Chapter 10 Gone With the Witch Wind

..::All the greatest peers of France came to the church to see the wedding and the coronation of the famous Ogier, and a vast crowd stood waiting outside.

Suddenly, as Ogier with his bride knelt before the chancel steps, a dazzling light shone through the church, and in the midst of a rainbow cloud Morgan le Fay appeared, clasp't Ogier in her arms, and both vanished together in the mist with which the place was filled::..


Story of the Enchanted Knight
From the Epic of Charlemagne

Stories From Old French Romance
E.M. Wilmont-Buxton, F.R.Hist.S.
Wistons School, Brighton


                      .  .  .  .


..::Before the Tuatha de Danaan came to Ireland, they spent seven years in Scotland and some years in Scandinavia. The Tuatha De Danaan landed in a dense cloud on the top of Sliev-an-lerin, the Iron Mountain in the County Leitrim.


According to some of the earliest sources, the Tuatha de Danaan came from the skies. In the Book of Ballimote, Fintan, who lived before the Flood gives us the following account:


"After them, the Tuatha De arrived
Concealed in their dark cloud
I ate my food with them
Though at such a remote period."


In a manuscript entitled "The Magical Stone of Tara", it is written that Conn, the Hundred Fighter used to watch the stars at Tara every night,
  "so that no hostile aerial beings should descend upon Ireland unknown to him."


 Another great god was Lugh ("Lugh of the Long Arm"), also known as "Chief Doctor of the Sciences". Lugh was the God of Light and the God of the Underworld. He was young, handsome, extremely intelligent, and he was widely worshiped in Gaul and Ireland. Lugh was equivalent to Apollo.

 One of the most interesting features about Lugh was his shining appearance. His face was radiant that no mortals could bear to look at him!

 Now, let us once again return to Enoch's account of the Watchers, who appear to him as he rests in his bed:


"And there appear to me two men very tall,
such as I have never seen on earth.
And their faces shone like the Sun, and their
eyes were like burning lamps; and fire came forth from their lips. "
 2En. 1:4-5

                         .  .  .  .

...One thing I was told long ago but have never discussed because it seemed so outlandish is that there was and is a “baby exchange” in which babies that have been altered genetically are switched with infants who are a few months old, whereupon these babies proceed to grow up in human homes with the parents being none the wiser.

 I’ve heard speculations about this before, but this is the first time I have seen it written down. And I wonder, could it be true?

 You cannot fully understand the UFO phenomenon without also being conversant in the folklore of the fairy-faith of Northern Europe.  This is because, whatever the origin of the presence we find among us, the fairy lore certainly reflects it also.

 Central to this lore is the idea of the changeling, wherein a human infant is exchanged without the knowledge of the parents for a fairy child. Often, the replacement looks identical. The original child is never returned and nothing is ever discovered about her fate.


Whitley Strieber's Journal
                                                                                                                                          

                                                                               .  .  .  .

A deceptively quiet night on Nob Hill...fog gathered in the bay for another onslaught against inland hills. Fog and hillside played this match eternally; fog banished to its last misty molecule,  then, Sol Invictus! -- Ra shone brightly over Bagdhad by the Bay, as Herb Caen dubbed the City, of which many a Tale is told.



It was slithering onto the midnight hour when Emlyn and Daryl plotted strategy in the parlor; he bestirred the fire down to a few glowing coals.
   '--Not sure when we'll be returned, (Em noted he said: 'be returned' and not 'returning'; as if it was completely out of their hands -- caution: dragons) -- best let fire die out.'


Daryl's cavalier attitude seemed to indicate that this would be no different than a trip to market and back. Goblin Market, more like...


  Emlyn had been pondering on this incipient incursion into the Otherworld for some time now, and her initial enthusiasm was beginning to wane somewhat.
   'Are you certain that it would not be better to wait-- only until the sword's history has been translated? We may have a better idea of where and when we would travel then, no?'


Daryl rose from the fire and leveled a glare at Emlyn. The best way out is often through, paraphrasing Frost.
  'No.' He sighed then. 'Josephina; I AM taking up Sword tonight. You are welcome to come, or to stay, whichever you prefer.'
  At odds, yet again they were. That didn't take long.
 'But, tell me, Diego: HOW do you propose to, travel then, with Sword?' -- Sheathed, she hoped.


Daryl raised his glance to the mantle and Magdalene as if asking for patience.
  'All right.' He came and sat beside Emlyn on the sofa.
  'What I propose: you do realise to add a little glamour and glory to my stage magic, I studied and practised, what might be referred to as ceremonial magic...'


'Hermeticism, alchemy? Dee and Kelly? One does pick up a little bit about a lot of things, in a library, you know.' Emlyn was not altogether unlettered in Magick In Theory and Practise. ('"The Frenzied Desire of the Devout to Learn the Riddles of the Ancient and Scabarous,"' she murmured to herself...)


'Right.' Daryl was already half out of the world and his head. 'Well, I've decided to simply adapt one of my, workings...and alter it slightly, to accommodate Sword.' He glanced at Em to see if she followed: Apres' moi?
   He continued:
  'In my workings, one employs an althame, a ceremonial knife, yes?' Em nodded. 'So, in place of the althame, I propose to use Sword. Simple.'


Emlyn had a notion then, that it was not so simple in practice.   'Perhaps, it would be simpler,' (not to mention saner), to just wait until the history is translated...'
   Daryl glared, now feeling abandoned. 'I'm going. You may stay, if you wish.'



Up he rose and removed his jacket, strapping sword and scabbard about his hips. Reaching into a drawer of the hutch, he brought forth a small bag. Medicine bag, thought Em?
  This was proven so, when he began to scatter the contents in a circle about him.
 'Salt, and cornmeal,' he informed her, 'a nod to my native ancestors, and all the rest.' Then, patting the scabbard, he regarded Em.  'Lights?'



Dam the beastly man; he would do it. Bloody hell.
  Emlyn dutifully blew out all the candles in the parlor, hoping against this ill-timed, ill-favored, rather rushed 'working' of his -- with a bloody sword, no less. She caught a vision of a knight falling on his sword for his leige...
   Mene, Tekel, Peres; Em saw the writing on the sacrificial lambskin.


Darkness settled about them now, the fire's dying embers the only nuggets of light. The house seemed to gather itself about them, and to settle, heavy with quiet, waiting. Waiting with a certain...anticipation.


Daryl stared at his enfolding circle, salt and cornmeal alight with a soft sheen, as he marshaled what fortitude and wits he had left. It was a simple working, one he had performed many times. No worries, he told himself. I'll play the scout this time, and Emlyn will be fine with it.'
  '"Boldness, be my friend; arm me, audacity!"' he whispered, -- Shakespeare, his mentor, daemon and his druid.

                                                                                 

                                                                     
  Inhaling deeply, he reached to scabbard and brought forth the sword with a schenk!
  ...It gleamed strangely, as though illumined by a light within. Odd, that. He had not viewed the sword in a low-light environment before. Now was not the time for hesitation, he felt oddly compelled to carry on, despite Em's reticence.


Emlyn only became more anxious and was sitting upon her hands, trying to restrain herself from leaping up and dragging Daryl from his rash obsessions. Or beating him senseless. It'd be a relief, at this point.
  What would would become of all this, of Diego? At the least, she wanted to offer him his jacket back...going off to who knew what, or where, clad only in shirtsleeves and weskit.
   Daryl kneweth what both right and left hand were doing; let the man be. Right.


Daryl closed his eyes a moment, breathing quietly. This is no illicit working, he told himself; Cup and Box repose secure. Daryl was taking the road to Damascus; who knew what or who he may encounter thereon. A feeling increasingly burning within, toward...a conclusion, whatever trail it took. His Time was upon him, and heavily it weighed. '"There is a divinity that shapes our ends..."' he whispered the words of Will, softly for ears of lesser gods.
   When he opened his eyes, Emlyn saw him staring into nothingness.


Raising sword before him, he began to intone:
  "Guardians of the Watchtower of the East! Opener of the Ways! Lead me, Osiris, Anubis, Ganesha, Orpheus, Annwyn; aperire ad orientis..."
   Holding Sword before him, Daryl traced a sort of dancing, graceful cross in the air.


