Chapter 37 - The French Mystique

 Chapter 37 - The French Mystique


What strikes us is the virtual equality between the men and women involved in the foundation of Ville-Marie. Jeanne Mance, from Langres in Champagne, was a laywoman (who) was the founder of the Hospitalier sisters of St.Joseph in Montreal (1642).

Maguerite Bourgeoys, from Troyes, was the founder of one of the lst non-cloistered female congregations, dedicated to education, in the Catholic Church, the Congregation of Notre Dame (1659), which was the female equivalent of the Sulpicians.

This rare equality in social status between Christian men and women in Montreal was something completely new during the 17th century. Women were among the lst members of the Societe de Notre-Dame de Montreal. Yet, in France, they were never recognised as equals by the Jesuits, many of whom were in the Compagnie du Saint-Sacrement.

Francine Bernier
The Templar Legacy in Montreal, The New Jerusalem

..............


Quebec-based Paul Falaradeau in Societes Secretes en Nouvelle-France, builds on the theories of other French authors...in stating flatly that the Templars had traveled to the Americas.

Falaradeau also says that behind the founding of the city of Montreal one will find the Company of Sant-Sacrement de l'Autel, a secret society who arose in France at the same time that the Rosicrucian Manifestos appeared in Europe.  The company's goal was to create New Jerusalem in the New World:

"Most of the leader's origins were from the Languedoc...Cathar country...although they seem to have hidden themselves behind the Catholic priesthood in order to avoid the suspicions of the church...all prominent members were close to the French Crown...For half a century, they did humanitarian work in France, while supporting the foundation of Montreal...This Company of Saint-Sacrement was behind the foundation of The Sulpicians.

Today, in the Sulpicians' building in Montreal, it is easy for the trained eye to see plenty of Masonic symbols...In the church of Notre Dame de Bonsecours in old Montreal, which was built in the 1670s, Templar symbols are abundant, especially Templar crosses."

Karen Ralls
Templars and the Grail

............

The task of ministering to pilgrims was performed by the Hospitallers of St.John. The separate Knights Templars were a very select and special unit. They had sworn an oath of obedience - not to the King or to their leader but to the Cistercian Abbot St Bernard de Clairvaux, who was related to the Comte de Champagne.

It was St.Bernard who first translated the sacred geometry of King Solomon's Masons and it was he who preached the 2nd Crusade at Vezelay to King Louis VII and a congregation of 100,000. At Vezelay stood the great Basilica of St.Mary Magdalene and St.Bernard's Oath of the Knights Templar required the 'Obedience of Bethany - the castle of Mary and Martha.'

It was not by chance that Chretien was sponsored and encouraged in his undertaking by Countess Marie and the Count of Champagne.  Grail lore was born directly out of this early Templer environment, and the Perlesvaus portrayed the Knights as the wardens of a great and sacred secret.  Wolfram's Parzival defined them as the Guardians of the Grail Family.


Laurence Gardner
Bloodline of the Holy Grail
                                                                            

..........

When Mary Magdalene died her body was entombed by St.Maximin in a chapel in Southern France and was later transported to the small town of Vezelay to become the treasure of the Abbey Church of Saint Marie-Madeleine.  The Magdalene continues to produce miracles in the lives of those who pray to her, and because of the immense spiritual power that still surrounds her relics, people from all over the world regularly receive profound healing at Vezelay.

Mark Amaru Pinkham
Guardians of the Holy Grail

...........

'So!' Alain poured the remainder of the good wine of Provence all round. 'When do we leave, then?'

'The sooner the better, really.' Emlyn was intrigued, curious and rearing to go...she had been feeling rather at loose ends of late, and with Daryl disappearing, she felt as though no one was about who could help with the esoteric problems that were plaguing her at present.

And, perhaps, just perhaps...this Oncle Maurice might have some information that could put the kibosh on this whole nefarious plan of Kidd's and St.John's involving a realignment of time lines leading to assassination as well as a new government headed by Bonnie Prince Charlie of all things...not to mention Canada's overtaking the U.S.

It was a lot for a couple of Welsh and Irish lasses to handle on their own. At least they had Alain on their side now. And possibly the enigmatic Uncle Maurice.

'Oui. Bon.' Alain nodded. 'I have contacted Oncle, and he is expecting us soon, although I did not give any particular date.'

'Hold on!' Shannon appeared somewhat panicked. 'I cannot take so much time off from the shop! I have been closed much too long already.' She finished her wine, as if to fly immediately. 'But, time is critical. Why don't the two of you head up now? I can join you later, perhaps by the weekend.'

Alain took her hand, kissed it lightly. 'Are you certain, cherie?'
  Shannon sighed, then nodded. 'Yes. I've been closed ever since the barn dance...how long ago now? I can't even recall. I must catch up on things at home.'

'Well, if you must.' Em wasn't so sure about this...too many Unknowns of late. 'But, don't be too long?'

'I won't be.' Shannon was adamant. 'When will you leave then?'
'In the morning.' Alain declared. 'Oui?' He asked Em.
'Yes, all right. Tomorrow morning it is then.' Emlyn still looked unsure.

Llew however, was smiling wide. He looked quite satisfied. Em wasn't at all sure that was a good sign.

..........                                                              

At long last, Daryl and Brother Valentine were arrived at St.Blaise des Bois, Saint of the Wood.

They weren't kidding. Daryl had seen nothing but, en route, and cresting the last hill above the monastery, glowing pale like a moon sitting on the hillside, he could see nothing about them but trees surrounding, with a silvered mirror in the distance which could be a lake.

As promised, however, he now saw dotting the green, a few fluffy white spots industriously grazing.
  -- Mouton. But no bergers, much less bergeres...     "Feed my sheep," Daryl commented softly.

'Oui,' Brother Valentine agreed. He narrowed his gaze at the sky, now nearing sunset. 'Possibly we are between Vespers and Compline. And hopefully, even nearer to supper.' He smiled at Daryl. 'First, we shall unload the cart, and tend to Brother Asses here...'
  Daryl grinned, for once he heard the phrase refer to actual asses. Other than himself.

...........

Morning came much too quickly, or so it seemed to Emlyn. Diosa, that was good wine...she'd slept like a sun-drunk barn cat.

She found Llew and Alain in the kitchen already, working on the remains of the quiche and baugette.
Alain interrupted his petit dejeuner long enough to offer Em a hearty 'bon jour!' as he attempted to stand, whereupon Em waved him back to his seat.
Llew, she noticed, had not seemed to notice, studying a book closely as he grazed.

'And, bon jour to you, both!' Em declared. Llew looked up then, seemingly to notice her presence for the first time. 'Ah, good day, Emlyn!' He smiled, which was good. He had a winning smile that would lend him much-needed charm.

'Would anyone care for tea?' She put on a full kettle, and began peeling an orange for herself.
'Oui, bon,' Alain nodded. 'I fear we have decimated the delicious quiche and baugette as well...'

Emlyn took some pumpkin and walnut muffins from the icebox, saved for just such a quick bite. The lads fell upon these like ravening wolves as she managed to save two for herself, drawing fingers quickly away.

'Shannon left late last evening.' Alain sadly stated. 'But, she assured me she would be in touch soon.'

Em poured tea all round, taking her muffin and orange to her high stool perch above the table.
'Is there anything I should know about your Oncle Maurice before we meet?'

'Non,' Alain sipped the tea, still hot. 'My Onc' Maurice is...someone not easy to describe, but he is easy to get along with. Mostly.' He stirred in some of the lavender honey Llew had brought back from St.Williams. 'He has very strong opinions on certain things...politics is a topic to avoid, in general.'

