"...Her footprints led to a mound of stones. It looked like a big gray igloo, but it was a cairn -- one of the Neolithic tombs after which Cairnholm was named.
The cairn was a little taller than me, long and narrow with a rectangular opening in one end, like a door, and it rose from the mud on a tussock of grass...The opening was the entrance to a tunnel that burrowed deep inside. Intricate loops and spirals had been carved on either side, ancient hieroglyphs the meaning of which had been lost to the ages.
Inside, the cairn tunnel was damp and narrow and profoundly dark...I crawled back on my hands and knees...unfolded myself from the cairn tunnel and stepped outside only to be blinded by light.
Shielding my eyes, I squinted through split fingers at a world I hardly recognised...the same bog and and same path as before but for the first time since my arrival it was bathed in cheery yellow sunlight...no trace of the twisting fog that, for me had come to define this part of the island.
Where this morning a battalion of tractors had plied the gravel paths, hauling carts loaded with fish and peat-bricks, now those carts were being pulled by horses and mules. The clip-clop of hooves had replaced the growl of engines."
Ransom Riggs
Miss Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children
. . . .
"Queer things you do hear these days, to be sure," said Sam.
"Ah," said Ted, "You do if you listen. But I can hear fireside tales and childen's stories at home if I want to."
"No doubt you can," retorted Sam, "and I dare say there's more truth in some of them than you reckon."
J.R.R. Tolkien
Fellowship of the Ring
. . . . .
. . . .
Vous ne trouvez pas le Saint Graal, c'est le Saint Graal qui vous trouve.
You do not find the Grail, the Grail finds you.
. . . . .
"Most of Disney’s hidden messages dealt with religion, pagan myth, and stories of the subjugated goddess. It was no mistake that Disney retold tales like Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White—all of which dealt with the incarceration of the sacred feminine. Nor did one need a background in symbolism to understand that Snow White—a princess who fell from grace after partaking of a poisoned apple—was a clear allusion to the downfall of Eve in the Garden of Eden. Or that Sleeping Beauty’s Princess Aurora—code-named "Rose" and hidden deep in the forest to protect her from the clutches of the evil witch— was the Grail story for children."
Margaret Starbird
* * * *
It was not early morning when Emlyn awoke, although it was hard to tell; clouds covered sun and sky and, as Athena had predicted, yet more snow had engulfed the surroundings.
Although late morning, it was chilly still. Em thought she was used to cold, waking in the Sierra foothills to freezing temperatures of a winter, but this cold was decidedly colder. Below freezing, and with air that held a certain dampness that inland California lacked, it seemed to seep into her skin. She shivered as she recalled Rosa pining for the Bay Area when she was here; moaning that her 'bones were cold'.
Em knew just what she meant.
After her ablutions and hurried dressing, Emlyn headed downstairs to the kitchen for tea.
No dainty cup would do today; she took hold of one of Daryl's big earthenware mugs and added honey and lemon both after brewing a stiff hot pot.
Idly, she wondered where Daryl and Mr. Yeats could be as she sipped.
Warming up her mugful, she padded past the silent parlor and headed toward the library, pausing at the big double doors; one of which stood partially open. She could hear voices inside...yes, they were deep in discussion about something in earnest tones.
Without actually meaning to, Em wondered what they could be conversing upon so intently, and leaned to listen from without...
'Trying to track exactly where and when things began to...go south, let's say, is certainly a needle in a haystack full of needles...' Daryl growled, sounding frustrated. 'The truth is like that old saying, 'a condundrum within an enigma wrapped in a mystery' or some such...'
'"JFK", I believe. Camelot,' was Mr. Yeats laconic reply. He sighed. 'Indeed, Kennedy fared about as well as Arthur.'
'Yes, well, trying to abolish the Fed...talk about fighting a dragon!' Daryl added. 'We can't go there.'
'JFK, perhaps not. But, Camelot? Perhaps.' Yeats breathed out slowly.
