See,' Daryl teased her, 'You have near cleaned them out!'
The waiter stifled a smile.
'There is plenty now. And, oh, for another hour or so. There is a second batch cooking for dinner, later tonight. The secret,' he leaned closer to Emlyn's ear, 'is in the cooking. It is not a quick recipe! It requires time to simmer, for the flavors to wed.'
'We will return in plenty of time,' Daryl assured him, nearly
finished with his seconds already. He looked at Em. 'We should
start back to the City before sundown.'
The waiter observed them from above, tray under an arm. 'I will
tell you what. Since you appreciate my homeland so, we will save
some of the sopa from lunch. Just for you two, eh?'
Daryl expressed his gratitude fulsomely, and Emlyn was ecstatic.
The waiter took out paper and pencil from an apron pocket,
'May we have your names? To reserve your order for taking away?'
'Certainly, obrigato: I am Diego Rivera, and this is my novia,
Josephina Page.' He held out a hand to the man.
After jotting down the information, the waiter smiled and
shook their hands. 'Joaquim. My family runs the restaurant.' He
tucked the pencil behind his ear, nodding. 'We will see you both
later.'
'Well!' Daryl smiled at Em. 'About ready? Darkness comes quickly now that it is no longer...spring.' His eyes bespoke a certain understanding betwixt them.
An understanding which Emlyn was not so sure she altogether
understood...
. . . .
'Daryl...' Em began, as they poked about a village second hand
shop, seeking antiques as well as pots with lids, '...When,
exactly, did WE become engaged? "Novia" is Spanish for "fiancee",
is it not?'
'This should do, don't you think?' Daryl fished out an old iron
cauldron with a matching heavy lid from amongst a shop corner
full of old kitchen ware. 'A bit rusty, but we can clean that up
easily...'
Em sighed. 'Diego!'
Daryl looked over his shoulder, 'Eh?'
'Your "novia", Diego?' Em was not going to let him squirm out
of this one.
'Ah. Well.' Daryl hefted the pot and lid, taking them to the
shop clerk. In his day and time, 'novia' could mean simply, 'girlfriend'...however, in Em's day, it carried more than a whiff of permanence.
Nothing wrong with that. As far as Diego/Daryl was concerned.
For Josephina/Emlyn, however...
Well, all in good time.
'The, ah, Portuguese are Catholic you know. Presenting a more serious, united front would stand us in good stead here.
'Besides,' he rifled though his wallet, paying for the pot, 'I, eh, rather thought that...well, now...'
'-- Yes?' Em goaded.
Daryl tucked the pot under an arm, and put his other about Em's
waist, thanking the clerk, as they went outside. 'We will talk
about it later, sim?'
Em was decidedly not content. Daryl would have some explaining
to do.
-- Later.
. . . .
"Later" was all business, though.
'Is this the place? You're sure?'
Emlyn and Daryl stood before a blacksmith shop.
Daryl frowned at the slip of paper he held.
'It IS the address...' He was fairly certain that the 'office' of the smithy had to be the residence perhaps, of his contact.
He knocked at the door. Rang the bell.
'Over here! 'Ola!' Came a voice from the smithy.
Daryl and Em rounded the building to the forge.
Rather warmer here...
Two men at work; the elder, a big man, not tall but Olympic
none the less, swinging sledge whilst a younger man held the
metal piece with tongs. A rather younger lad tended bellows at
the hearth.
The hammer fell once more and the smith then handed it over to
the younger, taking took hold of the tongs himself. The apprentice striker slammed into the metal work, as the smith instructed, for a time. At last the blows halted and the elder gent nodded to Em and Daryl.
Daryl turned and discretely motioned Emlyn to stay behind.
Pulling a note from his pocket, he engaged the smith. They
exchanged few words...Em couldn't hear well over the bellows and
roar of the forge.
Like wandering into Vulcan's domain...
At last, Daryl nodded, shook hands with the smith, and replacing his note, returned to Em.
'Volunder Kane...' Daryl said.
'What is that?' Emlyn asked, as they fell into step together,
heading back up the street.
'Who,' corrected Daryl. 'The smith; his name is Volunder Kane.
Interesting, that. "Volundr" was the name of the smith-god of
Teutonic legend. And, of course, Tubal Cain was the biblical
metallurgist, the original smith.' Daryl looked up, pensive.
