..::In 1848, Victor Hugo was elected to the
National Assembly of the Second Republic as a
conservative. In 1849, he broke with the
conservatives when he gave a noted speech calling
for the end of misery and poverty.
Other speeches called for universal suffrage
and free education for all children. Hugo's
advocacy to abolish the death penalty was renowned
internationally.
When Hugo's sons Charles and François-Victor died,
he insisted that they be buried without a crucifix
or priest. In his will, he made the same
stipulation about his own death and funeral.
Hugo left five sentences as his last will, to be
officially published:
Je donne cinquante mille francs aux pauvres. Je
veux être enterré dans leur corbillard.
Je refuse l'oraison de toutes les Églises. Je
demande une prière à toutes les âmes.
Je crois en Dieu.
"I leave 50,000 francs to the poor. I want to be
buried in their hearse.
I refuse [funeral] orations of all churches. I
beg a prayer to all souls.
I believe in God."::..
In all heavens, beauty reigns,
Its beings possess much of divinity.
Peace and harmony rule these realms,
Their beings know not the word 'war'
. . . .
It is to be regretted that the rich and powerful too often bend the acts of government to their own selfish purposes.
Andrew Jackson
If you or I fail at business, we fail. If we cheat and fail, we go to jail. But if you're rich and politically connected, your incompetence may be protected by a government bailout.
Robert Kiyosaki
“If a free society cannot help the many who are poor, it cannot save the few who are rich.
[Inaugural Address, January 20 1961]”
JFK
* * * *
'Soo...' Daryl drew out his o's, aiming for Yeats,
'...did he leave you the keys?' ~
Yeats merely hefted an eyebrow, no mean feat, and
glared at Daryl through half shuttered lids.
Looking down, however, a slight upturning of the
lips betrayed him. Still, the answer: 'No.'
'Ah. Pity, that...was hoping we might take a quick
looksee ~'
'No.'
Daryl just smiled to himself as he strode back to
the desk and flipped the map round. The two men
had returned to the library in the wake of Emlyn's
departure, while Athena had taken herself off home
to the gatehouse.
'Well, the point is moot, I suppose, whatever
Axelis may think about all this...' Yeats grimaced
as he arose and waved a large hand Daryl's way,
'...there's nothing to be done about it now.'
'You don't approve of the engagement.' Daryl
didn't look at Yeats.
He was leaning over the map, his arms braced on
either side of it, occasionally making marks with
colored pencils.
'My personal opinion hardly matters.' Yeats, hands
in pockets, began to stroll about the shelves,
making note of the contents. 'Whether ultimately
it was a good idea or no, remains to be seen.'
He stopped before the desk, addressing Daryl,
'No, it is the problem of you, yourself which
troubles me.'
'Indeed?' Daryl made another mark, 'How so?'
Yeats plucked forth a volume: Notre Dame de Paris.
'Your track record is hardly stellar. You have
proven flighty, mendacious, unreliable, moody,
prone to extremes and taking dangerous chances,
fickle, inconstant, selfish and rash ~ shall I
continue?'
Daryl sighed and allowed himself to slip down into
the desk chair. 'That's...all changed now.'
'Indeed? How so?' Yeats turned, resuming his
stroll amongst the stacks. Daryl continued, blithe and
unaware of the dig.
'I, I'm no longer running.' Daryl leaned back in
his seat, staring at the map before him. 'There
isn't a reason for it any longer.'
'Running, were you, then? To, or from?' Yeats
stopped, glancing back.
'To. Always, to. Mostly. And usually, in vain.'
Daryl admitted. And always, to Anara; the
fleeting, the intangible.
~ Ecstasy...
'Ah.' Yeats was at Daryl's side. His hand stole
gently to the younger man's shoulder. 'I see.'
Yeats did. For he had once been in Daryl's well
traveled shoes...
He turned then to the wing chair beside the
hearth, and sat, rummaging for his pipe. 'I do
know whereof you speak, Tam Lin.'