'I know nothing of Canadian politics, so I should be safe there.' Emlyn was glad of that.
  'Yes, well, he can argue the political climate of other eras and countries, with as much vigor as current situations.' Alain smiled. 'One might say, he lives in the past, in certain regards.'

'Indeed? Such as?' Emlyn was finding Oncle Maurice to be rather stuffy already. No doubt he was old, stooped and gouty with aches and pains fueling his provincial and no doubt conservative notions.

'Eh, well...' Alain leaned his head on a hand, seemingly pensive as he stirred his tea. 'He does seem to favour dressing in costume of the middle ages.'

'Oh?' Both Emlyn's and Llew's red heads were raised, radar on. 'A bit, ah, eccentric, is he?'
  'Mais oui, just so!' Alain seemed satisfied to be able to find a suitable label for his enigmatic oncle.

Emlyn felt she'd been warned. 'I shall endeavor to keep an open mind...' And a closed mouth, she didn't add, thinking that a humble and gentle approach would be needed in ferreting out information from the old gent. And, a lid on her temper.

'Are we nearly finished, then?' No time like the present for a brisk timewalk, and get this behind us, she decided, sipping the last of her tea.

'Llew, do you have everything you shall need here? There is plenty to eat in the larder, and apples in the orchard...you know where Athena is...although I would give her and Wolf Star some time alone for a little while...' she smiled.

'Of course!' Llew stood, coming to take Emlyn's hand. 'Don't worry, Em. I shall be better than fine here!' He smiled, charmingly. 'I may work on my salad making, among other things.'

'Of course...' Em still worried. 'We shan't be too long, just there and back again, perhaps.' She gave Llew an impromptu hug, tucking stray scarlet locks behind those impossible ears. She gave him a last warning look. 'Stay safe! And keep an eye on any fires you build, make certain they are out before you leave...'

'Wolf Star taught me about fire safety, no worries, Em.' He looked much younger than he was, but he seemed capable enough.

                                                                             

'All right.' Em looked to Alain, standing by, expectant. 'You know how this works, oui?'
   He nodded, 'Oui.' He gave Llew a smile and nod, 'Soon we shall return, you'll see.'

Emlyn put her arm through Alain's, taking her mobile unit from her skirt pocket. 'We're off!'

And so they were.

..............

Daryl and Brother Valentine had stabled his good beasts, brushed, watered and fed them, and then each took a small keg of the bien biere with them through the herb garden which led to the monastery kitchen.

'Believe me,' Valentine began, 'this is the best way to enter...once they see us bringing in kegs of this heavenly biere, our welcome will be well-met indeed.'

Daryl took his time passing through the herbs, inhaling deeply of their divers scents. As expected, he found the usual mint, lavender and rosemary, hardy plants that thrive even in harsher northern climates,
but he was slightly surprised to find belladonna, datura, (jimson weed, and usually found much farther west and south), and wolfsbane. A garden of healing herbs, and poisons as well, in certain doses...

Glancing about, he also noticed what appeared to be a glassed-in structure with greenery showing through the panes. A greenhouse, surely.

'Allo? Allo, Brother Julian! Bon soir, and peace unto thy house,' Valentine called, as he entered the kitchen. 'Where would you like these casks?'

'Frere Valentine, un plaisir!' Brother Julian approached, looking the very brother of Brother Louie back at St.Williams, although he may have had several pounds on Louie. He noticed Daryl then, nodded, and switched to Anglaise. 'Right where you are is fine.' He motioned to an empty corner.

'Ah.' Brother Julian wiped his flour-coated fingers on an apron tied about his habit, and offered a hand to Daryl. 'Bienvenu, and welcome to St.Blaise's 'umble maison de Dieu! You are the Anglo who is come for retreat, non?'

'Oui, merci, Brother Julian,' Daryl took the good brother's hand which had a tres' robuste grip.
 '-- Enchante'.'

'You will be, after tasting Brother Julian's pain d'epice,' Valentine offered, glancing about the kitchen. 'Is supper soon? I have lost track of time en route.'

'For such a thin rail, you often have your stomach on your mind.' Julian replied. 'I might be able to find something upon which you may feed...Compline isn't for an hour or so yet.'

'Bon.' Valentine eyed the casks. 'Would you care to sample a taste of the new biere from St.Williams? Then we can unload the rest of the cart.'

There was an impromptu petit diner upon the big wooden table in the middle of the kitchen which Julian cleared by half, setting out a fresh baugette, and an assortment of fragrant cheeses, while Valentine tapped a keg, pouring mugs of the hearty brown biere.
 
Brother Julian raised his mug.
  'May those who taste these gifts be fully healed of all ailments of the throat and of all maladies of body and soul, through the prayers and merits of St.Blaise, bishop and martyr, You who live forever and ever. Amen.'   

Daryl and Valentine echoed their 'amens', and proceeded to indulge in some real food at last, most welcomed after a lengthy journey's end.

Valentine spread a creamy Brie upon a slice of dark baugette. 'Aa-ooh...' he groaned, 'it seems an age since I have had any real cheese...' He closed his eyes, in delicious meditation. 'Is this chabichou du Poitou? Ah, bon! Fourme d'Ambert! Et, Reblochon! Oooh...' 

                                                                   

'You must forgive Valentine his excess in worship of the fromage,' Brother Julian said, setting bowls of hot venison stew before them. 'He refuses to eat the shee-sez across the border, you see.'

'It is tasteless, Julian!' Valentine shook his head.
'And scentless as well.'

Indeed, Daryl could not miss the strong odeur of the fromage de Francais. 'I also prefer a more robust cheese. These are all magnifique...' As was the stew. Daryl knew he would feed well here, it seemed.

Julian smiled, glad to see an Anglo with sense and senses for a change. 'Your southern honey, however!' He kissed his fingers in a tres' chef Francais gesture. 'Unsurpassed!' He sat beside Daryl, making the bench creak slightly. 'You did bring the lavender honey, oui?'

Daryl smiled to himself, thinking how odd to hear New England referred to as 'southern.'

'Oui, oui!' Valentine waved a hand. 'Naturellement. It was, I am told, an exceptional year for it! All praise to St.Modamnoc! I cannot wait to try it upon your spice bread, mon cher Frere.' Valentine had finished his bowl already.

Daryl paused in his elbow-bending. 'St.Modamnoc? That is a name unknown to me.'

'Ah, bonne St.Modamnoc...' Julian took up the tale, '...is the patron saint of beekeepers! Modamnoc of Ossory was a 4th c. disciple of St.David of Wales. He was the monastery's beekeeper and would walk among them talking to them without ever a sting!'
    The robuste monk smiled, tapping a bit more from the keg which had been wrestled closer to table.
   'The good saint's conversations with the bees comes from an old Irish custom of "telling the bees,"
keeping the bees informed of any family news so they will not be offended and leave the hive.'

'C'est vrai,' continued Valentine, also adding a bit more biere to his and Daryl's mugs, 'When he left for Ireland, his beloved bees followed him, forming a swarm in the ship's mast. Modomnoc twice turned the ship about, to return them to the monastery, but then St.David gave him permission to keep them.'

'Such a wonderful story!' Daryl smiled, enjoying the tale as much as the velvety Reblochon he ate with the good brown bread. 'And, oui, the honey of St.Williams is hard to beat.'

'Alas, we have been out of that particular nessecity for some weeks now. Desole'...' Julian looked down, truly in despair mode.