'Vulcan's forge was a volcano, you know,' he told Emlyn, his
gaze locked into hers.
'Volcanoes again,' Em took his hand, concerned. Daryl
appreciated the gesture and kissed her hand softly. Josephina had not forgotten how close they had come to losing Diego, and certainly Daryl had not, either.
A chill here, even in the forge.
'We must get on...this little detour has cost us daylight.'
Daryl took Em's arm, studying the sky which had darkened
quickly.
'Fog coming in...' Emlyn noted.
Daryl sighed. 'Sim. We may have to find an inn here. Would
you mind so much? I'd prefer not to drive back in the dark and
fog, even with the lamps.'
'No, I'd not mind at all!' Emlyn was delighted, rather. More
sopa...
'Perhaps we should find an inn first?'
Daryl shook his head. 'No. The shop will shut soon...' He
quickened the pace.
At last, one street over, they located the shop's correct
address.
"Luis Vaz de Camões", read the shingle hanging above the
door. "Antiques. Curiosities" was noted below the shop name.
'A good sign, indeed!' Daryl smiled at his pun. 'This shop is
named for Portugal's great poet. Camões was an example of a life
of adventure and passion lived to the fullest.' He regarded
Emlyn. 'But, as was and is the case with many artistes, he was
not appreciated for his talent in his day; although now, of
course, he is compared to Shakespeare. Genius walks unknown upon his native land...
'Much sorrow, strife, and exile. Not an unknown fate for artists. Ah, where are the Medicis now?' Daryl rapped upon the door.
No answer.
Daryl tried the door. Shut, and locked. 'Bloody --'
Daryl sighed and bent to the windows, shading his eyes. Em joined him and they attempted to peer within.
Nought to be seen, but hulking shapes and shadows in the
growing dark. Thankfully, nought did scurry, scuttle, loom or hover about and threaten. Yet.
'Well, nothing for it...' Daryl turned to Emlyn, and glanced at the skies.
'Fog is thickening...' Em wrapped her shawl closer about her
and wished for the coat she'd left in the coach.
'Chilled, cara?' Daryl put a sheltering arm about her shoulders. 'Let's have you settled at an inn, first; then I will find Manuel and we shall bring the coach round.'
. . . .
Later, at the Santa Catarina da Serra Inn...
Emlyn and Daryl were just polishing off a late supper of
roast chicken with potatoes and carrots, a strong white cheese,
and the ubiquitous loaf of sweet bread. Simple fare done
wonderfully well seasoned with only wine, herbs and freshness. Food for the soul.
Manuel had left for bed, and the pair were leisurely engaged in
enjoying a satisfying bottle of Colheita.
'...We really must invest in more tawny port before leaving.
And Madeira, naturally. A Malmsey, perhaps...' Daryl was
relaxing somewhat at last, having been frustrated by the dead-
ends he'd encountered; his contact seemingly gone to ground. He
freshened Em's glass and his own.
'"Port", of course is named for Portugal...'
Emlyn's gaze traveled about the room. A stone and timber hall of
a place; it was long and L-shaped, rather than tall. They were
seated near a large stone fireplace of some age, which burned benignly at one end of the common dining and pub area.
It seemed a favorite local gathering place. Several other tables were occupied by families, friends and couples like themselves. Near the crowded bar, sueca games were played at tables where occupants occupied themselves with wine and port, cracking walnuts and almonds...
Emlyn was beginning to feel more at home now. She needed this;
an aura of the near-past to help her relax into herself. Hearing
the familiar Portuguese spoken about her acted as a soothing
balm to her uprooted mindscape.
Slightly different from her Brazilian gypsy Portuguese, but
close enough for Em.
'Thank you for bringing me here today,' she said to Daryl, regarding him anew. (Were they considering a partnership? She still wondered.)
'Seja bem vindo, Josephina.' Daryl regarded her with sleepy
eyes.
That's right, he no doubt hadn't slept well on the sofa the evening
before. 'I appreciate it, Diego.' Em was feeling rather heavy of head herself now, thanks to the good port.
She noticed Daryl's attention had been engaged by a table of men
situated in a corner booth for some while now.
'Do you know those men?' She inquired softly. Emlyn wished her
slim knowledge of Portuguese was more fleshed-out.