Em noticed the glowing coals of fire take on new spark.
   Daryl made a quarter turn widdershins:
"Guardians of the Watchtower of the North, direct my able arm to the Good Works of the World and hasten ye to my side in need, all my ancestors and guides; transit ap septentriones."



That, surely, was all for the best, Em told herself, biting her lip. However -- what was that low noise...? She glanced toward the windows, where Howls of a wild ass in the desert stirred the back streets of San Francisco.



Another quarter turn, and Daryl faced west.
  "Guardians of the Watchtower of the West! Hear me now, and direct my travels to that which I seek! Parsifal, Galahad, Roland, all my Roma brothers and company -- Heed my invitation to the quest! St. Sarah guide my boots upon good roads... aperire ad occidens."


--A definite wind was up, to be sure...Emlyn arose then, opened the drapes to the outside:  the trees without seemed still. Em softly closed them, gazing at the sudden chaos in the parlor -- wind djinns swept all round the fireplace;  witchwind bestirred ashes in the grate. Coals glowed brightly with moon fire. Quite obviously, they were not alone here...



A quarter turn again, and Daryl came full circle:
  "Guardians of the Watchtower of the South!" Daryl had to raise his voice above the uncanny wind, which now invaded the parlor, "Come forth, be my guide! All my Ancestors, aid thy son in our quest! Let us seek together the treasure of my heart! Transit ad meridies! So mote it be! Amen."
  ...One last elegant pass of Sword, and the deed was done.

                                                                                        
Emlyn anxiously beheld Daryl, engulfed within a glowing golden circle, raising high the sword to heaven; itself alight with reddish illumination. She felt the eldritch aires of Otherwhere blow into the room, scattering the circle of protection into a whirlwind about him,  salt seeming to sparkle in the otherworldly glow.


She noted Daryl still stood firm, but whatever words he now spoke were drowned out by the shrieking of the witchwind swirling around him. Suddenly, an odd sort of wave seemed to glide from above and Daryl seemed to be underwater now...a silverish blue patina surrounded him, which soon began to glow brightly.
  Daryl suddenly threw back his head and lifted the sword high as the light about him began to pulsate to a low sort of thrum which emanated from the floor below. The throbbing hum grew so loud Em had to cover her ears...she felt could bear it no longer when all the air about Daryl began to vibrate, faster and faster -- Daryl began to seem to be shaking, it almost seemed as though sparks were flying from him...                                                  

    
                                                                    
Unable to hold in her fear, Emlyn rushed toward Daryl then to haul him back from whatever powerful Unknown awaited --

--and found herself face down upon the carpet, alone. She raised her head and saw: of her daring, defiant Diego/Daryl, there remained no trace.


                       .  .  .  .

From the grandfather clock, chimes were heard to strike midnight: The witching hour.


Emlyn pulled herself together and staggard upright. She stood, hands on hips, frowning at the space devoid of Daryl. Tears of frustration beaded her cheeks and she brushed them off with an impatient hand.
  Well, now what was she supposed to do, she wondered?

Wrapping her arms about her she began to pace before the dying fire. Cold now. She stirred the embers together and bent, adding kindling until the fire crackled into flame again.
   "Blast the man!"


He would do this to her, to them. Well, perhaps it would have come to this, one day, regardless.
  What could she do? She sighed. Was there anything? Raimundo certainly would not be of help; he would be relieved, no doubt, by Daryl's disappearance. Jack? The last time she had seen Jack was at the solstice ball...when she and Daryl had vanished together. He would hardly be in any frame of mind to aid his mercurial uncle.


Em plopped body and weary soul upon the sofa and beat the cushion into submission. She was tempted to curse Daryl, damn him to perdition...but, she restrained herself, thinking perhaps, that could be exactly where he was.


Emlyn fed the hungry fire then leaned back, elbow behind head, staring at the flames. Truthfully, she was becoming weary of this chase. What was Daryl after so desperately? Well, she knew the answer to that:
    Anara. By any and all means necessary.


She understood his obsession; it was once the same as her own. But she had since given up her hope for any sort of alliance with Merlin. He had made that quite clear. As had Anara, with Daryl.


She wondered then if this obsession of his had mutated into a fancy for self-destruction. All or nothing, was that it?
   That would fit Daryl to a 'T', such melodrama.
   -- Didn't even take a jacket, she thought idly, staring at the casually tossed and discarded item, with which she was beginning to feel a kinship.


She was through chasing. Shaking her head, she determined to simply let Daryl be. It wasn't that she did not care, but that she could not. It never did any good.
   But. What had happened?


She felt that he was...alive. But where? Would he be returned?      And, where to from here?  Em had been feeling rather restless of late. She wondered where her mobile unit was. She had traveled with Daryl so often she could not recall when she last had use of it...possibly, it might still remain back at Mrs. Murphy's, in the Sierra foothills.


She did not wish to do lose touch with Shannon, Jeanne and her Triad, or Athena. Nor with any of her other friends, sorely neglected now. She wasn't going to simply pace the widow's walk, awaiting any sign of Daryl. She wasn't going to become Alice, who was in limbo for years when Frank went missing.


Emlyn reached over and grabbed the knitted Afghan and cocooned herself within its warm, welcoming folds. She would stay here tonight on the sofa, on guard. She would think on Daryl and she would hold him in her heart, she would pray for Diego. But, she was not going to cry for the foolishness of her lost love, who only seemed obsessed with his futile desire for a phantom.
   And so, who knew what the morning would bring?
                                                                             

                                                                                .  .  .  .

Emlyn awoke alone the next day, and found, surprisingly, she was rather relieved this was so.
   And thus it remained...

Athena stopped in to check on Emlyn, soon after Daryl's disappearance, and returned often, sometimes staying weeks at a time, hoping for news on the off chance there was any change.
But, there was not.
   Except in Em. She put the problem of Daryl into a compartment in her mind palace and firmly closed and locked the door.


'You could ask Raimundo, you know...' Athena ventured, as Emlyn brought tea into the parlor, casting a jaundiced eye at the fog squatting solidly upon the city.


'Oh, Athena,' she shook her head, pouring, 'I can't bear to think of travel now.' She sat, taking her first sip of the morning. Ah, better. Cuts the brain fog, at least.
  'However,' she continued, 'I have thought they should know Daryl is somewhat derelict in his duty as Keeper in the Order; having been disappeared and all...' She relished this duty not.



Em sighed and put her feet up on the tea table, uncaring. (Take that, Daryl...)
   'What do you hear from Axelis, then?' Em hoped to change the subject for now. The idea of heading from fog into yet more, thicker fog was unappealing at best.


'Haven't,' was Athena's reply. 'And, by the way, I've a question for you then...'
  Staring at the fire, leaning forward, elbow on knee, she mused, 'I wonder about our enigmatic Axelis, neither fish nor fowl. What has he to do with the Professor, and Frank? And this house?' She gazed about her as though hoping the very board and brick would speak.


Emlyn's eyes went wide. 'You didn't know?' She let her gaze roam. 'This house used to be headquarters for some slippery
secret society of my father's and Frank's. Before they...were disappeared.'


'-- Oh.' Athena grasped her meaning. Had Daryl gone the way of them, then? Hints of dire warnings about Nob Hill House from Daryl came back to her now.
   'So...have you explored this place, in depth?'
   'Aye-ee!' Em exclaimed quietly, rather Josephina-like, 'No! I most certainly have not!' She whispered, glancing about as though the house were listening. She prefered not to encourage the moans, cracks and pops and other more eldrich noises chittering and creeping about the haunted headquarters.                                        



                                                          

    'Well then, we probably should turn this place inside-out. Starting with the cellar!' Athena sat up, with a grim smile.


'Ooh...I really don't think...' Em began. Aside from a few interesting wine casks stored therein, she had zero desire to enter below.
  'But me no buts.' Athena laughed, finishing her tea. 'What an utterly bizarre expression!' She remarked to no one. Then turned to Em, 'Would you prefer the attic, then?'


Em was still shaking her head, as she warily regarded her friend.
  Athena set her mug on the table then strode purposefully to the fireplace. 'Women have survived the follies of man, by making bread outof chaos for centuries...' -- she let fall this owl feather of wisdom before bending down to the side of the hearth. 'I know,' she glanced wickedly over her shoulder back at Em, '...a secret passageway!'



Feeling about the bricks then, Athena judiciously worked her way around the hearth, front and sides. Emlyn watched, half-bemused, half-exasperated. 'Ye'll no find annythin', ya daft lassie!' she assured her, trying to sound sensible and Scottish.