T'was then Em detected the smell of sweet pipe tobacco. Yeats smoked a pipe? Ah, that was why the door was conveniently open. She inched closer to better listen:
'You know as well as I, that truths throughout time, have always remained hidden within the seemingly innocuous.'
Daryl chuckled softly. 'Indeed; it was through intensive study of mythologies as well as folk tales and legends, that I was able to discover many of the hidden antiquities that I have been able to unearth.'
'Much like Schliemann did with Troy...' Yeats breathed. 'You know, there were modern myths also which disguised terrible truths; in the treaty signed by the Japanese in WWII, Japan was never to mention the bomb. Taboo, that. And so, they created a monstrous horror which attacked and decimated their cities and population: -- Godzilla.'
Em could hear more soft growling noises from Daryl but she couldn't make out his reply. She recalled Jack had mentioned that name before; something about a giant lizard.
They were speaking again; Daryl this time...
'The genius of Einstein led to the horror of Hiroshima, someone once said...but, yes. Those in the know do not lightly dismiss the goldmine of forbidden knowledge hidden within myth and folk and fairy tales. Such was driven underground by the heavy hand of the Church, which conveyed as much power or more, than monarchies...' Daryl paused and then recited:
"Goosey goosey gander, whither do you wander? Upstairs downstairs, in milady's chamber. There they found an old man who wouldn't say his prayers, they grabbed him by the left leg and threw him down the stairs..."'
'Ah, Cromwell...' Yeats commented. '...and the bloody Puritans, whom no one missed when they came here, and started burning witches and becoming a thorn in the natives sides.' Em could hear a knocking sound echoing; ah, Yeats emptying pipe ash.
He continued: 'They really did that, you know, during the Reformation, checked people's houses to make sure they were properly prayerful with no Papist contraband about. If all was not sufficiently Puritan, a type of torture was enjoyed by the Roundheads of tossing people repeatedly down stone stairs. Just as Jesus would have done, no doubt!'
'Second-guessing gods has ever been the way of despots and madmen,' Daryl agreed.
At this point, Emlyn was too intrigued to linger outside. With a soft tap at the door, she entered as though she had just come upon the library this instant.
'Good morning,' offered the Innocent Maiden to the Wise Council.
'Ah, and here is our good lady of the house!' Daryl held out a welcoming arm toward her.
'"Softly she comes upon her hour..."' Yeats quoted, hefting a mighty brow skyward at her approach.
'Please, don't let me interrupt!' Emlyn went to the sofa and seated herself, idly examining the piles of books, papers and maps upon the table before them.
'Or was your subject matter unsuitable for a lady's ears?'
Daryl slithered behind the sofa and bending, put a light hand upon her shoulder and breathed softly into those ears:
'...In which case yours would be burning, non, ma chere'?'
Em blushed, knowing Daryl had been aware of her...lurking. He feathered a kiss at her ear and straightened. '"A little touch of Harry in the night,"' he chuckled, and tossed pieces of firewood onto the grate.
Yeats, thankfully, gave no sign of their exchange. However...
'I am happy to see the both of you coming round to taking on your new duties with all the seriousness they deserve.' He set his tea down and clasped his hands before him, one eyebrow elevated in inquiry as he regarded them both with a weighty eagle eye.
Both Daryl and Emlyn looked chagrined as they met one anothers gaze.
'Actually, Sean...' Daryl seated himself at the the sofa's other end. 'I'm rather unclear on all of that. I, we, are hoping you might be able to enlighten us. I, ah,' he ran a guilty hand through his hair, 'have had some ideas about these particular items being somewhat a cut above the usual, even in my collection...'
Yeats snorted softly, and tapped his pipe onto the hearth. 'That's putting it mildly,' he whispered hoarsely as he put it back in his pocket.
'I think you may not have known, positively, what you were getting, but I do believe that you decidedly were hoping...' he cleared his throat then continued, '...that 'the Items' could be, what they, in fact, ARE.'