'I, rather thought you might...' Daryl rolled
his chair half round, staring out the window. 'You
left the Order, to be with Thelene.'
'I left because it was Time. And my work's to
shift elsewhere, because this is where my
battlefield now lay.' He lighted a splinter of
wood and held it to the bowl, drawing red.
'Thelene needed my assistance. I am better able
to effect results there, on the Otherside, as well as here,
on a material level. I am, or was, no longer young.
Still, it is true, this is no longer my...primary field of endeavor.'
Yeats also gazed out at the fog which had stolen
silently about the hill, wrapping all in its folds
before anyone realized...clandestine and integument.
'However...' He puffed on, 'yes, I do know how it
is to try to reconcile oneself to living two
lives; one foot in this world, and one still,
always, in the Other.'
'That's how it was for us both,' Daryl swiveled
round to face Yeats. 'For Emlyn, and me;
she and I shared that fate! And, she has helped to free me
of it.' His face one of grim determination now.
'That's what I've been trying to tell you.'
Yeats studied Daryl, thinking that he seemed to be
trying to convince himself more than anyone.
'I wouldn't be closing the door on that yet,"
Yeats admonished. 'Can't be done. Not now.
You were chosen, you see. You may have bethought
that it was your initiative which brought you to
the Cup or Box. I assure you it wasn't. You both
are now Keepers. And your lives are no longer
wholly your own.' He leaned into the fireplace,
tapping out his pipe. 'Ah, pro tempore, at
least...'
Daryl digested all this rather queasily. As usual,
he'd taken on rather more than was chewable and
now suffered post~choke remorse.
'I'm hardly befitted for this position...I can't
see why I was chosen, as you say.'
'You, alone, were not. You two, together, however,
were. I will reach rather between the beyond to
conjecture that it has somewhat to do with the
dynamics of your alliance, as well as...a shared
past.'
'...Of which you, yourself are a part, sir,' Daryl
reminded him.
'Yes.'
Silence for a time, as the two men pondered on
what all this could portend. Fog had enveloped
them entire now; the Otherworld surrounding them,
perhaps, in soft silent agreement. Null zone.
'Well,' Daryl got to his feet and began to draw
the drapes, keeping out fogworld, shifting and
unstable, the evenings theme. 'all I can say is that I shall
endeavor to do my best, by you, by Emlyn,
this world and the Other...' He closed up the
French windows and joined Yeats by the fire.
'But, like St. Bernard, "what I know of the
divine science and holy scripture I learnt in
woods and fields..."'
Yeats favored Daryl with a rare and wonderful
smile then.
'That, my boy, is the beginning of wisdom.'
. . . .
Emlyn awoke in her bed. Which one? She groggily
blinked about her. Nob Hill House...house of fog
and secrets.
Slowly she arose, trying to arrange her grey
matter into some semblance of thought. Well, it
would seem that secrets follow her wherever she
found herself, but fog...she sighed. It was a
change from the storms of the Atlantic, anyway.
She took what small crumbs of comfort and home
she could in her whirlwind existence...Em had yet
to think of it as a proper 'life'. She had left
that in Pankhurst, when Alice was spirited
away...their many years together as friends, their
garden, their wee creatures throughout the
years...gone now.
Well, it had been Em herself who had done the
spiriting away of Alice, that she may at last be
reunited with her husband Frank, who had gone
missing In Between Time for decades. Emlyn would
have done anything to see her friends happy at
last.
That probably was the last time she had felt
anything close to a 'home', or family.
She'd simply scrambled, trying to survive since
then...and people who believed they knew her would
remark that she'd 'always led such a carefree,
kaleidoscopic, adventurous life!'
The struggle to survive in this world was never
carefree, she knew too well.
And everywhere, always, she found herself the
Sassanach. Outsider. Never belonging, anywhere. No
kith, clan, kin nor tribe.