'Oh, no?' Athena had had enough of Emlyn's stoically enforced denial. Itching to stir up secret evidence of some long-stagnant rebus; her questing fingers suddenly came upon something odd amongst the brick and mortar...twisting a bit of polished wood that was set betwixt one brick at the back and the next, she snicked something into place with a click: 'Lo, and behold...!'


Incredibly, part of the lower wainscotting bordering the fireplace, popped free of the wall then, as if on cue.
  Athena smiled her cat-in-the-cream smile: 'After you.'

                                                                           .  .  .  .

Click below to listen:
Thomas the Rhymer - Steeleye Span

Chapter 9: New Morning of the Magicians

::At Toledo, where Kyot is said to have learned the Grail,(story) was a famous Kabbalistic school. There were other schools at Gerona, Montpellier and elsewhere in the south of France. There was also such a school at Troyes, which dated from 1070, and was conducted by Rashi, perhaps the most famous of Medieval Kabbalists. Wolfram maintains that Kyot, in turn, supposedly received the Grail story from a Jew named Flegetanis::..

                            . . . .

..::Anyone can rip aside the veil of Time. You can discover the future in the past or in your own imagination. Doing this, you win back your consciousness in your inner being. You know then that the universe is a coherent whole and you are indivisible from it::..

Frank Herbert
Children of Dune
                        .  .  .  .

"I'm convinced the true history of our time isn't what we read in newspapers or books,"  Serviss rambled, while Wells went on examining the key. "True history is almost invisible. It flows like an underground spring. It takes place in the shadows, and in silence, George. And only a chosen few know what that history is."


Felix J. Palma
Map of the Sky

                         .  .  .  .

..::And the bed-covering was of sable, and the couch it was spread so fair,
And in secret a hidden honour they did for the knight prepare,
For no one was there to witness -- the maidens they might not stay,
And the door was fast closed behind them, and Frau Minne might have her way.
So the queen in the arms of her true love found guerdon of sweet delight,
Tho' unlike were the twain in their colour, Moorish princess and Christian knight!


...And ofttimes the queen embraced him, and kissed him with kisses sweet;
And nothing it wronged her honour in such wise the prince to greet,
He was cousin unto her husband, by birth was himself a king.
Then smiling his host spake to him, "God knows, 'twere an evil thing,
Had I taken from thee Toledo, and thy goodly land of Spain."::..


Parzival
Wolfram Von Eschenbach
                                                                    

                                                                          .  .  .  .

Daryl awoke with a stiff neck.
  He braved open one eye. Um. That's right; still in the parlor. He'd slept on the sofa...
 

With some groaning and crunching of bones Daryl sat up.
 -- What was this? Both eyes were open now:
    Emlyn lay at the other side of the large sofa, still asleep.


Daryl ran a hand through his hair. What had happened last night? Vague fog-drenched dreams assailed him.
   To his relief then, Rosa entered the parlor bearing a tea tray.'I thought you might need this,' she whispered, glancing at the dreaming Emlyn.


'Rosa, Rosa...by any other name, you would remain as sweet...bless you, nina.' Daryl took her hand and placed a kiss in her palm.
  She smiled ruefully. 'Comb your hair, Diego, before you frighten her.'


Daryl poured and dipped his fingers in tea, ran them through his wild elf-locks, then added honey and drank; poured and drank again. He went to the bar and brought cold water, thirstily draining a long glass.
  Timewalking again. Must have been, he mused. Or sommat like... He looked at Emlyn.


She began to shift on the sofa. He wondered where they had been.
  Em opened her eyes, gazing hesitantly about her...and sat up, rubbing her forehead.
  Daryl poured another glass and brought it to her.



Holding it out, 'Thirsty?' he asked.
  Emlyn blinked up at him. 'Gracias.' She drank deeply.
'How did I get here?'
  Daryl chuckled, sitting beside her. He poured tea for both. 'You're asking me? I just awoke myself.' He handed over her cup.


Emlyn took the tea gratefully. She looked at Daryl's rumpled clothing.
  He noticed.
 'Yes. I awoke on the other side of the couch.'
  Em smiled in spite of herself. 'That sounds familiar.'
  She stretched and groaned. 'Stiff as a board.' She  took an orange and began peeling.


'Josephina....do you, recall, last night?' Daryl inquired, hoping.
  Emlyn fed Daryl an orange slice. 'Si, Diego. Do you not? Quite the party it was, too...Athena, Thelene, Axelis, even Yeats!'
   'Yeats! Yes!' Daryl exclaimed. 'I remember now...' He took another slice. Frowned in concentration.



'We were at the sea. Yeats, he spoke of my... transgressions. But he cast no great blame.' His gaze met Emlyn's.
  'Em, I know I should not have taken liberties with the...with that which was left in our trust; but as odd as it may sound, I was attempting one last trip to acquire something that may be used in their stead, so that they may at last rest peacefully. (Daryl wondered just how intrinsically peaceable Cup and Box were, however.)
                                                             

Emlyn sucked on her orange, regarding the ever-duplicitous Daryl/Diego. She poured more tea for them, though, and allowed to herself that she and her partner in crime here still had much in common.
  'Indeed, Diego?'


Daryl noted that her inquiry was free of sarcasm.
  'Well, yes. You recall that Yeats mentioned Excalibur.'
  'Daryl.' Emlyn was awake now. 'No. You aren't--?'
  'No, no.' Daryl waved away the temptation. 'It IS a sword I seek. But, no blade from northern climes...'


He stood then, and paced before her, hands in pockets. He stopped before the fireplace and regarded the portrait of the Magdalene. He looked round, gazed at Em over his shoulder.
   'No, the sword I seek is of Damascus steel.'

                                                                           

                                                                                        .  .  .  .

'Tell me more.' Emlyn seemed amicably curious. She sat curled in the couch corner, unbraiding her crimson coils.
   Daryl was only happy to comply. Wasn't often someone actually wanted him to speak. Usually he had to take them unawares...
  'Ah. Well, it isn't a famous sword. It IS, however,
Damascene. That is fame well-earned enough.'



Em leaned sideways, running fingers through her tresses.
  'I have heard a bit of sword lore...the Templars' blue steel blades were unmatched until Damascus steel took back Jerusalem.'
   Daryl smiled. That's my girl, he thought.
  'Yes. Sim, Josephina.' He was tempted to kiss her then, but...best not to press things. He had just had his ring thrown back at him, after all. He sighed softly. Even he wasn't that cocky...not anymore.



'It is now lost, the art of making those blades...'  Daryl paced upon his 'stage'; the parlor, as he spoke his lines, '...since the 14th century, when Tamerlane devastated Damascus and abducted all the sword-smiths  to work for him alone.'                                       

                                                                                       

  'Fascinating.' Em sipped up her tea, holding forth her cup: 'We need more tea.'
  Daryl exited with tray while Em located her bag and fished out a comb. This will be a long and thirsty tale, she knew.


'Thank the gods for Rosa...' he returned with that wisdom. '...she keeps body and soul together for me. As close as ever I've come to having a wife.'
  Too late, Daryl checked his torrent. Idiota, he thought, looking guiltily at Em.
 'I could use a wife as well, Diego.' Was her thoughtful comment, as she ran comb through her scarlet strands. 'Manuel and Rosa help keep us both from unraveling.'

Emlyn seemed strangely simpatico with him today. And not just to put him off guard for once. Ah, if only we could be ourselves with one another.
  'Yes, well...so they do.' He sat beside her. 'Ah, so this sword, then --'
  '-- Is it a scimitar, Diego?' Emlyn looked at him, her eyes gleaming.
  'It is.'


'Oh!' Emlyn stood then, braiding her hair. She strolled to the window, holding the curtain aside, peeking at the morning mist.
   'I love scimitars! Somehow they remind me of my wee krysknife, from my gypsy sister, Emmelina.'
    She turned to glance over her shoulder at Daryl, holding up her left index finger. 'Scar of our blood-sisterhood, and the krysknife.'
                                                                          

Daryl's eyes met hers in solidarity. He leaned back against the sofa, stretching his long legs and smiled, studying his own sinister hand.
  'I have the same scar. From Rafe; Rafel, my gypsy brother...'