'Alright. Let us just for a moment, accept all this,' Daryl tried his best at naivete'...
'What, exactly, is our role to be? To whom do we answer? Yeats, man, I...I know I may have stumbled into something perhaps more than I bargained for...'
'-- When did you come to that conclusion? When you were staked out on a pyramid about to become a human sacrifice to the elder gods?' Yeats murmured as he poured more tea.
Daryl was so positively humbled he nearly blushed.
'Yes. Then, too.' He did not add that he had gotten his first inkling when Yeats, as a crusader for the pope's inquisition, had taken Daryl's head, back during the Albigensian crusade.
-- But he knew they were both thinking about it.
'Alright. First then, no more of that!' Yeats frowned at Daryl, crossing his arms before him. 'You cannot afford to play such dangerous games. Especially now...' His gaze wandered down and his frown deepened.
'We cannot afford to take such chances,' he continued, 'however it has come to be, you are now both caretakers of a dangerous secret, and are being given this chance to make it work. FOR us this time. No more of your own personal side trips! You both have certain responsibilities now.' He paused, crossed his legs before him and sighed.
'Becoming engaged though...I wonder...' he murmured. 'Well, too late now.' He tapped the edge of the table thrice to punctuate:'The Lodge has accepted you as sister and brother. It is to them, you will answer.'
Emlyn spoke, 'Do you mean, the, ah, initiation we experienced? With Raimundo and Sebastiao?'
Yeats answered, 'I do. It is their Order which has the possession of and rights to, the Items. Of course, no one can actually possess the pieces; They travel where, and to whom, They will.'
Daryl sat forward, hands clasped on his knees before him, eager suddenly.
'Tell me then; the Items...could they possibly be traced back to Portugal then?'
Both eyebrows flew skyward. Em imagined them taking wing, heaven-bound, from Yeats' brow as he answered...
'Yes. If you must make that connection, you may. When the Templars were being hunted, Portugal was a comparatively safe place of refuge.'
Yeats stood then and strode slowly to the mantle piece, feeling about his pockets. As he tipped more tobacco into his pipe, Daryl slid a glance at Em and smiled as he leaned back and made himself comfortable, preparing for another Lecture by Yeats.
Truthfully, Em adored these...
'...If, the lady in question will not object to my pipe?'
Em smiled. 'I personally like the scent. Smells of cherry-wood.'
The older gentleman smiled and retrieved a stick from the fire and lighting it, applied it to pipe, puffing away like Gandalf at his Old Toby.
'It was widely supposed that the Newport Tower, long thought to be a Templar edifice, was built by Miguel Cortereal, who was shipwrecked in the early 16th century searching for his brother Gaspar.
'Gaspar, you may know, was a member of the Portuguese order of the Templars, renamed the Order of the Knights of Christ in 1320, to avoid persecution. The king of Portugal himself became grand master of the order, as did Henry the Navigator. Oh, yes, Portugraal,' Yeats paused, emphasizing the word's last syllable, 'has had a hand in the history of...the Items. Off and on. For many years. As had Scotland, and France, and Spain, of course, as you well know...'
Daryl 'hmm'd' and began to search through the piles on the table. He opened a portfolio and pulled forth a large-ish map. This he spread upon the table as Em helped clear a space.
Daryl's own eyebrow elevated itself to Yeats' latitude as he regarded his auld acquaintance.
'You mentioned the Newport Tower...' he looked down at the map. 'I suppose you are familiar with
legends of the Templars in the New World, then.'
Yeats' brows remained upon high, but his lids sank low over his golden eyes like the setting of the sun, in mimed boredom.
'Who isn't...?' he answered dryly, blowing a lazy smoke ring.
Daryl seemed slightly frustrated at that.
'Alright, well...so, there's nothing to it?'
'My dear boy, why do you insist upon playing the innocent? We here ALL know what you are hinting round about.' Yeats leaned his chin upon the hand upon the mantle. 'Oh, very well, then...' He bent low and knocked his pipe out into the fire.