'No-oo, but...' Daryl looked pensive, 'I wonder...' He smiled
and poured another dram. 'Did you know that the name "Portugal"
was once also spelled as "Portugraal". Telling, that. 'Port of
or to the Graal'...'
'Hmm. A connection with the Magdalena, perhaps?' Emlyn
inquired, sipping discretely. Strong stuff this; it seemed more
fortified than she at present. 'Tales abound of her crossing the
Medi to France...or thereabouts.'
Daryl smiled a tired smile. 'That entire area has long held many
secrets of its own; Iberia, France...'
'Celtic homelands,' Em added. 'and, the Grail. It fits. And,
it is much older than Xianity.'
'Much.' Daryl was staring in earnest now. 'A moment, cara...'
He took her hand, pressed a light kiss as he took his leave.
Daryl sauntered over to the corner booth and spoke softly to the
men he'd been eyeing. An agreement of sorts seemed to be settled, the men nodded to Daryl; who then proceeded to the bar and ordered another bottle of Colheita.
The others, she noticed, then left through a large carved
oaken door next to the fireplace, and disappeared within.
Daryl returned, looking surprised as Emlyn felt, and held her
chair. 'Take the glasses. We are to join the others in the back
room, apparently.' The half-smile returned.
Emlyn raised an eyebrow, but was met with Daryl's own high
brow and a slight shrug. He escorted Emlyn through the heavy
door.
. . . .
A mirror-image of the room here; back-to-back stone fireplace.
A long, shining polished wood oval table commanded the length of
the room, comfortable leather couches and chairs surrounded the
hearth. Inviting, it was...
And, to Em's delight, candlelight alone shone from sconces along the
walls and from a large hanging lamp above the table. As her eyes
adjusted to the dim light, she made out groups of men and a few
women, seated before the fire, smoking and talking in low
voices, while others were seated at table among bottles and
carafes of wine and liqueurs. Em inhaled deeply. Some folk were
carefully tending roasting skewers of meats upon the fire.
Maps lined the walls, and armaments. A fine pair of crossed
swords were mounted above the mantle, on either side of a coat
of arms. What was left, apparently, of a fine black Spanish
Fighting Bull, the head and horns, dominated the room's other
end.
-- And music; Emlyn could now hear a soft flamenco-like sound, courses of multiple strings. Yet not a mandolin...
Oh, could there be Fado? Em longed to hear the old plaintive, soulful songs, like arrows to the heart...
She bent round the gathered groups and located the two mystery
musicians bearing rather interesting small guitars, rather requinto-sized. But these had 10 strings. Lovely...
Daryl meanwhile, had recognised the smith, late of the forge.
Catching the man's eye, Daryl joined him at table, and motioned
to Em.
'Volunder Kane,' the man told her upon introduction. He turned
to his apprentice beside him, 'This is our striker, Jorge.'
'Josephina Page, nice to meet you,' Em shook hands and took a
seat next to Daryl, wondering if he had told them the same
'novia' story as he'd spouted at the restaurant.
The men with whom Daryl had spoken, from the main room, now
broke free from a corner which Em now saw was a sort of ante-
room betwixt kitchen and the bar out front. They brought bottles
of their own, as well as a cheese and dark bread, and some of
the fresh-roasted skewer meats to table.
'And this,' Daryl gestured toward a dark man with fine, copious
moustaches, gently curled upwards on the ends like the horns of
the bull on the wall, 'Is none other than the proprietor of
Camoe's Antiques, Sebastiao da Silva.'
The man bowed, and took Emlyn's hand, murmuring 'Enchante';
then sat on her other side, as Em became acquainted with the
rest of the party, whose names she could hardly recall.
Mr. da Silva, however, had made an impression.
'Do try but a drop of our Malmsey...from the Malvasia Fina
grape.' He insisted, pouring a dram into a delicate glass
decorated in fine golden filigree detail.
He held it up to the candlelight a moment. 'Lovely, isn't it?' He sniffed, mustaches twitching, then smiled and handed the glass to Em.
'Salud!' Emlyn sniffed and sipped. 'Delicioso!' She truly did
need to become acquainted with more Portuguese descriptives.
Satisfied, with her old standby, seemingly, the company
smiled at her and leaned back in their seats.
'Mr. da Silva's ancestor sailed with Drake,' Volundur offered,
as Daryl opened the new bottle of Colheita.