                                                                           

'All right.' Valentine stood then, taking their bowls to the sink. 'Merci, cher Julian! We will fetch you your honeys, and some not-so-bad sheep's cheese from St.Agnes as well as their fine soft sheep fleece. Brother Sebastian sends some healing herbs as well.' He turned, waving to Daryl, 'Allons-y!'

As Daryl and Valentine headed back out into the liminal twilit evening, the jardin's herbal scent of wild perfume redolent in the breeze, Valentine leaned back through the kitchen door.
  'Spice bread,' he reminded his friend, before leaving.

...........

Emlyn and Alain found themselves standing outside of a small cottage in what was, Alain explained, Old Montreal. He stepped up to the plain wooden door, rounded on top and looked to be made of formidable thick oak. He knocked upon the door, which sported a spy hole, in the shape of a small fleur d'lis.

Turning to Em, he smiled reassuringly, and soon enough, they listened as several locks, bolts and chains were disengaged, and the door opened a crack.
  'Bonjour, oncle!' Alain exclaimed. 'Comment allez vous?' He took Emlyn's arm, (to keep her in place?) and stepped forward. 'I have brought my friend, who is also interested in historys' mysteries.'

Silently, the door opened, and Oncle Maurice, apparently, moved aside behind the door to allow them within.
 
It was a cosy parlour, with maple paneling along the walls and candlelight everywhere, a cherry fire in the grate and several comfortably padded chairs and sofa before the fireplace. A formidable pirate's chest sat before the couch, reminding Em of Athena's, in that same setting. A large round stained glass window at the back of the room added a welcome crimson, cobalt and golden radiance. A slight scent reached Em's nose, both familiar and strange...frankencense?

                                                                        

'So. Nephew. Here you are.' Oncle Maurice was a man of few words, it seemed.
   'Oui, Oncle!' Alain turned to Emlyn, who was still staring about the room, taking in the ambiance.    'Allow me to present ma cher ami, Mlle. Emlyn Page, who worked for the city library for some years.'

Emlyn turned round, seeking to put an image to the low voice. 'Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,' Em began, prepared to be as gentle as possible toward Alain's aged relative.

Oncle Maurice at last came out from behind the door, closing it, and stepped into the amber light.

A tall man strode forth, all six foot plus of him, shoulders broad, dark handsome head tossed back, clothed in a robe of intricately embroidered vaguely Eastern design, and taking Emlyn's hand bowed graciously.  

'Enchante', mademoiselle...' He then straightened, eyeing Emlyn with a look of mingled surprise and amusement.
  'Tell me, Emlyn, do you play chess?'

Emlyn was struck speechless.

                                                            

 Josh Groban - Hymne A L'amour
............

Chapter 36: Fleur d'Lis - Sub Rosa

 ..::I was always intrigued by the obscure meaning or origin of some of these objects of devotion fueling the mysticism of the 17th century founders of Montreal: What are these Black Virgins doing here? And why does one of them contain the relics of an obscure 4th c. Armenian Saint? What are those red crosses, found on several old maps? Where does the name Stella Maris come from? Why is John the Baptist the patron saint of French Canadians? After putting together dozens of pieces of information, the puzzle revealed an unknown dimension of the history of Montreal's foundation::..

.............

..::The old Salic Law, a Germanic code instituted at the time of Clovis, was invoked wrongly many times to bypass female heirs to the throne of France. This law initially dealt mainly with property inheritance, not the passing of titles.

Was the interior Societe de Notre Dame protecting some secret that could challenge both the French State and the Church, such as the existence of a rightfully royal bloodline of Merovingian descent?

"The Habsburgs are related through marriage with the Merovingians, who are said to have descended from the tribe of Benjamin who went into exile...(which) took them to Arcadia in Greece where they aligned with the Arcadian royal line. Through marriage they engendered the Sicambrian Franks, forebears of the Merovingians, who were ultimately of Semitic or Isrealite origin, and descendants of King Saul."

Esau, Edom and the Trail of the Serpent
www.biblebelievers.org

Edom...the "red" land of the "red-haired" sons of Esau. But if the Merovingians, also described as "red-haired people", with a "red mark" similar to the said priestly mark of Melchizedek, descended from both the Benjamites ("ravening wolf")- Jacob's 12th son - and Esau's (Edomites) it would place them as the universal king-priests of divine right...into the New Jerusalem: Ville-Marie, or Montreal::..

............

Of St.Blaise: It is interesting to note that this Armenian saint is associated with three symbolic animals - the boar, the fish and the wolf. The 'ravening wolf' is the symbol of the tribe of Benjamin.
There are more coincidences: The name Blaise is similar to the breton name Bleiz and Celtic Blez meaning 'wolf'...

The early Templars devotion to St.Blaise probably increased when the Christian Armenian Knights of St.Blaise and St.Mary, who also wore a robe of white with a red cross, joined their ranks in the 13th century.

In Burgundian poet Robert de Boron's Grail legend, he mentions a hermit and scribe by the name of Blaise. Merlin's mother had asked Blaise to help raise her son and Blaise became Merlin's tutor and mentor.

Francine Bernier
The Templars' Legacy in Montreal,
the New Jerusalem

............

The true initiate is he who knows that the most powerful secret is a secret without content, because no enemy will be able to make him confess it, no rival devotee will be able to take it away from him.

Emberto Eco
Foucault's Pendulum

............

Je me souviens/Que nee sous les lis je crois sous la rose
I remember/That born under the lilies I grow under the rose

Eugene-Etienne Tache
"Je me souviens"
Motto: Coat of Arms of Quebec
                                                                               

............

'Do you believe he can be trusted, though?' Emlyn frowned, holding up a hand before Shannon could begin sputtering indignation: 'I know that you are both close and on the same side, as it were, but, this is very, very serious, Shannon. Already Daryl has been stripped of his timewalking abilities for abuse of them. The powers that be in this, are no joke.'

'What's that? Daryl can no longer time travel?' This was the first Shannon had heard of it. 'But, I thought it was his...invention?'

'Yes, it is. But, it is a...mystical invention. Its operation depends upon the good graces and collaboration with certain powers and principalities...' Emlyn knew little of these matters in her waking life. (Excepting Axelis and Gwydion, Yeats, Thelene, Anara and Merlin...but these, too, remained a mystery for the most part.)

'Daryl's timewalking was more of a partially-accidental magical working than due to any technology,' Em continued, 'The more mechanical technicalities involved were later added by Jack; mobile units, fail-safes and the like.

'It could just as easily be a privilege revoked from myself as well.' Knowing what she now knew, Emlyn would never have been so cavalier as to offer Shannon a mobile unit of her own. Or even introduce Jeanne into the cabal...that had backfired into a particularly Frankensteinishly monstrous mistake.

'I see.' Shannon knew she must remain calm, something she was unused to. 'However, yes, I trust him. Also, Em, I understand why you feel responsible...but, truthfully, I haven't told you half of what Alain disclosed to me. He truly is, or could be, such a resourceful addition to our...quest.' She paused, considering. 'Also,' she added, 'he has an oncle in Montreal. A Freemason.'             

                                                                 
                                                                             
                                                                                      

Em pondered this. Having a contact in Canada could be key...she wondered how close Alain was with this oncle?
And someone associated with freemasonry, which would, perforce, entail some acquaintance with historical, possibly esoteric resources...could also offer a worthwhile avenue to pursue; including access to Masonic libraries perhaps?

The Canadian oncle was Em's tipping point: she sighed, 'All right. It seems that Alain's presence will be required at some point. Will he be amenable to all this?'

'Absolutely. He doesn't trust Kidd, and you know how he felt about Jeanne...' Shannon slowly shook her head. 'Our own Jeanne, how the mighty have fallen...'