Fantine
Indeed, she sighed, running fingers through
dream strangled locks, she'd had to exit Pankhurst,
after breaking Lev out of jail, and then again,
running to Sonora with the Guevaras after the
debacle on race day which had gotten some idiot
killed, (of accidental strangulation by the sheet
he'd been wearing while vandalizing their
property), Em conceded that she had distanced
herself from friends and what family she had left
for their own safety.
She kept her distance then. It was for the best.
...It was always something.
More so, since Daryl...
Such a waste of thought. Basta...
Truth was, due to her upheavals she had become a
true citizen of the world; meeting people from all
walks of life, nations, climates and customs. And
always, the more humble, the poor, the
disenfranchised, were the ones who reached out to
her and she to them.
How people could despise others they had no
personal knowledge of, was ever an enigma to Em.
She had to conclude that they simply never lived
their lives outside of the ivory towers and
mansions on the hill they'd built; far above the
rabble below. Hatred from on high...
"He who does not weep does not see", Victor Hugo
wisely noted.
And after the riot at the town hall in Pank, at
the family planning lecture, she knew that the
only protestors there were hidebound clerics and
society dames; certainly not the poor and abused
who suffered poverty and hunger, high infant
mortality rates due to rivers of children, born
only to suffer and die young.
At least she, with Daryl's willing help, had been
able to contribute funds for Sophie's education...
it was hard to even recall the tattered and rock
hard orphan girl Emlyn had noticed on the library's
steps with her dog, playing banjo and singing for
her supper; compared to the confident and brilliant
young woman she now was, her quick wit ever ready
for debate with any takers.
Em knew what it was to suffer, to be cold, in
pain without release or relief. It was better not
to have been born, she'd often felt then, than to
exist another second in the black iron prison
the world had now become...
Frederick March ~ Jean Valjean . Les Mis 1935
matrons protesting the need for family planning
had ever adopted these 'unfortunates' they were vocal
about. Hypocritical harridans.
This modern world of industry and child labor...
no clan or tribal unity in community any longer.
Those who bethought that all life was 'blessed' had never
had to experience prolonged suffering without end.
She longed for Villa Encantada, a bit...
Em arose and poured water into the basin to
splash over her heated head. What had brought on
this strange reminiscence?
Alejandro Orez, aka Raimundo, perhaps. "We have
to talk," he had told her, then...the strange
ceremony: and ~ pfft~!... off and gone,
escaping the village of sopa and fog, and secrets.
Alejandro was her link now to Alice. And the
Captain...she did so wish him well. Not to
mention, dear old Lev...whom, she'd heard, had
become rather close to Alejandro when they'd
reached South America. She'd been glad for them
both.
That man, now Raimundo...could tell her a thing or
two, she bet.
Hm. How to get Daryl sorted, though? She wished
that they could simply be honest with one another;
Daryl's modus operandi for too long had been a
magician's trick: watch what I do over there, so
you don't see my hand in your pocket here, sort of
thing...
She knew Daryl could never belay that collectors
itch for treasure. Obsession, more like.
Em nearly smiled.They were more alike there
than she'd care to admit. Truthfully, when she
argued with him to leave the bloody Infernal
Instruments alone, she was trying to give herself
the same admonition.
Braiding her ropes of red gold,
she supposed that her life of 'adventure' as
others saw it, could be very heady at times,
(...in between the beheadings, la revolucion,
rescuing Diego from Buzzard beatings as prelude to
becoming an offering to the elder gods, staked out
on a pyramid in a lightning storm...)
'Etcetera, etcetera...' Em sighed, King of
Siam~ish.
Today, Em was tired. She longed for a bit of
gardening, hands deep in the earth, churning
worms. She needed grounding. In sooth, she felt
about half solid at times. More worm churning,
less timewalking.
Did Daryl feel this way too, ever?
. . . .
Stealing down the staircase, Emlyn stopped and
listened: ~ guitar!
No, make that two...
She ghosted to the parlor alcove and leaned
against the wall as she studied Daryl and Manuel
engaged in some fine flamenco.