'Indeed,' Sebastiao nodded. 'That old eh, Queen's
'privateer', Drake, captured Nuno da Silva, who was well-known
as an experienced pilot, as were many other Portuguese sailing
men. "Sir" Francis the Pirate made Silva the pilot of the Golden
Hind, it is on record. They stopped north of San Francisco to
repair the ship in June of 1579.'
'That is fascinating, Mr. da Silva,' Em commented, warming to
the Malmsey and the antiques dealer. 'The Portuguese have such a
history of stellar navigational feats and discoveries.'
'"Sebastiao", por favor, my dear Miss Page...' Silva turned
the full power of his mustaches upon Emlyn.
'"Josephina", please...Sebastiao,' Em smiled warmly.
Sebastiao freshened her Malmsey. Jorge, she noticed meanwhile,
had nudged Daryl, and appeared to be biting his cheek.
'Indeed!' Sebastiao of the Mustachios continued undaunted,
'"Stellar" is the word, dear Josephina; for it was by the stars
that the old ships and pilots made their way, back in those days
of daring discovery, to parts known and unknown...'
Emlyn leaned her elbow on table and chin upon hand. 'I would
have loved to have sailed the seas, I believe. I often dream of
the sea...'
'Do you, lass?' Sebastiao's mustaches twitched. 'I do have a
small boat in harbor...nothing like the pilot Nuno's Golden
Hind, I am afraid. But she gives fine sail in a fair wind.'
Volunder fetched the Malmsey from Sebastiao and freshened
Jorge's and his own glass. He regarded Daryl a moment, 'Watch
out for this one,' he nodded to Sebastiao, 'there are few lips
of the ladies here, that have not tarried neath the shelter of
those mustaches for a time; for either a day or a year and a
day...'
'Your novia is indeed sailing near perilous waters,' Jorge
smirked as he downed his glass.
Emlyn drew a deep breath as she regarded Daryl, eyebrows raised
to great height. 'Your "novia", Diego, has apparently been
warned!' She turned back to Sebastiao. 'So, your conquering
spirit is equally adventuresome on land, I hear.
Sebastiao simply smiled like the cat seated beside the canary.
'How could he not be utterly enchanted with your charms,
Josephina querida,' Daryl put a proprietary arm about Em's chair
back. 'But the weather, I fear, is not conducive to sailing.'
'True,' Sebastiao admitted, 'but, the weather, like a woman,
is changeable, no?' He chuckled to himself. 'But, you are here
for browsing of antiques, Diego?'
Daryl proffered the bottle of Colheita, which was accepted
gratefully, and Sebastiao poured himself a healthy tot.
'Not bad. I'll tell you what...come by before opening, oh, around
9 o'clock, tomorrow. I offer, for you, a private showing just
for yourself and your lovely novia...perhaps I may have an old
bottle of Garrafeira hidden away somewhere, I might dig up.'
They agreed his offer sounded be most generous.
'Obrigato, Sebastiao! We would be delighted.' Daryl smiled, 'Another bottle of Colheita, perhaps?' His offer was roundly accepted by all, and off he betook himself.
'Do try the espetadas...' The dealer forked some meat from
the skewers onto Em's plate. 'And the cheese, with a bit of this
bread...wonderful.' He cut slices of the round, brown loaf. 'It
is dark from the molasses. One cooks the bread upon the stove
top...an old New England recipe.'
'Oh, yes! Obrigato...' Em gratefully accepted, biting into the
delicious full-flavored sweet dark bread, topped with a slice of
ewe's milk cheese. 'I have made this coffee-can bread before!
Boston Brown, one of my favorites...'
Daryl returned with the new bottle of port and opened, pouring a
tot for all.
'Ah, what shall we drink to?' Sebastiao's query was a soft
growl. 'How long has the lucky couple been engaged, then?' He
addressed Diego and Josephina.
Josephina regarded Diego, wondering just that herself.
Daryl rallied, somewhat, under pressure. 'Ah, well, only very
recently, really...'
'Yes, very.' Josephina growled a bit as well.
'Of course!' Sebastiao raised his voice and his glass, 'To the
happy couple! To Diego and Josephina! Long may they love!'
The company all raised glasses in toast, even folk from
neighboring groups gathered about the table and hearth; 'To
Diego and Josephina!' All the world loves a lover...