'Well, I don't see how else we can maneuver the logistics of an alliance any other way,' Em allowed. 'Travel by coach or train would be impossible cross country; we need to take action and soon. Athena and Wolf Star can warn the monks at least, while we get things coordinated with Alain. And his Masonic oncle.'
She sighed. 'Meanwhile, I'll get things settled with our Llew.'

Indeed: What about the boy? Suddenly having offspring was becoming rather a major concern, especially if one wasn't expecting such. She must think on this.

Shannon took her mobile unit from her skirt pocket. 'Thank you for the tea and sympathy, Athena. I must be off, then!' She smiled at Emlyn. 'Don't worry! This is truly for the best. We all shall meet up later at the Estate then, oui?'

Em sighed, and waved a limp hand in farewell. 'Yes. Yes. I will meet you there. Oh! And be sure to warn Alain about Llew! They may be back soon!' Em hadn't forgotten that pointy little package, Llew and Wolf Star, yet more chaos in the works. But she didn't see any other recourse.

Shannon blinked out with a salute.

Em stood. 'I must get on back to the Estate, then.' Athena walked with her to the door.
  'Athena, again you've been such a life-saver. I can't thank you enough for all your help. At least taking the time trail back with Wolf Star won't tax your poor horse so.'

'He will need some rest, true.' Athena held the door open for her, thinking her horse wasn't alone in that. 'Good luck with your...quest.'

Emlyn hugged her tall friend farewell.'We shall need it.'

...........

Daryl found himself hustled off tout de suite.

...Much, much sooner than he would have liked, or was even prepared for. True, his ankle was mostly healed, and he would be taken to the monastery in a small cart; driven by Brother Valentine, a Franciscan scholar who had been studying in St.William's library and was now returning north.(Coincidence? Daryl thought not) .

He had hoped he would have been able to perhaps say a fond farewell to Sister Cecilia at least. Mais, non: the sooner he was on the road, the better, or so it seemed to Father Michael, to whom obedience was never questioned.

Neither had Daryl been given much information on his new retreat, St.Blaise des Bois, situated just south of Montreal, over the Vermont border.

And so it was that Daryl found himself rattling along a track, which had no aspirations to an actual 'road' as yet, in a small cart along with Brother Valentine, who proved to be an amiable sort, a younger brother than he'd expected for one so well-schooled.

'I am unfamiliar with St.Blaise. What can you tell me about him?' Daryl fervently hoped Brother Valentine hadn't taken a vow of silence for the long drive.

'Ah. Enigmatic, indeed is our bonne St.Blaise!' Valentine intriguingly began. 'He is much-beloved, however, a healer. You are not Catholic?' He looked at Daryl appraisingly, as if he could tell a heretic at a glance, or so Daryl felt. He shook his head slowly, hoping for more information without giving away much of his own.

'Non. Well, nobody's perfect.' Valentine smiled. (Ah, a joke, thought Daryl, returning the grin.) 'If you were, you would know le bon saint by his feast day, the third of February. St.Blaise is known for saving a lad from choking on a bone, and now, on this day, after Mass, the priest holds two candles, crossed, before the throats of the faithful and makes a special blessing for the deliverance of any maladies of the throat or other illnesses.' The brother regarded Daryl. 'Handy, that.'

                                                                    

'Indeed!' 'Daryl needed more, though. 'Was he French, then?'
  'Alas, non;-- Armenian! The Bishop of Sebastea, martyred in 312.' Valentine crossed himself in reverence. 'The Eastern Rite holds him in great favour. However, the French soon saw his worth as well. Certainement.' Valentine continued, 'Both St.Blaise and St.Louis are the patron saints of stonemasons.'

'C'est vrai!?' Daryl's interest was locked on target.

'Oh, mais oui...there are numerous chapels and such dedicated to them, one of which belonged to the Priory of St. Julien le Pauvre, a 13th century chapel which served as the priory's chapter house. Then, in 1476, The Confrerie of Masons and Carpenters occupied it, and renovated, adding grand murals from the life of Saint Louis.'

Daryl sat back, pondering this new information. An abbey dedicated to the saint adopted by masons! Tres' interessant...a niggling thought tickled the back of his mind then; wasn't there a certain Grail legend with a St.Blaise?
   Non, it was just 'Blaise' then; and he taught the Merlin...that was it: Robert de Boron's Perceval. Blaise was the hermit who became Merlin's mentor.
  Indeed, perhaps his new retreat will prove to be more interressant than he'd hoped.

                                                                         

...........

Emlyn was surprised to find Llew already at the Estate.
'Are you just arrived?' she asked, wondering why she hadn't seen Wolf Star en route.

'Yes. Just a bit ago. How are you, Emlyn?' Llew was in the library, unpacking his bundle.
  'I am well. And glad to see you home, safely.' Em was, she realized...having felt badly for sending the lad off, but it had to be done. 'How was your visit?'

'It was grand!' Llew's eyes sparkled, taking her in. 'Wait! I have a souvenir, pour vous...' He rummaged about, tossing brightly painted cards, some venison jerky, a rosary, (Em blanched to think what Gwydion would think of THAT), a hymnal, (oh, mercy...), a bottle of mead, ('for Athena!), and finally, a lovely soft white sheepskin.

'I met the sheep herself, from whence cameth this,' he smiled, settling it across Em's shoulders. 'Her name was Baah-bara.' He bleated, making them both laugh. 'All the sheep were named after saints.'

Em snuggled her face into the soft wool, smelling slightly of lanolin and lavender. 'It's so soft,' she purred. 'Thank you, Llew, it's truly a lovely gift. I will be needing it soon, with cooler weather coming.'
  He truly was a nice lad, she thought wistfully.

Llew sat on the library sofa, his booty before him on the table, going through his Catholic ephemera. 'It was more interesting than I'd first imagined,' he admitted, as Em took a seat across from him, still wearing her sheep.

'The music was incredible, Em!' She smiled, hearing her nickname from Llew. 'Such voices! The Sisters of St.Agnes came every evening to join in song with the monks at St.Williams.' He nodded to her, 'That's where the sheepskin's from. They keep sheep at St.Agnes, and the monks keep bees at St.Williams.'

'Truly?' Em wondered. So, that's where the sisters came from. She hadn't expected Llew to become so...enthralled with a monastery. She hoped it wouldn't become a problem. For Gwydion.
   Corrupted by monks. And nuns. And sheep. Oh, my.

                                                                           

..........


Emlyn finally got Llew away from his souvenirs and into the kitchen to help her with dinner. Diosa, but the lad could vie with Shannon for fastest-mouth-in-the-west...

'So, you will be all right here, if I have to travel north for a bit?' Emlyn finally got in a word. 'It shouldn't be for long...'
 She wondered if that were true. She hoped to be able to pin down the location of this supposed monastery which hid the Graal. And, she hoped, it wasn't the one Llew had just returned from.

'Emlyn, don't worry,' Llew assured her, as he chopped tomatoes for salad. 'I am much used to being by myself. Medraut and I practically raised each other, we were left on our own throughout childhood.'

'Medraut?' Em inquired. 'A friend of yours?' Emlyn felt something stir in the back of her mind, like hearing a rattler under a rock.
  'Meddy, oui.' Llew tossed the tomatoes in the salad bowl, started on some apples. 'He and I grew up together. You may know his father, Jack.'

Em stilled. That was it...Jack and that woman...her son. Their son. Morgaine? Morgana? Was that her name? So long ago...Em was glad she'd nearly forgotten.

'Only...Gwydion spent more time with me, than either of Meddy's parents did with him.' Llew seemed pensive, ceased chopping. 'It's made him a bit, lonely, I think.'