Josephina approached, sat and took his hand; holding her own beside it.   'They are the same.' She looked at him, her eyes full of portents. A deja-vu sense of having done this once...had Diego and Josephina sat together thus?
   Absently, his other hand patted his weskit pocket. Still there, the ring...but now was not the time. Again, he stifled that urge to kiss...


'Indeed.' He looked up as Rosa reentered, bearing tea. Daryl rose, taking the tray. 'Gracias, Rosa, rica...'
  Rosa laughed. 'Dear, perhaps, but not rich, just comfortable. That is much better.' She winked at Daryl. 'These are apple-carrot muffins. You both should eat occasionally.'
   With that gentle remonstration, she patted Em's shoulder and took her leave.


'So...Tamerlane, that greedy rascal, took all the Arab swordsmiths with him?' Em poured.
   Daryl accepted his mug, and sipped. Ah, caffeine... plasma. 'Yep. That effectively ended the fame and glory of Damascene swordmaking. By the 1700s, it was truly lost.'


Daryl bit into a toothsome muffin.
  'However, around 1000 CE, some traveling Arab caravans introduced the art of making Damascus steel to Toledo in Moorish Spain. The city became a valued producer of the delicate steel.' He took that muffin in two bites.
 

'Isn't that where the sword of El Cid rests, in some museum or other?' Emlyn studied her bun.
  Diego was impressed with Josephina's sword lore.
 'Hm. I think it may be Madrid.' He spoke the name of the city with a Castillian 'th'; Ma'thrid.
  It tingled when done correctly...
                                                                             

They fed their over-stimulated selves and drenched their exhausted psyches in tea and water. Preparation for whatever may come. One never knew: what, where or when.
  But they enjoyed this space of peace. A time out from the fray. Perhaps more was needed. Pax.


'The sword you seek, then,' Em continued, 'may be one of these? A Moorish espada from Toledo?'
   Daryl smiled; Emlyn seemed, newly cooperative. Interested, even.
   Well-a-day.


'It is. In point of fact,' (Em mouthed an 'ow!' without sound at the pun. Shakespeare did outmatch him in this, still), 'such a beauteous Spanish espada from that city became known as a 'Toledo'.
  'Oh, good.' Em bit into the molasses-moist muffin. 'But, is it a scimitar? It is curved? And carved?'


Daryl was beginning to get suspicious now. Since when was Emlyn interested in his nefarious attempts at artefact rescue? He was usually met with opposition from that quarter which gave none.
  'It is, just slightly curved.' His gaze narrowed. 'And it is slender, not a large carving blade. There are some delicate tracings, some gold enameling here and there...' His acquisitor's lust was beginning to rise just picturing it.


'And,' Em poured them more tea, 'does it have a name?'
   Daryl laughed. 'No. None that I know.'
They paused for a moment, digesting muffins and swordsmithing, while Daryl increasingly wondered about the seachange in Emlyn.
   He hearkened back to the evening previous.


'I know that Axelis, and Yeats, Thelene...as well as Sebastiao and Raimundo, all want my hands off the Cup and Box,' he began, 'and, truly, I do, as well. This last foray, which landed me here, in the midst of the Professor's attack on Frank...' he frowned, '...unsettled me.'


Emlyn  said nought; hoping for more, wilder confessions.
  Daryl sighed. 'I do have an appointment...' he checked his watch, 'later today, with Abdul, and his son, Rashid.' He looked at Em. 'So, you see, I will be undertaking my searches now by more mundane means.'



Emlyn was pensive. 'ALL of your questing after antiques, then, will be sans Cup and Box?' she wondered.
   Daryl did not answer at once. Then nodded. 'I...don't think they will be necessary.' He glanced at her. 'And,  they can be dangerous. As you well know.'


Emlyn had mixed feelings then. She was glad that Daryl, at last, would be out of danger. But...she was disappointed as well.
   Daryl intuited some of this.
  'I thought...you would be pleased.'


She set down her teacup. 'I am, Diego.' She sat with folded hands, gazing at the rug.
  'It relieves me greatly to know you won't be putting yourself in danger; or others...if that is not their wish.' She twisted her fingers apart.


What was that supposed to mean, Daryl pondered?
  In a fit of intuition, he asked, 'Josephina...IS that now...YOUR wish?'


Em sat back against the sofa, sighing. Her gaze drifted from the portrait of the serene Magdalene to the clot of fog pressed against the windows like a crowd of ghosts, and finally focused on Daryl. She decided to take the plunge:
   'Diego; I, that is -- Athena and I, experienced another sort of...initiation, there at la Caterina.'


Daryl slowly drew himself up, alert. 'What, exactly, does that mean?' He queried, frowning.
   'It means,' she fixed him with a no-nonsense stare, 'that I...dreamed. I was, traveling back in time, and I may have re-experienced some ancestor's life events back then.'
 

Not so bad then. Daryl semi-relaxed.
  'Inherited memory,' he mused. 'What...how was this, scenario enacted? Exactly?'
   Emlyn knew where he was going. But, to say she drank an unknown potion then lay upon a redwood and rosemary bower while presided over by Raimundo...that, would not go over well with Daryl, she knew. And so of this, she said nought.


'Athena was there, too, you know.' she tossed out, frowning darkly his way. 'I dreamed, Diego.'
    Daryl bit his cheek to keep himself checked. That may be all he would get out of Emlyn. He would speak with Athena, later. Or Raimundo.
   '...And, your dreams?' he asked politely.


Emlyn stared past him; and at last shut her eyes. Daryl began to wonder after a minute or two.
Then, she roused herself --
  'The first, dream...seems to be in a very dry area, hot, dusty. Chaotic. People, ruins...I am carrying someone. It is...too crazy to make sense of. But, I might have recalled, seeing a helmeted knight. Rather close. The last thing I saw.'


Daryl knew what that meant. The last thing he had seen in his Cathar lifetime had been Yeats' prior incarnation as an avenging défenseur de la foi,  taking his head with sword. Swords again. Espada. Spade. Calling a spade a spade...And, the Ace of Spades?
   -- Yeats, had been his executioner, a one-man Inquisition.
His: 'Il n'y a pas de salut en dehors de l'église' ('There is no salvation outside the church!'), still rang in his head.
                                                                       

          
  Emlyn was speaking again.


'The other dream was...the other side of the coin, I guess. I was, with Raimundo -- he was my guide, then. And,' Em hesitated to mention the petroglyphs for some reason.
  '...and then, we were upon a desert cliffside. It is desert, yet high desert. Foothills maybe. Raimundo is chanting, and...he calls the wind...'


Emlyn was staring out the window, lost in the fog. She seemed enthralled. Daryl waited, but she said nothing more.
 'Yes?' Daryl guessed one had to be there.
  Emlyn sighed, her glance skated over him briefly, before she was drawn back to the fire's dance. 'It's, I can't describe it in words. But, you must know what that's like.'


Daryl sat back, arms over the back of the sofa. He studied the fire as well; indeed, he knew what that was like.
  'So...something like, say...what we experience when we are with Merlin or Anara?'
      Em frowned. 'I'm not sure what you mean, Diego. It was pure. Very, profoundly pure, clear; and oh, so alive! It was like...being the wind.' Her eyes were closed once more, traveling other pathways. Wind dancing.


This was not lost on Daryl. He watched her; he watched the fire. Emlyn slid slightly back down among the pillows and her eyes remained closed. Sighing, she began to dream then in earnest. Asleep; once more in the arms of Morpheus.


Obsessed, the pair of them, he decided.
  He knew it could be no other way.

                        .  .  .  .

When Emlyn awoke, again rather stiff; (really, she must find her bed next time), Daryl was no longer there. Stretching, she allowed herself to roll from the sofa onto the carpet and began a series of yoga exercises. She was in the midst of the Sphinx pose when Rosa entered.


'Oh!' Rosa exclaimed, 'That looks...' she tilted her head, '...very, therapeutic.'
   Em rolled up into the Lotus. 'Yoga; east Indian stretching. It keeps my back from seizing up; especially after a night on the sofa.'

 
Rosa, to Em's gentle surprise, joined her on the thick Turkish carpet.
  Together, Rosa imitated Emlyn's sinuous movements and they worked it all out: from Sun Salute, to Sphinx, Downward Dog to Cat Hump, and a few Em tossed in that she'd developed herself.