'If you MUST know,' Yeats resumed his seat in the wing chair, 'yes, Axelis and I are ah, 'in the neighborhood', seeking titanium. Not exactly plentiful in Massachusetts, no, but, close enough for us to stop by, whilst en route...'
'Ah. I thought so!' Daryl breathed, studying the map. 'Light blue steel. The secret of the Templars success during the Crusades. And it was never found in such a great quantity as it was here, in the New World, was it?'
'He with the best sword wins. And the Knights Templar did, with their light blue steel. Until the Damascus steel of the Saracens bit back harder, and Jerusalem was lost.' Yeats stared into the fire, drumming his fingers on the chair arm.
'But enough of all that. We are here, to deliver a warning: do not use the Items unless under instructions by the Order, or myself, or Axelis, to do so. No one else!' Feathery salt and pepper eyebrows beetled menacingly at Daryl. 'Well, perhaps Thelene...,' he added, as he stroked his chin.
Having captured their gaze in his talons, he continued,
'And, another warning, take heed! Keep in mind that the Others are up to something, and the Professor as well.' Yeats sighed as he looked down.
'I hate to say as much, but you might also want to keep rather more of an eye on Jack as well. He was with the Others longer than any we know who was ever able to escape. Either he may have some new insights, or he might show signs of manipulation by them. Remember, he himself did not recall what all was done to him whilst under their control.'
'How did it all come about though?' Emlyn's brow was knotted with confusion. 'I know what happened after, the outcome, basically, but, when the takeover happened, -- how, exactly?'
Daryl's turn to sigh.
'It had been millennia in the making. There was a brilliant novel by a 20th Century science fiction writer, Marion Zimmer Bradley, called 'World Wreckers'. It is based on what in the old financial world was known as 'corporate raiding' -- a group or corporation that coveted a smaller company would insidiously sabotage that company, bringing it to its knees, really. Then, when the company had to ask for help, the larger corporation would 'generously' offer to bail it out, for only the price of a sizable take-over.'
Yeats leaned forward and engaged Emlyn. 'Here, they were brutal. The government, the culture, religion; all were geared toward entropy and excess; complete wasting of the planet and its natural resources was the plan. No conservation or control was ever allowed to really make any difference in the long run.'
'Anything related to saving the earth, the planet, the air, water, food...ecology, as we called it, had been systematically tainted for centuries,' Daryl broke in, '...tainted by the primordial mud of the earth goddess. Mother Earth, the sacred feminine, conservation, cooperation, was frowned upon as not only anti=Christian but unpatriotic.
'It was considered 'unmanly' to do anything but pillage and plunder and lay waste to the world; never mind that the world would be made a wasteland and the end of us all, ultimately.'
Yeats sighed. 'And then, when the people were drowning in garbage, without air, water, food...then they were offered, 'assistance'...'
Daryl continued, 'People had no choice but to accept the help of the Others. The pollution, the poison, the devastation was such that the planet was effectively dying. Our future had been sold to the highest bidder. A devil's bargain...which we are still paying for.'
Suddenly all heads turned to the door, for there stood Athena.
'Ah. I see I am come just in time!'
. . . .
'Ah, my dear! Entre', do!' Daryl stood and smiled, holding forth an arm toward Athena, who, apparently, had a key.
'Hope I'm not interrupting...' Athena smiled as she took the chair next to Yeats.
'Not at all, in fact, we would welcome your input,' Emlyn assured her. 'Tea?'
Athena nodded, 'Thank you. Rather chilly, out.'
Although Emlyn was anxious to hear what all Athena, (and Axelis) had been up to, she also was finally getting some concrete answers to some long-standing questions from the men, and wished for them to continue.
'So, these Others are in control of at least two timelines on earth, now, yes? The 2076 of Athena and Daryl's time, and when or wherever Athena and Jack traveled?'
Daryl and Yeats locked gazes for a moment.