Emlyn's heart ached, hearing this. How she hated hearing of children deprived. Although she had tried to become a part of his life, she'd been effectively barred and banned from almost anything to do with Llew, by the power of Gwydion.

And, poor Jack, he'd been drugged and tricked most devilishly into that ill-fated union with...that woman. Both Morgana and Gwydion were in the Otherworld, with half-human offspring. It was certainly unfair to all, in the end.

Llew began cutting up an orange. 'But, we're both grown now. I believe Meddy is now being trained as a warrior, a knight. He has a former knight instructing him in the use of arms, and the art of war.'

Em paused. Oh, no...not that Medraut. Mordred. Now Em recognised the Welsh. Would he also be unable to escape his fate? To commit patricide. In the Otherworld, King Arthur would be his father. Jack certainly was no Arthur.

Em pondered all this as she made salad dressing. Gwydion sent Llew here to save him from his fate, of too much love for the deceitful blond Blodeuwedd...as it was written in the Mabinogion.
  While it had been Mordred's fate, to die in war against Arthur, who had also been dealt a lethal blow by his son's sword. As it was Written.
  Her son, dead due to love's betrayal. Jack's son, dead due to war, and his mother's machinations. Love and War, both could be lethal.

                                                                                  

And here was she, in this world, trying to save the Holy Grail? All these half-fey relationships were making Em quite dizzy.

Llew tossed the apples and oranges in the salad with the tomatoes and green onion.
  'Llew, did you put fruit in the salad?' Em asked.
  'Indeed!' Llew smiled. 'What else? Nuts? Grapes?'
  Em laughed. 'Yes, yes, why not?' It would be tasty, she decided, whatever the mix. Just because vegetables and fruit weren't to be mixed? Who says?
  Em was very happy to be spending time with her half-fey lad, she realised.

Then, came a knock at the door.

...........

'Just in time for dinner!' Emlyn welcomed Shannon and Alain, glad that Shannon had remembered correct protocol and hadn't simply popped into the middle of the kitchen. And that she'd brought wine.

They decided to take their meal in the library, as it was the only part of the house that was warm, outside the kitchen. They cleared the large work table there, added logs to the fire and lit the candles, so it was quite cheery amongst the towering stacks of books all about them.

'Just quiche Lorraine and salad, with pumpkin pie for dessert...' Emlyn passed the plates filled by Llew. 'Your wine and baugette will be perfect.'

'Merci,' Alain reverted much to French, now that he was unmasked as more Gaul than Kelt. 'The wine is from my Oncle Maurice. It's from Provence. He visits back home whenever he can.'

'So, has he been in Montreal long?' Em inquired, wanting to know more about the mysterious Maurice.

'Eh, about ten years now. He became a freemason in France. But he joined a local temple when he moved to Montreal.' Alain was watching Llew's ears with mild curiosity, but wisely saying nothing. Llew, meanwhile, was watching Shannon.

Alain seemed unconcerned, however. He poured more wine all around. 'Mont Real was dedicated to Our Lady...its original name was "Ville Marie". There are many churches, cathedrals who claim the Blessed Virgin as their patroness.' He raised his glass: 'To Our Lady! Notre Dame De Bon Secours!' All raised a glass, and the company toasted Our Lady of Good Help. 

                                                                    

'That is my favorite church. Built in the 1600s. And rebuilt. It had a fire.' Alain had indeed done his homework. 'It contains a Black Madonna. The Black Virgin of Montaigu.'

Emlyn was intrigued. 'Oh, I do love stories of the Black Madonnas. They are so mysterious.'

'Always.' Alain smiled. 'Oui, she is "dark but comely" like the Queen of Sheba. And, she always hides secrets.' He looked at Shannon and winked, making her grin. 'This particular statue hides a secret in her base. Can you guess what it may be?'

Em and Shannon traded glances. They kneweth not. But Llew piped up with, 'I bet it's a relic.'
  Alain raised a glass to Llew. 'Bon. Indeed, it is a relic of bonne St.Blaise! He and St.Louis, our one good king, a crusader...' Alain smiled,  'Eh, they were both adopted by the Confreries of Masons of Paris as patron saints.' He paused, pointing his fork at the salad. 'This salad, may be the best I've ever tasted! Tres' bien!'

'Llew made it.' Emlyn smiled indulgently at Llew who was obviously proud of his new-found culinary skills.

Em nodded to Shannon then. She was becoming more and more convinced that bringing Alain with them, and contacting Oncle Maurice, were indeed tres' necessaire.

                                                                             

.........

By day two, travel by cart was causing pain in Daryl's back and regret as well. He lay on several rugs and sheep fleece covers in back of the cart, trying to avoid most of the jarring to his spinal column.

By the angle of the sun, he ascertained the time was just past noon. Cresting the top of a hill, Brother Valentine reined in his mules and turned into a copse of birch trees.
  'We can have a mid-day meal here, I think.' He informed Daryl. 'How's the back?' He offered Daryl a hand, as to a rickety elder. No dummy, and greatly humbled of late, Daryl took his hand gratefully and alighted from the cart, groaning.

'Merci.' He hobbled about, trying to get his land-legs working. He gazed out from the hilltop, shading his eyes, and perceived nought but more rolling hills and dales, trees and countryside for miles ahead.

'Are we coming closer to St.Blaise? Have we crossed any borders at all?' Daryl asked hopefully.
  'Eh, oui.' Valentine rummaged about the many canvas bags in back of the cart which had kept Daryl company, rolling this way and that on top of him.
  'We crossed over the border and through Vermont in the night.' He lifted his chin to the left. 'Over there, just beyond that last hill, you should be able to barely make out the St.Lawrence River. Beyond that, Montreal.'

This cheered Daryl considerably. Indeed, he could just make out a thin sliver of silver that could be taken for a river, far over the seemingly interminable hills.
   He must have slept somehow, in spite of the rocky cart and baggage, throughout the night's journey.

'We will take some rest here.' Valentine informed him. 'But first, we will eat, non? If you can, see what dry wood you could gather for tea.'

Daryl was eager to be moving about for a change, and took to his chore readily, relieved to be stretching.
  It was a fine fair day, though the nip of fall was in the air, still the sun shone bright and warm. When he returned with an armload of windfall, he found the good Brother busy with a nascent fire in a shallow pit with a cookpot on the boil and some small potatoes roasting in the ashes.

'Bon.' Valentine added the larger branches to the fire as Daryl broke them into fire-size pieces. He then took a seat upon a handy moss-covered log and accepted an earthenware mug of tea. 'It is some of Brother Sebastian's tea mix. You are probably familiar with that, oui?

'Ah, oui.' Daryl was, sipping the herbal blend of rosehip and strawberry leaf with added honey, he noted. 'Are you bringing back honey from St.Williams?'

                                                                          

'Oh, indeed!' Valentine smiled. 'Honey, and mead as well. Not to mention some of that bien biere of the good brothers!' Daryl nodded, remembering. 'Which, we will save for journey's end, or I would sleep the rest of the afternoon!' He poured more tea. 'Also, wool, and sheep fleece from the bonne Sisters of St.Agnes. Although the brothers at St.Blaise do keep a few sheep as well.'
 
Daryl watched as Brother Valentine greased an iron skillet and set it upon the fire. He then began to blend cornmeal with some other flour and proceeded to make some sort of johnnycake mix, which he began to fry up, 'dollar-sized'.

'In the smaller sack to the left of the cart, there are apples and walnuts as well, if you like,' he informed Daryl, as he expertly flipped the golden cakes, which were beginning to smell quite good to Daryl's starved senses.