'We should do this more often,' Rosa chuckled, as she stood, offering Em a hand up.
  'Yes, absolutely. I'm...' Em knew she had sorely neglected her yoga. And music. All this, traveling about, left one rather...'-- Needing balance. I feel more grounded, balanced when I can stretch in the sun outside...' She cast her eyes to the window of fog.


'Today, we must find the sun within,' Rosa declared, sighing. 'Well, I should clear the kitchen. Sophie and Shekinah will be here soon, maybe Bridget too. And Manuel will join us, of course.'


Emlyn suddenly recalled the Kabbalah meetings.
                                                           
  'Ah, Kabbalah! I'd forgotten. May I join you?' Em was vexed now by all that had passed by whilst she had been fog-enfolded.
  'Of course! Help me get ready for the meeting?'
  Em did. She followed Rosa to the kitchen, wondering...
Daryl also had an appointment with, Abdul and, Rashid, was it?
   This should prove interesting.

                        .  .  .  .


'To review then: The Inner Sanctuary of Solomon's Temple, called the Holy of Holies, was the womb of the goddess Asherah,' Shekinah explained, as Manuel, Rosa, Bridget and Sophie joined Emlyn about the great oaken round table in the kitchen.
   'She was also named Ashtoreth, and Ishtar in Sumer, or Astarte by the Greeks.'


'But she wasn't alone was she,' asked Bridget, 'there in the Holy of Holies?' She winked at the others, knowing that she wasn't.



Shekinah smiled back. 'Indeed. "As Above, So Below", as the Emerald Tablets of Thoth tell us. Bridget knows,' she nodded to that august lady, 'that it was ever the way of folk to know what is there before their eyes until priests decided to brainwash the masses and take power for themselves --'
   '--That's the power of the goddess they'd be stealing away!' Bridget became Boudica when speaking of the goddess, Em noted.
  


Shekinah was ever serene, though.
  'And so it was in heaven, as on earth: a mated pair, the god and the goddess both served in the Inner Temple.
  'The Lady Asherah and the Lord El were the divine couple. Their daughter, Anath, the Queen of Heaven, and their son He, the King.'


'"He",' mused Bridget, 'is most like Hu, the name of the sacred spirit in Celtic lore.'


Shekinah paused, then continued: 'In time, El and He merged into Jehovah, and Asherah and Anath became the Matronit or --' she smiled, 'Shekinah.
  'Originally, YHWH stood for the one god: Y being El the father, H for Asherah the mother, W, the son He, and H Anath the daughter.'


'Just as in old Celtic lore,' Bridget nodded. 'Even when the christoforos made inroads away to the north, the Celtic churches, later called the Culdees, would address their prayers to 'Our Father-Mother God in Heaven'.'


'When, how did things change, then?' Emlyn wanted to know.
  'Good question.' Shekinah regarded her seriously. 'It changed, with the destruction of Solomon's Temple, in 586 BCE, by Nebuchadnezzar. The Matronit was left then to wander in the desert...while El reigned supremely alone.'


Emlyn recognized the metaphor. 'The Wasteland.' She looked round the table. 'As in the story of the graal. Without the divine feminine, banished to the deserts, the world is out of balance and falls into chaos.'



'So it goes. One extreme leads to the other; action and reaction,' Shekinah practically commented.
   'I'm ready for the reaction, already!' Sophie groused, crossing her arms. 
   All had a good laugh then.



'I'm ready, too!' Manuel chimed in. 'Hey, it's no fun always having to be 'the man', you know! I don't always know how to fix everything that breaks down...or be the one to lead. And, sometimes, I'm even a better cook than Rosa!'
   Rosa nodded, with enigmatic smile. 'If only more men felt as you, Manuel. You are indeed a fine cook. And, I'm not so bad at fixing things myself...'



'It takes a strong, confident man to admit what you just did, Manuel,' Shekinah told him. 'Many would rather die than admit to any incompetence or perceived weakness.' She shook her head slowly.
  'Assigning strict, unbending gender or racial roles to people does disservice to all. And, it began with religion. From there, to government. Early days, they were synonymous. Still, even in England, there is no separation of church and state. Hence, the need for study. And change. Those who hide their eyes to the way things are, and why, merely perpetuate injustices.'



Suddenly, a knock sounded on the front door.
   Manuel popped up, and put forth one hand: 'I shall answer; for I am: -- The Man!' He frowned and tucking in his chin, strode forth straight-backed in a stiff-legged march to the door while his audience giggled appreciatively.
   'Dogs and men make me laugh so...' Rosa wryly commented.



Meanwhile, Shekinah opened her satchel and drew forth a folder, which she opened and spread several documents on the table.
   One of which featured a drawing of a mandala of sorts. Emlyn recognised it as the Tree of Life in Kabbalah.



'The 10 sefirot are the forces that create and maintain the universe,' Shekinah explained. 'Proceeding top down, from pure spirit and the emanation of god in the top sefirot, down into the creation of the world and the physical by the lower seven.'
                                                                      

'Was there a center of study of Kabbalah?' Em asked, her curiosity piqued, 'Where did it originate?'


'Actually, yes,' Shekinah answered, placing her diagrams in a pattern about the table. 'And not where you might imagine! The study of Kabbalah actually began in Europe, around the 12th century, in Provence, southern France, and in the 13th century in Spain.'


Emlyn had an idea then: 'Anywhere in particular, in Spain?'
  Shekinah looked up, studying her for a minute. 'There were schools of Kabbalistic thought in Gerona, and Toledo. And elsewhere.'
  Ah, Toledo again! Emlyn was forming a picture here...her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices and movement without...



'-- Will you gentlemen have tea, or coffee?' Manuel could be heard from the front hall, heading their way.  


'Tea will suit us well,' a young male voice answered, 'I'm afraid my father and I are used to such strength in our coffee that would melt your pots!' Soft laughter then, followed by a bold dark head poked around the kitchen door.
  'I detect the divine scent of baked goods, however!' A smiling handsome brown face appeared bordered by ink-black hair and moustaches.



Shekinah hastily gathered up some of her diagrams, while Rosa and Emlyn stood. Em approached the door.
  'Apple carrot muffins. You must try some,' she smiled back, thinking that here, surely, was one of the mysterious men from the east Daryl was expecting.
  'Am I correct in believing you may be Abdul or Rashid?'


Another face joined the first, a slightly shorter, heavier man with salt and pepper hair whose features resembled those of the younger.
  'I am Abdul. Ah salamu alaikum.' He bowed. 'And this ungrateful, brash barbarian is, alas, my son Rashid.'
   Rashid produced the same bowing salute as his more apropos parent. 'At your service...'


'Emlyn. Enchante'...' Em replied, hastily gathering her wandering wits.
   But Rashid had bent to the floor, finding a page of Shekinah's diagrams. This he retrieved and held forth...
'Ah. The Tree of Life, yes?'


'It is,' answered Shekinah, standing and holding out her hand. As her glance went to Rashid, his gaze had preceded hers and was locked fixedly upon her.
   Her eyes met his, and...for them, and all present, time momentarily stood still.
   Neither Rashid or Shekinah moved nor even blinked. At last, Abdul cleared his throat meaningfully.


Shekinah dropped her gaze and moved to grasp the errant page. As their fingers touched, Rashid softly, lightly as a falling rose petal, stroked her long fingers, making their contact last as long as it might. His eyes never shifted focus from upon her features.

                                                                     

Leave it to Daryl to show up just then.
   'Ah. Abdul, Rashid!' He exclaimed, offering a rather decent bowing salute of his own. 'Wa alaikum salaam, and welcome to my house.'
   The spell broken, Shekinah returned to her seat, rather pink, whilst Rosa and Manuel bustled into tea mode.



'Tea, I see, will be ready shortly. Has everyone here met?' Daryl inquired, all ingenuous; blithely he stormed on: 'Emlyn, Bridget and Sophie, Rosa and Manuel, of course, and our esteemed teacher, Shekinah.'


Rashid leapt upon his opening; (--chess was indeed a favorite Arabian pastime...)
  'You have students here? Are you a teacher of Kabbalah?' He asked, a playful smile just touching his lips.
  Shekinah was still recovering from...dropping her documents. 'I am,' she replied, collecting her diagrams once more. 'Kabalah, and astronomy...'
  'Wonderful.' Rashid was all ears. And hungry eyes. 'My people were come from Toledo, where many such scholars had studied the Kabbalah...and the stars.'