The company wished them well and clinked glasses; some patted
Diego's back or offered words of congratulation.
'-- To your engagement, "Josephina"...' spoke a soft low voice
behind Emlyn's seat, amidst the hub-bub. His accent on the
'Josephina' rather seemed to waft a hint of sarcasm.
Em turned about to find a man, dark of hair and eye, whose
face was somehow familiar to her. In the wake of all the
toasting, no one noticed their exchange; loud talk and laughter
and much refreshing of drinks surrounded the table now.
'Do you not recall an old friend, then?' He persisted, one
eyebrow raised.
...Something about the man tugged at Em's memory line. The
face she recognised...but the hair was somewhat grayer round the
temples, the salt-and-pepper Van Dyke was new.
In the flash of an instant, Emlyn suddenly knew him.
'Alejandro Orez!' Em gasped softly, putting a hand upon his
arm.
'Shhh...I never go by that name, anymore...' He put his hand
over hers. 'I must go now. We will be in touch.' He squeezed her
hand, melted into the throng and was gone.
'Someone you know...?' Daryl, Diego, appeared on her other side.
Emlyn, Josephina, turned to him, her face unable to contain
the shock and awe. 'I, I...do...I, did...'
She frowned, wondering what was going on here. Just what sort
of place was this? She stared hard at Daryl.
He knew this wasn't just any small village where good sopa
was served...
She had not seen Mr. Orez since the Captain had spirited Lev
Kopalski from jail and away. With Alice and Frank. To South
America.
Em gazed, dazed, at Daryl. 'We must talk. Soon.'
Daryl was beginning to think the very same thing. 'Yes.'
Their gaze locked: Emlyn's accusing; Daryl's tired, and
silently pleading. He turned to the gathering:
'My novia and I thank everyone here! This has truly been a
most wonderful meeting with you all.' He took Emlyn's hand, 'But
we have had a long, eventful journey, and we must rest now, for
the early day tomorrow. Obrigato! And good evening, boa noite...'
And so, with much pressing of hands and assurances that they
will be, if not staying on, then returning soon, at last the two
escaped the well-wishers.
'You will take good care of her now, won't you, Diego?'
Sebastiao escorted them to the door, one arm about each of them.
'If he does not, mademoiselle, I, and my trusty vessel --'
'--Rusty vessel!' Yelled Jorge, who was hanging on every
come-hither uttered by Silva, laughing.
Sebastiao glared at the young pup, '-- Shall be awaiting your
command...' He bowed low enough to satisfy his swashbuckling
ancestor. '9 o'clock! Don't be late!' He winked at Daryl and
slapped his back once more.
As Daryl and Emlyn exited the back room and crossed to the
stairway, they were each wrapped in their own worlds. Their worlds
were meant to be shared, but neither of them had as yet become accustomed to this.
Daryl put an arm about Em as he escorted her up the stairs to their rooms.
'I suppose, as your 'novia', it would seem inappropriate for me
not to have my own room and bed...' Emlyn sighed.
'I'm afraid, it would.' Daryl was insistent.
'When can we talk? What, exactly, is going on here, Daryl?'
Daryl looked hard at Em. 'Who was that man you were talking to?'
Emlyn just stared beyond him, at nothing, slowly shaking her
head. 'I cannot believe he is here...!' She looked at Daryl.
'What sort of place is this, Diego?'
Daryl sighed, gazing out the window of the landing into the
surrounding fog and night. Darkness and mystery. 'It is certainly
more than I'd bargained for...'
As usual.
He took Em's arm, escorting her to the top and hallway leading to the rooms.
'Your novia is much confused.' Em turned to him as they
reached her room.
'As am I,' Daryl confessed. He glanced about them and then
raised her chin. 'It pains me to leave you like this.' His eyes
burned into hers. 'I know we must talk, querida...please bear
with me. One day longer, yes?'
Emlyn's tired, confused eyes answered his. 'I suppose. I am
too weary to argue...'
Summoning all of his Diego-self, Daryl bent to softly press
a kiss to a corner of her lips.
'Gracias. Please, cara...' Daryl sighed. 'Take care. Get some rest. Tomorrow, all will be well.'
Emlyn was not satisfied with that answer. Nor with the too-
brief kiss. She entered her lonely room and shut the door on
Daryl.
. . . .
Julio Caldas on Viola de Arame:
No Patanal
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