Daryl brought back a few apples and began to crack the walnuts with a rock, picking out the meats and setting them in a wooden bowl between himself and the monk.

'So, is St.Blaise's where you are...based then?' Daryl inquired, munching a pippin.
   Valentine took a handful of nutmeats. 'Eh, non. We Franciscans are mendicant monks. We go wherever we are needed and sent, in the spirit of meliorism, and for the edification of souls.'
   He poked the potatoes, turning them over. 'But, when I am not on a mission, I stay here and there.' He scooped up a couple of the small cakes and tipped them into Daryl's nut bowl.
  'The brothers at St.Blaise are Benedictines. These are also good with honey.'

Daryl knew the good brother meant the cakes and not the monks at St.Blaise.
  'Merci, oui...the honey is excellent. You can almost taste the lavender.' Daryl recalled with a slight pain of nostalgia St.William's lovely herb garden surrounded by hedges of rosemary and lavender.

Valentine nodded, busy with his nosh. After the men finished eating, Daryl washed the pans and bowls in a nearby creek, while Valentine smoored the fire.
  They lazed about comfortably in companionable silence a while, and then, over the last of the tea, Brother Valentine began a strange tale...

'The emblems of St.Blaise that are connected to him, are the fish, the boar, and the wolf. Indeed, the name 'Blaise' is much like the Breton 'Bleiz' -- 'wolf'.'

Valentine added a string of honey to his tea.   

 'You will notice, when you arrive at the monastery, there is a grand stained glass window in the chapel there, which depicts a wolf carrying a pig, back to the widow from whom he had stolen it, thanks to the admonitions of St.Blaise, who is standing by, making sure of the pig's safe return.'

                                                                       

Again with the wolves! Daryl was wondering what it was with the many Saints-with-Wolves confederations...St.Francis of Gubbio, St.William, and now St.Blaise, or Bleiz, 'Wolf'.

'It was rumoured,' he continued, 'that many years ago, the St.William as well as the St.Blaise monastery, harboured stray wolflings at one time!' Valentine's gaze connected with Daryl's. 'Mais oui! They were but cubs then, wee wolf cubs, somehow abandoned. Perhaps their parents had been killed.'

Daryl wondered greatly at this...could these wolf cubs have been young Wolf Star and Sister Cecilia? In their more canis lupine incarnations?
His suspicions of Wolf Star as a skinwalker were becoming more real.
  'Whatever happened to these...cubs?'

'Eh, no one knows.' Valentine reached up for the bag of sheep fleece and fluffed it up, laying his head upon it and folding his hands across his belly, readying for a postprandial nap.  

   'Eventually, they grew too big to keep in captivity, I assume, and they were released back into the wild.' He opened one eye Daryl's way. 'It is but a story...' He yawned mightily, then began to breathe deeply which soon became a wheezy sort of musical snore.

Daryl lay back himself, getting comfortable.    Or...he mused, the two siblings made their way however they could in the world, somewhere either away from people in general, or, someplace amongst others who craved a life somewhere apart from the general company of society.
  -- Someplace like a monastery.

                                                                    

.........

CLICK BELOW TO LISTEN:
Mudcrutch: Orphan of the Storm

Chapter 35: Music To Pack Your Bags By

..::St.Agnes's name is derived from AGNUS, the Latin word for lamb, and it also evokes the Greek AGNOS, meaning 'pure.' Her feast day is best known for the charming custom in which two lambs raised by the Trappist monastery of Tre Fontane outside of Rome are taken to the Sisters of the Holy Family of Nazareth in Rome, where they are decorated with roses and a mantle.  They then go to the basilica Sant'Agnese fuori le mura, where they are blessed on the altar by the abbot.

From there they are taken to the Vatican, where the pope himself receives and blesses them. The lambs are later shorn on Tuesday of Holy Week, and their wool used by the nuns of the Benedictine convent of St. Cecilia in Trastevere, Rome, to make palliums for newly installed metropolitan archbishops and patriarchs::..

Michael P. Foley
Drinking With the Saints

.........

...At first they rode only slowly, for Frodo had been ill at ease. When they came to the Ford of Bruinen, he had halted, and seemed loth to ride into the stream; and they noted that for a while his eyes appeared not to see them or things about him. All that day he was silent. It was the sixth of October.

'Are you in pain, Frodo?' said Gandalf quietly as he rode by Frodo's side.
'Well yes I am,' said Frodo. 'It is my shoulder. The wound aches, and the memory of darkness is heavy on me. It was a year ago today.'
'Alas! there are some wounds that cannot be wholly cured,' said Gandalf.
'I fear it may be so with mine,' said Frodo.  
'There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?'
 Gandalf did not answer.

J.R.R. Tolkien
The Return of the King

                                                                                     

...............

At last, after Vespers, Daryl sought out Wolf Star and Llew before they slipped away with the Sisters.
 'Wolf Star, I have been wishing to speak with you,' Daryl began, hoping to get back in the enigmatic man's good graces. Hoping that he could hide the attraction for the man's sister...

Wolf Star stood still, facing Daryl. They were both of the same height, and yet Wolf Star seemed to be looking down upon him. 'Speak,' he told him.

Thus pinned by a word, Daryl now felt flummoxed.
 'I am glad to see you here. It was an odd thing...coming upon this place by accident in a storm, after fleeing a bear. I'd tried to take a short cut in the woods and became lost. The good Brothers have been kind enough to allow me to rest here and heal a while.'

Wolf Star's stare seemed to pierce Daryl to his very soul. What he'd just told the man had been the complete truth, and yet his story sounded weak even to his own ears. When Wolf Star simply kept staring, saying nothing, Daryl continued, 'Brother Sebastian has been a great help to me. He told me you had grown up here at the monastery.'

Finally, the man spoke. 'Yes. With my sister. Now, Sister Cecilia.' He resumed his hard stare. Granite.

'Are you Dary-el?' Llew popped up on the scene. 'I am Emlyn's son, Llew Llaw Gyffes.' He bowed with appropriate aplomb. 'I wish to thank you for your consent to allow my presence at your house a while. I shall endeavor to live there as lightly as possible.'

Daryl laughed softly. A handsome lad. Red hair, like Em's. He liked the ears, though surely that had been his father's doing.
   'Daryl Van Horn; and it is my pleasure. Stay as long as you need. I have no doubt you will be respectful of the property. You are free to move about as you will; however, do not breach the locks into the lab. That is off-limits.' Daryl now gave Llew a hard wolf-worthy stare himself.

'Indeed, sire, I shall not roam where I must not. I have taken up residence in the library loft for the nonce.' Llew looked altogether trustworthy.
  Those ears though, looked like fey mischief to Daryl, and knowing young lads, he was sure he kept his back pockets full.

The Sisters began to take their leave then, and as Sister Cecilia approached...to Daryl, in her long habit, she seemed to float.
  'A friend of yours, brother?' She inquired, all innocence.
  Wolf Star was tempted to deny this, but sighed. 'Daryl here is staying with the Brothers, healing from an altercation with a bear, I hear.' His eyebrows raised, as if in doubt.

'Not quite,' Daryl reddened. 'I managed to flee before it came to that. But I fear I also managed to do myself some damage in the escape.' He bowed his head, humbly, he hoped: 'Daryl Van Horn, Sister. I met your brother earlier, but I had no idea of your connection to the monasteries here. A happy coincidence, it seems.'

'Indeed.' Sister Cecilia nodded. She regarded Wolf Star. 'Are we ready, brother? We should be getting back to St.Agnes's. Time to "feed the sheep", as le bon Dieu has instructed.'