All this was not lost upon his father, Abdul, who motioned to his prodigal progeny, as he turned to Daryl.
  'We have the, item, that you requested...'
Rashid noted this, and tore his sight from the flame of Shekinah, his wings barely singed. He nodded and patted a plain leather scabbard at his side.


'Excellent.' Daryl's gaze focused solely upon the 'Item'.
  'We may be more comfortable in my study...' He nodded to Emlyn and smiled at the company seated, before ushering the enigmatic envoy to the library.
  Rashid, the last to leave, made certain to look back to see if Shekinah was watching. She was. He smiled then, all the way to his eyes.

                      .  .  .  .


'Ooh, let me help you with that,' Emlyn grabbed the tea tray from Rosa, with a wink. 'I'll be right back! Carry on...'
  Off to the library lickety-split: Em wasn't going to miss the unveiling of a Toledo scimitar.
  She paused before the double doors and leaned in to listen...although she couldn't catch any words, just a low male rumble within.


A soft knock announced her entrance, as she silently glided forth bearing the nutmeg-ginger spiced scent of warm muffins with her.
   'Emlyn, thank you.' Daryl played lord of the manor before his visitors. But he relented, as she knew he must; 'Won't you join us? I was just telling Abdul and Rashid of your love of the scimitar!'


'Yes, shokran, I shall...' Em took a seat, and began to pour for all.
   Taking a bun, Rashid smiled at her, 'You know Arabic, Emlyn?!'
  'Only a bit of Moroccan Arabic. My sister was there long, long ago. She said she mostly remembered: 'Yalla, yalla! Hurry, hurry!' she laughed.


All joined in chuckling, except Daryl who was eyeing Em narrowly, and frowning into his tea.
  'I hear that often,' Rashid admitted. 'From my father, of course...'
   Abdul smiled, and his features resembled his son's even more then.  'Moroccan Arabic is ours as well. Spain, and Moroc, very close, both then and now.' He made a back and forth gesture with one hand, 'Off and on, you know. All neighbors have the occasional spat.'


Before things could move into Arab/Jewish territory, the Crusades and diasporas, Emlyn spoke up: 'May I see...that is, have you, unsheathed the sword?'


Rashid arose. 'The lady insists.' He eyed his father, who nodded.
  Hoping she hadn't been too forward, but thinking it was worth the risk, Em sat up straight and set down her cup in anticipation.


Slowly, evidently savoring the suspense, Rashid drew forth sword from scabbard...
  Emlyn emitted a small gasp as Daryl drew a deep breath, upon viewing the naked blade; it was indeed, of a deadly beauty.


It was, as Daryl had said, not a thick, hacking blade, but gently curved and more slender...finely detailed etchings that could have been designs or Arabic script ran along the straight edge and the middle fuller. The sharpened edge remained naked steel.
 


Daryl had prepared a dark velvet cloth that covered the table before them and upon this, Rashid lay the sword and released the grip.
  Intricate carvings ran about the gold and silver there, as if some small fairy with skates had danced upon the rim with the cooling of heated metal. Emlyn thought she could discern a pattern thereon. She glanced at Daryl.


Daryl, obviously, had eyes only for the blade. Glazed with reverence and lust, his poker face betrayed by school-boy acquisitive greed, he was beyond caring...Diego's desire now outshone adult propriety and by all the gods he would have this treasure.
   '-- May I...?' he inquired hoarsely.


Abdul nodded; neither he or Rashid making a move or sound otherwise.
They knew their quarry had been well and truly bound...
   Inhaling, Daryl grasped the handle and hefted the blade. It was strangely lighter than he had presumed. Moving away from the company, he lifted and swung the sword in arcs about the room. He began to perspire, although it was a cool day in Baghdad by the Bay.  


At last, Daryl carried it to the window and stood holding sword to the sunlight, turning it this way and that to study the designs and inscriptions. Finding the wavy lines of the 'damask' pattern on the blade
moved him to inhale raggedly with longing...
                                                                           

                                                                              
  'All information we have concerning its authenticity and past owners, those of whom we know,  is contained within the sword's credentials and history, presented here...' Abdul drew forth from his robes a scroll and a small leather-bound ledger which he set upon the table.
                                                                    

Daryl, with some difficulty, freed himself form the spell and looked over at Abdul. 'Of course,' he murmured, as he slowly returned to join the others, still enthralled with his new acquisition.


Emlyn knew that Daryl would, of course, never allow this blade to leave his possession now. And it would consume his attention for some time to come. All to the good, she smiled.
  'It is indeed a work of art,' Emlyn let that statement rest before them, knowing the varied connotations of the word(s): Work and Art.
  'Thank you for this viewing, Abdul, Rashid. It is lovely to have met you both.' She took their hands in farewell. 'I believe I shall return to my Kabbalah lesson. Do stop in before you leave.'
  Father and son bowed in salute, while Rashid assured her: 'We shall indeed, without fail.'


Emlyn knew that, indeed, they would.

                             .  .  .  .


It was much later that same day, after their company had departed, each going their separate ways, that Emlyn thought it would not be long until they all would meet here again.


She and Daryl, who had taken the sword with him, naturally, were in the parlor enjoying the fire and postprarandial kava tea; Daryl had foregone his cognac in favor of keeping a clear head tonight.


Emlyn expected as much; Daryl would wish to play with his new toy. She smothered a smile as she bent to her cup, knowing how that thought might rankle him, but she allowed herself the odd jest, trying to allay any fears that hovered about the room.


It was unproven, and an unknown. But just because it had yet to be put through its paces, did not lessen the ambient anxiety. While Cup and Box were known Infernal Instruments and to be used with caution or preferably not at all; this newest 'Item' was not only an unknown factor, but a deadly sword.


She knew that Daryl could fence; they had even practiced the odd parry and thrust together using foils.
  But, this was no foil.
  And, if it did in fact, prove itself to possess the same abilities to travel though time and space as the other Items, then it could also exhibit some other surprising and perhaps inconvenient traits as well...



'...Just in case,' Daryl was saying, 'I plan to stay alert and prepared for, whatever may ensue.'
   He stood before the mantle, mug of tea in hand and with sword strapped to his side, a modern knight prepared for battle.



'Abdul or Rashid did not give any sign...?' Em inquired.
   '...That it was capable of being, anything more than just as it seemed?' Daryl glanced over at her, all too aware of the growing tension about them. 'No. Not really...although it is certainly hinted of in the history.'


'I shall have to delve into that history,' Emlyn began, thinking it should be studied in depth before taking any action.
  'You will have to be able to read Arabic.'
  Ah. That is why this history was just hinted at.
  'I plan to have it translated in full,' Daryl assured her. He moved over to the sofa and sat with Emlyn, finding the sword rather awkward then. He sighed and removed belt, scabbard and all, setting sword between them.


'Isn't there some ancient custom of laying a naked sword on a bed between a woman and man?' Emlyn asked, idly tracing her finger along the scabbard.


'Umm. Symbolic at best; to aid in keeping intact the lady's honor.' Daryl grinned, and shot Em a glance.
  'Indeed.' Emlyn tried a different tack: 'I...thought I had noticed a little something there, between Rashid and Shekinah. And a sword it decidedly wasn't.'
   Daryl's grin widened. 'Did you now? You, and everyone else!' He slowly shook his head. 'Ah, loving not wisely but too well...they are indeed caught between Scylla and Charybdis.' His hand closed about Em's upon the sword. She allowed it to remain.


'I wonder where it will lead?' He murmured, 'Or if it shall...Abdul did not seem pleased.'
   'I don't know...Sophie and Casey get along well enough.' Emlyn observed. 'But he is Christian, not...Moorish. Has ever there been such love? Surely there must have. Despite territorial disputes, there is much that Jews and Mohammedans have in common.'



Daryl sighed. 'Only to outsiders looking in, I think. Despite being children of Abraham; ah, Em...in my time, the differences became monstrous...' He paused then, his hand tightened upon hers.
   'However,' he released his grip, and taking the scabbard, released the sword once more, studying it, 'in less parlous times, there was more peaceable interaction betwixt us all: Christian, Gnostic, Jewish, and Islamic, as well as Hindu, Buddhist, etcetera. However, it is during just such times of pax pachem and abiding peace that some outside force seems to initiate some bad mojo in the mix to stir up trouble.'