'-- At least,' Yeats answered solemnly.
Athena sat back with her tea and sipped. 'Umm. Wonderfully strong, Em, thanks.' She crossed her shapely legs and smiled.
'You know, when Daryl first brought me over, back to 1876...the first thing I thought was,
'It isn't all ugly anymore!' She poured more tea.
'Well, actually, I think the first thing was, 'I can breathe the air!' But oh, I shall never miss the sight of grey, concrete block architecture or pink plastic anything...'
Daryl smiled at her. 'I remember. Gods, how glad I was to get you safely out of that, that wretchedness...' He stared out the window, a pained look to him.
Athena turned to Emlyn. 'You see, even before the Others took over, people were becoming more and more like them, like machines. More artificial, more enslaved by computers and seduced by them. And, yes, Em, in your time, is when it began to take hold en masse'...'
'Partly,' Yeats added, 'when Martin Luther cracked the power of the Church, and the Iron Fist of the Pope was no longer the Witch Hammer that it was, it did open the path for science, somewhat,'
'When folk were burnt at the stake for thinking the world is round and the earth revolves about the sun, it had put rather a damper upon scientific exploration...'
'Yes, but then the Protestants began seeing the devil in their oatmeal of a morning...' Daryl growled to himself. 'Then, it was the Pope being characterized with a forked tail and horns, for a change.'
'...After all that,' Athena wrangled the conversation back to the point, 'along came the Industrial Revolution, and the machine was the new god. Art, and architecture, music, and writing, even dance, all devolved, into something less fine, more robotic, more abbreviated, and always, more 'practical...'
'Mercy...' Yeats put a long hand to his long-suffering brow, '...the horror of modern art, architecture and music!' He muttered; closing his eyes and saying nothing more for some time.
'Yes, that's what I mean,' Athena continued,'I know I should have been more...appreciative of the basics: clean food, water, air, and freedom at last!
'But,' she grinned, 'oh, how I was starved for beauty! It was nearly all gone in nature, and what served for buildings in my time, were these horrid great blocks of concrete! Just square, plain, grey warrens built for business and for domiciles. Of course, when the population became untenable, this was indeed the only practical application...
' Such is what comes of people who are no longer in touch with themselves, the earth, nature, the world about them. And when reverence is lost for the planet, for Gaia, for the goddess and womankind, then the wasteland becomes the peoples' only legacy. If people had been told the truth, they would have planned better unto the 7th generation to come, as the First Nations People would say. The world awaited a savior, whilst, unbeknownst to them, she lay, waiting for the world to awaken and acknowledge her, Gaia, our only planet of choice. Until then, she lay as in limbo...'
'But even before,' interrupted Daryl, 'when we were just recovering from the war, we were a more hopeful planet then...population wasn't out of control, quite yet, and folk were so decimated by the two wars, that all the world wanted was peace for a while, and home, and security. People craved the comfort of family and a sense of place.'
'Wars?' Emlyn asked. 'There seem to be so many, I can't quite keep them all straight...'
'We came to be a country with a war-based economy, Em,' Athena told her soberly. 'All would agree that World War II was a battle against nothing but pure evil. But, when there weren't enemies actually at the gates, the elite would create war. Saber-rattling, it was called...they had found that war was 'good business'. Indeed, empires were built upon armaments.'
'Gulf of Tonkin, 'Remember the Maine'! -- and all that...' Daryl growled softly. 'No one knew why or what the hell the first World War was about! A bloody waste and a crime...the first of many more to come.
'Keep folk in a state of constant anxiety and terror and they won't even consider anything other than basic survival; eager to comply with their 'Protectors' demands...all our tax dollars go to war? Wonderful! Can't have it any other way!'
Daryl stood and began pacing, he'd worked himself up again. '...Henry Ford, Vanover Bush, the Koch empire; all were delighted to find there was gold in them thar wars...'
Silence for a time. Yeats leaned over and added wood to the fire.