'Only they have actual sheep to feed!' Llew grinned, earning an indulgent smile from Our Lady of the Tattoos.

'I very much enjoyed hearing your chorus,' Daryl attempted, not wanting to let her go yet. '"Dancing Day" is one of my favorite hymns.' He couldn't help the melting gaze he bestowed upon this intriguing woman.

'It is time to leave now.' Wolf Star hustled Llew and Cecilia out before him.' As he was following, he turned around to face Daryl.
  'Your sehnsucht is showing!' He hissed. Nodded. And left.

                                                                     

............

'A warning must be given.' Emlyn was now adamant.

Athena sighed long. 'Well...Wolf Star, and Llew, should return soon. In a day or two, at most.' She seemed restless, moving about the parlor, straightening pictures, reshelving books back into bookcases. 'My poor horse...he misses his home when we are far apart.'

'And I need to return to Arcadia.' Shannon stood. 'Alain and I are meeting over the weekend to discuss plans.' She sighed as well. '...Whatever they are. But I wish you were closer, now.' Her gaze implored Em.

'I'll be home, soon. But, I must wait for Llew.' Em frowned. 'I hate thinking about what may happen... Those poor monks won't know what hit them!' Emlyn knew a bit of what St.John had been capable of, drugging and kidnapping Daryl. She'd doubted it not.
He'd had an oily, scheming sort of aura about him.

'When he returns,' Athena finally sat, 'Wolf Star and I can timewalk back to the monastery. He does it on his own, or rather, it overtakes him. But I can guide our travels.'

'Good. Do whatever needs doing to make that place a fortress!' Emlyn paused. 'I've half a mind to go myself...' She pondered the notion. If only Daryl were still here! Surely between his time-phasing science and his magical conjurings, he could whip up some sort of dome of protection over the monastery...
  But, Daryl was off and away, she knew not where. No one knew. Possibly, not even him.

............

With everyone dispersed after Vespers, Daryl felt he had some catching up to do. Sehnsucht, indeed...that stung. But, the truth of it could not be denied. Daryl was only sorry that he'd been so easily caught out.

Otherwise, he seemed to be healing well enough, scratches and nicks were nearly gone, and needed but a bit more time and care for ankle to mend. He had been sleeping long, and healing slowly. Meanwhile, there were things that needed taking care of.

Limping slowly back to the infirmary, Daryl was pleased to find Brother Sebastian in the lab, putting pestle to mortar grinding herbs. He continued thus, not looking up. 'Daryl. So, are you becoming familiar with our routine here yet?'

'You recognised my walk by my lame foot?' Daryl guessed. Sebastian glanced over his shoulder with a small smile. Then resumed his grind.

'I wanted to ask, had anything of mine survived the storm?'

'Besides yourself?' Sebastian straightened. 'Actually, I just found these, newly mended, you'll find...'
  He went into the infirmary's cot room, and on Daryl's bed lay his coat, not too much worse for wear, and the duffel bag, cleaned of a great deal of mud, as Daryl remembered it.

He held up the coat. 'Good as new!' Not quite, but Daryl was pleased with the fine stitching with which it had been repaired. He then reached into the duffel and withdrew an oilskin-wrapped object, twice wrapped. Expecting the worst, Daryl carefully unwound the ties and found his violin case within. He closed his eyes and said a wee prayer, hoping it works, considering where he was. He opened the case to find...violin intact. Indeed, it seemed much better off than he himself. He sighed deeply.

'Praise le bon Dieu, my baby is saved...' Daryl muttered. Brother Sebastian was standing by, curious no doubt, and smiling to see Daryl so relieved. 

                                                                                  

He rummaged about the duffle, extracting another smaller oilskin wrapped packet which he opened to reveal American currency in several denominations, (and in keeping with the current decades). He counted out a couple of hundred and turned, pressing them into the hands of Brother Sebastian. 'A donation, ' he told him, 'In gracious thanks. I've no doubt that you and your brothers here, had saved my life that terrible night of the storm.'

'My, my son, you don't...it is our pleasure and our duty, to minister to those in need!' Brother Sebastian was altogether undone by such a grand gift. 'I cannot deny that we can certainly use such...' He lifted moist eyes to Daryl's. 'Praise all saints and angels!
With this, a new barn roof is ours! And more!' Shoving the unexpected largesse inside his habit, Sebastian clasped Daryl to him and hugged fiercely. 'Ah, pardon! I should remain gentle with an invalid!'

'I believe I shall live, Brother Sebastian. In large part, thanks to your good self.' Daryl was pleased to have been able to give back to the brothers, in return for their generous care.

'Forgive me, but I must run and give this over to Father Michael! He has had such worries of late, with all this in his care...' Sebastian seemed to glow then, so happy was he. He grasped Daryl's hands and held them to his chest, then turned and quick-footed it down the hall.

Daryl sat upon the bed, smiling to himself as he went through the remainder of what was left to him in the storm's wake. He looked through his cash and although he had plenty now, he knew that without the ability to timewalk, and gather 'antiques' (plunder and scavenge like the pirate he was), or had been? -- that his antiques business would soon go bust.

Liquidation. Was that his only option now? To sell all that he had?
Perhaps he should sell Nob Hill House. That would set him up for a while. If only he could hang on to it...but would it survive the quake and fire? Time lines change over time, he'd found. And he'd given up the Mausoleum. Besides, what would Manuel and Rosa do? Best hang on to his place, back in the City, he decided. For now.

He looked about him, listening to the small sounds about the old stone building, outside the window, birdsong and voices of monks as they brought in their oxen to the barn. A new barn roof, thanks to Daryl's plundering...well, it was put to good use here at least.

Perhaps he could stay here...on a semi-permanent retreat? He shook his head, no that won't fly. He couldn't muster the needed dedication, devotion. He had not had 'A Calling'. That, could not be faked. He was an outsider and would remain so.

He was suddenly aware of someone else in the room. He looked up to find Father Michael standing there, watching him.
  'Have you a moment, my son?'

...........
 
'Why must we leave so soon?' Llew groused as he packed up some small things he'd gathered as souvenirs here: some printed cards of the more colorful and eccentric Catholic saints, which he adored, especially St.Martha who had defeated the dragon, Tarasconus, in what is now Tarascon, France. A particularly prickly and gruesome creature, in the card's vivid depiction. 

                                                                         

  'She had actually leashed it with her girdle!' Llew whispered, reverently, as he sorted through his collection.
   He also perversely enjoyed St.Uncumber who had grown a long beard to dissuade suitors. But his favorite, of course, was the lovely St.Cecilia, patroness of music, beloved by many. Llew sighed. Too many. Perhaps she, also, could've used a beard.

'Athena needs her horse returned to her.' Wolf Star had watched the lads growing fascination with all things Catholic here, wondering at the boys mounting obsession. Odd, he thought, that what would be deemed a blessing to many would be thought an abomination to his blood family in the Otherworld.
   And yet, like himself, thought Wolf Star, the boy was both of this world and the other; a mother here, and his father, there. He sighed. As to fathers, who knew? His remained a mystery. Something rarely found on this world. Ah, que sera sera. What will be, will be.
  'We ride at first light.'

..............

'Greetings, Father.' Daryl attempted a small bow. 'Do, take a seat.' He motioned to the chair at bedside.

Noting Daryl's bandaged ankle, the good father took the seat offered. 'Please.' he motioned to the bed, and Daryl sat.

'Brother Sebastian had come to me bearing a most generous gift.' He paused, eyes searching Daryl's. Father Michael had learned that, by remaining silent, most outsiders would then be tempted to speak for themselves.