Obvious to her, was Manuel's mastery of the art;
for once, Daryl was not center stage here. Good.
He could become rather inflated from too much hot
air blown his way...
Oh, how lonely her beloved Felix had become of
late! No mandolin practice since when ~ ? Em
couldn't recall. Josephina had gotten in some
sporadic jabs at it back in Villa Encantada.
That was it.
This transient life was much interfering with
her musical aspirations. ('etcetera').
She applauded as they finished with a flourish and
then turned to regard their artful audience.
'Bravo, mi amigos...'
'Ah, Emlyn,' Manuel, ever a gentleman, arose.
'Come join us. We can use a mandolin.'
Daryl was gazing at her as though she were a
ghost. He coughed, rousing himself. 'Yes,
my...dear; come and sit. You seem rather pale...'
(~ Not adding: where the heck did you come from,
what have you been up to, and Axelis isn't out for
my head, is he?)
'I would love to, perhaps later. I feel rather in
need of strong tea and something to nosh...' Em
actually felt rather faint. Time~lag.
'We've left you some omelet, cher,' Daryl began.
Manuel added, 'There is also sopa, from the
village.'
'Oh, sopa!' Em became animated. 'I'd forgotten!
Oh, soup for breakfast...and tea, my favorite. And
satsumas! Oh, if music be food, play on...' Her
voice trailed off as she mumbled her way into the
kitchen, mangling Shakespeare en route.
Daryl and Manuel grinned at each other...a 'that's
our Em' grin, as they retuned and returned to
their allegros.
. . . .
Later, Daryl wandered, guitar in hand, to the
kitchen and found Emlyn upon her 'perch' as she
called the corner kitchen stool from which she
could view the garden; still idly stirring a soup
bowl whilst bent over a book, and giving no notice
to her beloved bedeviler.
'Buenos dias, Josephina,' Daryl attempted, as he
poured coffee for himself.
A glazed expression iced over his novia's face
as she looked up from the page and tried to focus
on the world without.
Recognising the signs of book~thrall, Daryl's grin
shot sideways as he sidled up beside her.
'What are you reading, cheri?' A long brown
finger traced along the page. 'Ah. Notre Dame de
Paris. How very odd,' he remarked, looking pensive
perhaps. 'Yeats had been poking about this tome
earlier.'
'Maybe that's why I'd found it here...it's been so
long ago since I've read it. It seems new to me
now.' Em still stared at fog, not seeing Daryl.
She bestirred herself and deigned the briefest
of glances his way. 'I wish my French were
better...so much lost in translation. The lovely
puns and jests, we hardly realise now. He wrote a
book on Shakespeare, you know. I do love Hugo,
nearly as much as Dickens.'
'Yes...' Daryl was reading over her shoulder now.
'Les pauvres, les riches, c'est une affaire
affreuse...'
'The poor, the rich, are a dreadful business,
still, Diego!' Emlyn leaned her head upon hand.
'Oh, does nothing ever change except to become
worse?'
cheri, ma petite flamme...' he lightly kissed her
fiery head. 'Let us not become too mired in muck
lest we lose heart. Courageux citoyen! Were it not
for revolutionaries like we, we happy few, ma
chere, what little gains we've won for justice
would be rather nil.'
Em nodded and shut the well~worn book. 'That is
so. Alas that our own revolution here in America
has come to nothing but utter tyranny and
desolation...'
This wouldn't do, Daryl realised. Em had been
through too much of late. Timewalking, alone,
could be hard on the physical, and other more
subtle bodies. Just because his life had been
nothing but, (that he could recall any longer),
did not mean that it was ever easy.
Most thought him batshite crazy, he knew. And,
he had to admit that this sort of life does take a
toll on one. Emlyn need not walk that tightrope,
however.
'Cara...when or wherever we are, we will be safe,
together. Just say the word, and I will make it
so. You know keeping those dear to us protected is
sine qua non ~'
Emlyn smiled and reached a gentle hand to his
lips. 'Yes. I know.'