'It was a march toward entropy, and perhaps, extinction,' he admitted, 'It is the Kali Yuga, the Iron Age. Supposedly the Golden Age is to come, as it has before, as the wheel of karma spins round...'
'I suppose that's why I tried to preserve what I could of the best of what was left of it, with all my old books and films...' Athena mused.
'I loved the old movies, books and art; especially films shot 'on location' as they called it. Very expensive to make, and so were out of fashion in my time.
'But oh, how marvelous to actually see the beautiful old Gothic cathedrals and stately homes and castles, libraries and museums, built by architects who knew and cared about such things as balance and perspective in geometry, the Golden Mean, Fibonacci sequence, how to create harmony and resonance...'
'--We are back in ancient Egypt now, my dear,' Yeats smiled at Athena's reminisces. 'That is where it all began. Solomon's Temple owed all of its might and grandeur to the Egyptian arts of architecture.'
'Indeed, Sean. That is why I mentioned 'resonance', or assonance. The Egyptians were masters of Son et Lumiere long before the sound and light shows of modern times blasted the pyramids with garish lasers! Ah, how the mighty have fallen...'
Athena slipped a wink at Em.
'Sound and light. Yes, the old structures, Newgrange, Stonehenge, the pyramids, were built
with such delicate, precise angles as to capture sound and light, sometimes only at specific, power-infused times of the year,' Daryl said.
'Sound, light, and above all, music...it's always there, though,' he pondered, 'the music of the spheres. Einstein was right when he said that genius lies in the power of receptivity. Even if all the Mozart, the Beethoven, the Rachmaninov were irretrievably lost, someone, sometime, somewhere, would pick up on it again. It is timeless. It is eternal...it's out there,'for those with ears to hear.''
'I have ears to hear, Daryl!' Athena curled up in her chair, settling in. 'How about it, eh?'
The others added their encouragement, egging Daryl on, until --
'Ah, very well, then!' Daryl grinned half a smile on one side of his face, as he ambled over to an armoire and brought forth a violin. Tucking it under his chin and tuning it casually, he inquired, 'What would you care to hear?'
'Tchaikovski.' Athena offered.
Daryl bowed and raised his fiddle, plucking notes.
The others spoke softly meanwhile, and made themselves comfortable with more tea...and then...
...such notes arose from the instrument that all their spirits lifted aloft, bearing them far from entropy and ennui.
Athena smiled wide and began to hum, and then to softly sing:
'I know you, I danced with you, Once Upon A Dream...'
Emlyn joined Athena, humming in harmony, moving slightly in time to the music. Sleeping Beauty Waltz...it was perfect.
Mr. Yeats unfolded his lanky self from the heath chair and approached Athena, bowing.
'May I have this dance?'
Athena nodded, and arose gracefully, taking his hand in hers, and they began to flow lightly about the room, waltzing away the heavy mood of the morning...
Athena still hummed quietly, as Daryl smiled and plied his bow.
Emlyn enjoyed it all immensely. She had always suspected that the dour Yeats had a softer, nearly playful side. This was confirmed when, after spinning Athena about, he bowed to her, and then approached Em's seat.
'Milady?' He inquired, holding out an entreating hand.
Em grinned and joined him; noting his great height as she did so...goodness but Mr. Yeats was taller even than Daryl. One did not notice until one was so close up; she felt rather tiny as he spun her about, '"Skating away on the thin ice of a new day..."' he intoned deeply, as she noted his eyes leave hers and focus somewhere over her shoulder. He brought their dance to a sudden halt.
Daryl's notes faltered then, too. His were eyes directed behind her and he seemed to turn a whiter shade of pale.
Emlyn turned around, completely unprepared for what she now beheld:
Axelis. Her father. All seven or so feet of him.
...Yeats now seemed dwarfish.
Axelis smiled softly. 'May I cut in?'
* * * *
WATCH AND LISTEN!!
KIROV BALLET
. . . .The Sleeping Beauty, Waltz
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