. . . .
..::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...
. . . .
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