'"Agents provocateur"?' Queried Em.
  Daryl's grim grin returned. 'D'accord, cherie...and, when folk do begin to get along well, as the Templars discovered when they returned from the Crusades, bringing treasure and wisdom of the east, being too friendly with those of other belief and custom can cost you your head.'


Silence for a time.
  They were both thinking of the same thing; the past: when Emlyn, Daryl and Yeats had traveled back through the centuries together by way of Cup; and Yeats as a crusader for Pope Innocent had taken then-Cathar Daryl's heretic head.



Emlyn had felt that some part of her had been cloven from her as well then...that dreamlike scenario had been a nightmare she'd turned away from, but it returned to her now with a whiplike force. She realised that this man knew her like no one else, and she would indeed be losing a part of her own self were he forever lost to her.



Gazing upon the naked, hard and very sharp blade before them, brought the memory home in spades.
  Suddenly, Emlyn's hand was over Daryl's upon the hilt.
 'If you go, Daryl, so shall I. I will not let you go alone. And, no argument!' Her steely gaze was as hard as the blade they held.
  Daryl gave her a look equally adamant. 'I'm afraid not, cher,' he stated quietly. 'And that, is final.'


Emlyn frowned in despair, then took his head in both hands and kissed him deeply. Again, and again.
  His hand fell from the sword...and his arms went round his novia once more. He stroked her crimson locks and shook his head.
 '"Will ye go, lassie, go...?"' he
sang softly, resting his forehead upon hers, his eyes becoming moist.
  Em took his hand and kissed it, '"-- And we'll all go together..."'


The crackle of the fire was the only sound for some time; although another blaze did rage in rivalry near...
                                                                     

                                                                .  .  .  .

LISTEN! Click below:
♫ Wild Mountain Thyme - Sarah Calderwood ♫

Chapter 8: To Dance With Druids

Chapter 8: To Dance With Druids


Stilgar's thoughts were in ferment. There could be no doubt these twins went beyond their father. But in which direction? The boy spoke of an ability to be his father -- and had proved it. Even as an infant, Leto had revealed memories which only Muad' Dib should have known. Were there other ancestors waiting in that vast spectrum of memories...?

Frank Herbert
Children of Dune

                         .  .  .  .

..::Although eventually outlawed by Persia, the influence of the Magi ran deep within the beliefs, customs and rituals of Zoroastrianism.

However, the much older religion was of the Magi who were the elite priestly caste of Media in north-west Iran. They believed in a whole pantheon of supernatural beings called ahuras, or 'shining ones', and daevas - ahuras who had fallen from grace because of their corruption of mankind::.

                   .   .   .   .

'And I fear the tall white-armed ladies who come out of the air, and move slowly hither and thither, crowning themselves with the roses or with the lilies, and shaking about them their living hair, which moves, for so I have heard them tell each other, with the motion of their thoughts, now spreading out and now gathering close to their heads. They have mild, beautiful faces, Aengus, son of Forbis, but I am afraid of the Sidhe, and afraid of the art which draws them about us.’

‘Why,’ said the old man, ‘do you fear the ancient gods who made the spears of your father's fathers to be stout in battle, and the little people who came at night from the depth of the lakes and sang among the crickets upon their hearths? And in our evil day they still watch over the loveliness of the earth.'


W.B.Yeats
The Heart of the Spring
                       .  .  .  .

Musicians began to play and at that very moment Rasputin leapt up so fast he knocked over his chair...suddenly he began to jump and dance, he bent his knees and began to kick his legs out, his beard shook, around and around he went... His face was contorted, he hurried and his jumping was out of time with the music, as if he was ruled by his will and frenzied, he was unable to stop.


Yet he still leapt, twirled, and we all watched.
The site was so awe inspiring, that gazing upon, one wanted to come alive and throw oneself into the circle, and go leap and whirl just like him, as long as one's energy could last.


Drink, dance, and God went hand-in-hand for Rasputin. To lose himself to movement was intoxication similar to losing himself to prayer.
  'He would be driven on into the dance by the surge of healing the music awakened in him,' Maria remembered.


And this intoxication of rhythm in his spirit was not very far removed from the religious transports which at other times he was capable of feeling. In the same way my father did not separate religion from joy.


 His transports of exultation often developed from pleasures of the most temporal kind, and when others thought him clumsy or ridiculous he felt rising in his soul an irresistible buoyancy hardly distinguished from the fervor of prayer.


Douglas Smith
Rasputin
Faith, Power & the Twilight of the Romanovs

                                                        
                          .  .  .  .

Every day a fairylike beauty
steps out from behind the curtain
and puts everyone in a circle to dance

the Sufi dances to that beauty's tune
and waves his soft cloak

but the man of reason
gets confused

his turban comes untied
and drags on the ground


-- Rumi
                                                                           .  .  .  .

                                                                 .  .  .  .
The White World...
  Tabula Rasa. Emlyn found it familiar, though.
This pale land of void. She wondered then if this was where the Chinese had formed the idea that white was the color of death? They wore white in mourning.


She knew this was not the reaper's realm.  Merely another null zone. Timewalking with Daryl or Jack, she would be thrown into black space before 'arriving'. But here...
  The black hole had become white.


Sounds came first. And smells.
She breathed deeply the keen sea air and heard rollers streaming upon the strand. The veil began to lift.


The beach. She knew she wasn't alone and the others behind. But she relished being here and wished to enjoy the feel of sea breezes against her face in the milk-white silken world. Listen as the music of the waves enclosed her in gentle ocean rhapsody.


She paused, stared out to sea. Athena and Axelis arrived out of fog.
  'I have always loved this place.' Emlyn breathed.


'Like the Village of Sopa and Fog.' Athena commented, as she serenely braided her long silver hair against the snatching fingers of the wind.
  Emlyn wondered at that.
  She intuited  some connection between them; the 'fog' was thicker here, however.



'Then, too,' Axelis spoke, 'at times perceptions can take on the aspect of our expectations.'
  They regarded him. Em thought he did not look so out of place here in the hazy Otherwold.
  'Another aspect approaches...' He nodded down the strand.


Em recognised Thelene in the slim dark figure in the distance.
  She smiled at Athena. 'Thelene is come. Do you know her?'
                                                                 

Athena said nought; she was staring, focused solely on the approaching woman.
  Axelis put his hands upon their backs 'Let us meet her.'


Together with Thelene completed a puzzle; a foursome, solid. A foundation upon which to build.
   'Greetings.' Thelene's voice like the ocean as Em remembered.
   'Do I know you?' Athena asked, gazing at Thelene as if she held the answer to all questions ever asked.


Thelene focused on Athena with cool intensity.
  'You do.'
  'Thelene is my sensei.' Emlyn smiled at the teacher who had been with her throughout her life. And in her dreams.
  

Axelis put a warm hand upon her back. Em looked up and was surprised to view a smile from Axelis; it struck her like the phoenix arising from ashes.
  

All of Em's questions; who, what are you really? Who is Thelene, and from whence do you come? What is the nature of the universe? -- All of this seemed unimportant. Everything here seemed to run on greased wheels like the hand of Gwydion and the Twyleth Teg.
  She wondered about Axelis and perception.


'Things change, as one's perceptions change.' He was listening to her mind. 'As one's expectations change. If you could banish all expectation, then your perception could be unlimited.'
   Emlyn pondered how that could be possible. If it was possible.
 

Athena and Thelene glided in; one tall, dark with hair like an upswept raven's wing; the other tall, ensilvered with her mane of moonfire. Mirror images.
   Emlyn couldn't help but remark upon this.
  'You look like sisters.' She realised.


A soft smile crept upon their features as they gazed at one another.
   'We are.' Thelene announced, turning to Em. 'As are you and Anara;  you  refer to her as a future self.    Here, we do not run on that timeline. Here, the circle reigns.
   'Envision a wheel, with spokes protruding from the hub: each spoke is a different incarnation as you would view it, or exploration as we name it. All ongoing at the same 'time'. In your linear, material world, bound by quarantine, this is 'time after time'.'
                                                            

Emlyn was cautiously amazed. 
   Anara, her Daemon as the Greeks had named it; able to see beyond past and future and to advise the Eidolon, the present, workaday self.
   Never compel, but hope to influence. Free will universe. That was a problem for some who were a problem to some.
  She wondered where Anara could be.
  'Ah.' Axelis put a gentle hand on her shoulder. 'Expectations...'