He caught her hand in his and the two estranged
lovers regarded one another for the first time
in...how long had it been?
'You know...we always seem to be running,
Diego.'
Daryl raised her hand to his lips and pressed a
gentle kiss upon it. 'No more.'
Emlyn took back her hand.
'Cheri, I...' Daryl turned, flailing a bit, and
sat at the table, guitar on lap. 'I know that we,
~ I, have kept things going at rather a
tempestuous pace of late, but, that's now changed.
Actually,' he sipped his coffee, 'Yeats and I,
had a rather lengthy discussion upon that very
subject.'
'Indeed?' Emlyn's eyebrow shot skyward, but a
petite imitation of Yeats in full form.
'Elaborate, do, Daryl. Mon cher.'
How does she do that? Call me 'my dear' like she's
throwing down the gauntlet?
'Ah, well...' Daryl sat back and began tuning
guitar. 'I had assured him that we will act as is
befitting Keepers of the...items. And, that
nothing is to threaten their safety, or our own.'
'Hm.' Was Em's everything~and~nothing reply.
'Yes.' Daryl ceased tuning and leaned forward
over guitar, fixing her with a grey gaze. 'I told
him that I had quit running. I had found what I'd
been seeking for so long.'
'~Lequel est?'
'~Tu,' Grey gaze became dark steel.
'Naturellement.'
Emlyn sat back herself then, saying nothing. She
wouldn't deride his declaration. She would wait.
Still...
'L'action a plus de poids que les mots.'
Ever hopeful eyebrows gained altitude upon Daryl's
gaze.
'Not that kind of ações, Diego o'dos burros
fedorentos!' Ah, Josephina was back; Emlyn
couldn't resist a dig at Daryl. Daryl the fickle,
the flighty, and just slightly sly.
Daryl laughed softly, and began to tease a soft
Spanish tune from his strings. He shot Em a 'good
one' grin her way.
'I have bathed this morning, I'll have you know.
Oh, yes, and Yeats left assured that we would do
well with our...charge, as it were. He even
compared me to St. Bernard.'
'Ah, isso é tão, Diego?' Em humored him, knowing
full well that it most assuredly was not. 'Are you sure
he meant "THE" St. Bernard? Not, "A" ...'
'Sim...' Daryl struck a blow to the strings then
tickled them gently, wishing he could thus play
his novia...'maldição sua língua afiada...' he
began to sing softly.
'Whatever that was, it began with a 'mal' and
thatsa no good!' Em/Josphina frowned at him, but
her lips were smiling.
'Sometimes, though...it can be good. Very, very
good, that língua of yours...querida.' Daryl's
eyes darkened then, eyebrows dancing.
'This is nothing like Saint Bernard, I'm afraid.'
But Emlyn glided from her roost on high and took
her turn behind Daryl, rubbing his shoulders as he
played.
'Ahh...oh, Em, that's so...nice...' Daryl closed
his eyes and let fingers falter.
'Keep playing. I need more sopa,' Em declared,
suiting action to mots.
Daryl complied. They were back on solid ground
together once more. And tonight...? His gaze
studied the deepening fog. Tonight was not so far
off...
'Ah, true, true, verdade; perhaps Saint Bernard
was a bit too saintly for this poor donkey
boy...lonely and lost without his Shepherdess...'
Daryl began a new tune, what Alice used to call
'the blues', but played with a jaunty beat. Em
dished up her sopa and joined him at table.
'How about I play a song for you about a
different sort of saint? More of a saint of the
people, a complicated sort, but some spoke well of
him and his simple milagros at one time...'
'That's more like you, Diego. Let's have it,
then.'
'Listen then, Em, and you shall hear ~ of
'The Saint of Cobb County', thus...ma chere'
And Daryl launched into the story song of that
saintly sinner.
* * *
WATCH AND LISTEN~!
Andrew Delaney and The Horse You Rode In On ++Saint of Cobb County++
Charles Laughton . Maureen O'Hara 1939