'Sensei,' Emlyn had to ask, 'I have heard a bit of Athena's history, and I have to wonder; why did she have to suffer so, for so long?'
   Athena's face remained serene, but she turned her grey gaze to Thelene.


Thelene closed her eyes, 'Long and long.'
  She looked to her mirror'd sister. Reaching up, she tucked a straying lock of moon-silver behind Athena's ear. 'More so than in many lifetimes. We are strong and survived.
  'Speak truth; would you joyfully return to earthly life again, now; ready and willing to endure the 'slings and arrows of outrageous fortune'?'


'Oh, Thelene...no.' Athena looked pained. 'I never wished to be shackled to the material world. But especially not now. The sheer brutality...' Words failed her.
   She sighed at last: '"When sorrows come, they come not as single spies but in battalions..."'


Thelene turned to Emlyn. 'There you have it. The carrot and the stick, you are familiar?'
  Em nodded.
 'Emlyn, if the carrot were all that was needed, millionaires would be enlightened Buddhas. A stubbon race, humans.'


'You are not human?' Em leapt at that.
  'Not any more.' Thelene's gaze bore into her soul. Emlyn felt herself fall into the deep well of her regard.
                                                                     

'How is it that some people come by cruelty so easily? What, how are they different from the rest?' Emlyn asked. 'Do we not all have the same spark within, a piece of the sun and stars? All have souls, do we not?'


'Not all.' Thelene blinked. Within her eyes swirled the grey world. There Emlyn saw that some were not yet as Others; appearing as anyone, and yet they lacked star spark.
  Empty eyes and lying mouths and the rape of the land. More machine than man.


Thelene blinked again and the grey world was banished.
   'And who is this?' she asked, lifting a white arm ahead.


There, the stairway to the sea bathed by tidal surge. Drawing closer, Emlyn thought she saw a familiar figure seated upon the steps.
   Her tormentor and her refuge -- Daryl.
                            .  .  .  .


To Daryl's vision, gazing up the beach; his heart leapt. He believed Anara was coming, at last.


As they came closer, he perceived now it was Emlyn, not Anara. 
   Thelene/Athena. And Axelis...hard to miss.
   As they neared the lagoon, Daryl stood, readying himself for whatever dreams may come...



Then they were upon him. And, to nearly everyone's amazement, Mr. Yeats appeared suddenly from behind Axelis. He seemed to have simply...stepped out of him.
  'Mr. Yeats!' Emlyn exclaimed. 'It is so good to see you.'
 

'And you, Emlyn.' Yeats tore his gaze from Thelene and regarded her and Athena. 'Athena, I see you have come face to face with your self.'


Like waves seeking shore, his eyes returned to the regal Thelene, for he was hers.
   Athena nodded to Yeats with a bemused look.
  'And Daryl...' Yeats managed to sound equipoised as his eagle's vision shifted his way. 'You, I imagine, have met your match.'
   Daryl felt rather hot under the collar then and thought of leaping into the waves.


'Shall we?' Thelene reposed upon a stair, settling Yeats beside her; Athena took a seat beneath Axelis on the top step, and, at last, Daryl held forth a hand to Em and he seated himself next to his rose and thorns.


Yeats glanced about the Company. His gaze rested on Daryl.
  'Excalibur, the sword and strength of Arthur, tempered by forge and fire. Think upon that as metaphor; more so than as some carraig, a rock transformed by metallurgy.'

                                                                   

Daryl shifted uncomfortably...as much as he enjoyed seeing Yeats. He was also feeling egregiously guilty; both Yeats and Axelis knew about his recent transgression with Cup and Box.
   "Truth lies within a little and certain compass, but error is immense": Lord Bollingbroke.


'So, searching throughout the village for...soup, was it?' Yeats' eyebrows performed prodigous, godlike feats of hoist...
  'And, although seeking antiques both low and high, you found not the shop, but came unerringly to the Forge, did you not?'
   Daryl was well and truly caught.
 'The Forge indeed. And Volunder Kane.'


'The Smith of the Gods!' Athena exclaimed.
'Oh, Emlyn...would that we could have spent some time there as well. Perhaps next time?'
  Emlyn knew her mischeivious side now. Athena was acting the veriest devil, to nettle Daryl.


'And, so.' Yeats' brows lowered, making shade.'Expectation can cloud perception.'
   Emlyn began to see something of Axelis in Yeats.
  'Axelis said something like that earlier.' No, not like that; exactly that. And where had Yeats appeared from, anyway?


'Ergo: Ego...' Yeats continued, 'Your biggest enemy. Your cravings, desires, obsessions: the very stones in your in your belly and on the path when you trip.'


Thelene regarded Emlyn and Daryl like hovering hawk.      'You seek yourselves in each other. Emlyn seeks the Merlin and Daryl, Anara.'
   Her grey gaze, so like Athena's. And like Daryl's.


'Find and follow your own bliss, and there you will find them. That is their reason for being. And yours as well...'
   Yeats affirmed: 'We are our brothers' keepers. There you will find your love. It is our joy.'

 
Thelene spoke: 'Athena can tell you there was much drought on the land on her time line,' she reflected.   'The World was out of balance. Male and female were out of balance with one another. The sacred feminine had been banished and denied, demonized and strangled for millennia.'


'The story of Parsifal.' Emlyn knew. 'And the Fisher King, who lies wounded; a living reflection of the wasteland without. And, no queen.'


'No.' Thelene looked to Yeats momentarily. 'No queen.'
Their gazes locked. Something unspoken lay heavy in the air.
  'Parsifal leaves the castle without the Grail.' Thelene continued. 'He failed to ask the right question, to inquire how he could be of service.
  'And the land lies fallow, and still men are everywhere in chains, women remain in subpar status and children suffer for both; the People of the Book drench each other in blood and the land thirsts. Their Mother mourns.'


Yeats had been gazing intently at Thelene and now he took her hand, raised it to his lips to bestow a kiss, before he spoke:

   '"An abstract Greek absurdity
     has crazed the man
     a trinity that is wholly masculine
     man woman and child
    (daughter or son)
     that's how all natural
     or supernatural stories run."'
                                                                  

He faced the others, smiling. 'Ah, my ancestor could turn a phrase or two, as well,' he nodded to Daryl.
"Ribh Denounces Patrick", so it was.'
  'And so he should,' Daryl nodded back.


Thelene caught Emlyn's eye and smiled softly.
  'There are actually two grails; while the holy Grail does relate to the Magdalene, it is not she. The earthly Grail is the Sang Real, or Blood Royal as relates to the houses of David and Benjamin.
  'The holy Grail is of a finer substance. Often, the Magdalene can be seen carrying it: a Cup, which is here, and not here.'


Silence like a bell surrounded the sound of the sea. Questing, crested sea.
   Daryl breathed deeply. A healing place. Thus far, his wounds had been shallow.
   Daryl thought then: Maybe we, maybe I, will simply be allowed to 'go and sin no more'. Remember: Can't do that. Shouldn't.
He'd taken a vow...to keep and cherish Cup and Box. And Emlyn.


And then, from out of the deeps came a low tone...
From the waves; a siren's song. Fluent and flowing it came; the song of the sea:  Neptune's harp and selkies.


Yeats stood, and offered his large hand to Thelene.
  'Music of the deep. Draoidh boireannach,' he said, bowing, 'Come into the dance with me?'
   Thelene arose, unfurling like a lily. She took his hand and Yeats enclosed her a grand embrace. His Danann priestess.
  
  '"*The sun of his face conquered the moon
    who was thrilled to be held in his arms
    and started dancing..."'

                                                *Rumi

As Thelene and Yeats spun on packed sand, Axelis took Athena by the hand and lifting her to him, off they followed; through the looking glass and down the hollow...


Daryl knew a cue when he saw it --
  Taking Emlyn's hands, unburdened by rings, they stood and Em gently touched his cheek, attempting to smile and reconcile.
  Daryl took her hand and kissed it softly.
 '"*Though the seas threaten, they are merciful."'


They waltzed together then, along the shore and let the Otherworld heal their heavy hearts once more.
  *Shakespeare encore.
                                                                                                   ' ' ' '

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A Curious Soul Astray - kd lang/Ben Mink