'Please,' Daryl slowly shook his head, lowering it, 'it is the least I could do, after the good brothers took me in the night of the storm. I was in bad shape. And, left outside on such a night, I may not have survived on my own.' Daryl realised that now. Too long he had been away from the north east.

'You are unused to the vagarities of weather here.' A statement from Father Michael. Not a guess.

'Oh yes,' Daryl smiled ruefully. 'It has been...decades since I last lived in this area. I've a house on the California coast. Although I grew up in upstate New York.' Daryl realised the good pere had an easy way of unearthing a  man's secrets. Which he did now. Just by sitting. Silently.

He now seemed to be asking Daryl, silently, to give an account of himself.
  'I have made a decent living dealing in antiques out west.' Obliged Daryl. '-- The gold rush, though over now, even silver -- has been profitable in many ways. Fortunes were made. And spent.'

Father Michael spoke at last. 'Antiques? C'est vrai?'
He appeared to be pondering all that. 'So, you must have a background in history.'

'C'est vraiment,' Daryl returned the volley, en Francais. 'History is rather a time-consuming fascination for me. Always has been.'

'How is the ankle?' Father Michael bent, studying Daryl's leg. Changing the subject.
  'Ah. Healing.' Daryl lifted it, and gingerly turned it about, only wincing slightly. 'The bruising is nearly gone. I think it will be fine, soon.'

'Bon.' The good father seemed decided. 'Brother Sebastian agrees. But, take as long as is required here. To mend.' Father Michael, although his fringe of hair was snowy atop, boasted a pair of dark heavy brows below which now narrowed in careful study of Daryl.

'We can show you a much easier way out though the bois. The brothers take a wagon to town weekly to sell honey and mead in the marketplace, a few vegetables. I'm sure they would not mind having your company. Whenever you are ready. They leave on Saturdays.' He stood.
  'We thank you, for your most generous gift, my son. Le bon Dieu blesses you for it, you may be sure.'

And with that, Father Michael made his retreat.
Daryl stared after him. Knowing that he had just been put in his place. Which was, obviously, anywhere but here.
   Napoleon banished to the Isle of St.Helena could not have felt more defeated.  
                                                                                 

.........

It was a bright autumn day, the sky turning a darker blue, no longer the white hot days of summer, and a fine contrast to the maple and sycamore leaves dressed brightly for a last dance before winter.

Daryl limped dejectedly about the monastery grounds, head down, violin case in hand. He hadn't noticed the fall finery about him, but was caught up in his own thoughts, unseeing.

Where to now? Was all he could wonder. He felt hemmed in, forced to wander, and where? Why now? When he was becoming more and more subject to the painful limits of his mortality and aging...

He'd believed he'd found a sanctuary here, with the bon hommes. He had even been able to shake whatever drugs had coursed through him simply by sleeping for hours on end...it was little short of a miracle, really. He wanted to believe Brother Sebastian's teas worked a kind of magic in healing: body, mind and spirit.

He looked about him now, wondering where he'd wandered...and spied a wee rose garden bravely bearing what last roses of summer there were after the storm.

He limped over to the garden and saw that the roses encircled a small statue of Mary. Maryam, daughter of Anne and Joachim. He'd always liked the statues of St. Anne, always with a book or scroll, teaching the young Maryam.

There were benches about the deserted garden, the time of day when the brothers were all hard at work, at the harvest in the fields, in the kitchens and brewery, in the library. And, busy with the bees, naturellement.
  To retire and keep bees, like Sherlock Holmes, appealed to Daryl then. It seemed a peaceful retirement.
  -- One not at all like his own.

                                                                         

Daryl sat, sighing, on a bench. He opened the violin case and drew the faithful old instrument forth and began tuning...as his mind recalled his earlier conversation with Brother Sebastian, after Father Michael had given him his marching orders.

'And so, I must be leaving soon, it seems.' Daryl had tried not to sound too whining. He'd regarded Sebastian as a friend, in the short time they'd known one another.
  'I want you to know, that I have enjoyed being here,' he glanced about the lab, 'in your company and that of the other brothers, very much.' He looked down then, afraid of being overcome. 'In spite of myself, I've even come to enjoy keeping the Hours here, and joining in with the service.'

Brother Sebastian looked troubled. He hadn't expected Father Michael's less-than-thrilled reaction to Daryl's gift. He knew the good father had much on his plate, but he'd thought that this gift would help lift the burden, not add to it.

'Good brother Daryl,' Sebastian began, 'please don't be troubled. I could tell that your healing was not just in body alone, but that your mind and heart, your soul and spirit, also felt in need of mending. So, let not your heart be heavy!' He put a hand upon Daryl's arm, still wearing the dark robe of the monk's.

'Thank you, Brother.' Daryl looked at the gentle monk, wondering what his story was, how he had come to this place...truly a place of healing.

'Have you thought of where you will go from here? To continue your journey, I suppose?' Sebastian motioned Daryl to take a seat.

'I, really hadn't thought that far,' Daryl answered truthfully. 'Things...have changed; perhaps it is I who have changed, since being here.'
  He regarded Sebastian's peaceful countenance. 'I was wondering, is there...are there, perhaps, any brother monasteries somewhat connected with yours, that might offer retreats, for lay folk? Such as myself?' -- sinner though I be, Daryl didn't add.

Sebastian smiled. 'Brother Daryl, of course! You need not feel abandoned!' He put a hand to Daryl's shoulder, patted it. 'As I said, there are certain pressures here that Father Michael is concerned with at present.  Other places will not be so under pressure...
   'If you would like some place with the same way of doing things as we have here, somewhere in the countryside, as you seem to need, a place to retreat and to heal within...yes, we do have brother monasteries that will allow retreats. Most are in Canada, however.'

Daryl had not expected that. But, he should have, it seemed fully half the brothers here were French. But, if it truly was sequestered somewhere far from the madding crowd...perhaps.

'Shall I ask around for you?' Brother Sebastian offered. 'I'll put word out that you are seeking some where peaceful and away from the cities, oui?'
  Daryl smiled then. 'Oui.'
                                                                              

..........

That had been this morning. So, Daryl was to throw in his lot with some strange monks somewhere in the Canadian wilderness. Soon. The very thought both thrilled and terrified him.
  And made him sad with longing for Sister Cecilia, with whom he would never sing Dancing Day again...
 '"Oh, my love, my love..."' Daryl sang softly as he picked up his bow.

He noodled about a bit, trying to get back into the comfort zone of knowing his instrument. He noticed then, near the statue of Mary, a lone pink rose, bravely blooming still.

For some odd reason, this brought to mind the old Rogers and Hammerstein tune of "Edelweiss"; though he wouldn't find that bloom in this New World garden. It was a song of loss and longing, however.
  '"Bless my homeland forever..."' Daryl sang, wondering where in the world his 'homeland' was? He felt hounded on all sides, even here in this 'retreat', he couldn't find peace.

He regarded the statue of Maryam. Beautiful, she was, and yet she seemed so...far away, 'virgin' and untouchable.
   Daryl felt adrift in a religion so heavily laden with males, patriarchs, priests... They allowed a Virgin, but this God of Abraham had no consort, the Shekinah, the Matronit, lost and wandering since the Temple's destruction. Daryl supposed that was why Yahweh was such a grouch.
 
Man was meant to become god; as was woman, to become the goddess she was meant to be, and together, they would find union with the Infinite.
  '"The kingdom of God is within you," had not the New Testament promised?

He had worshipped Anara wholly; body, mind and spirit. He wished to do the same with Sister Cecilia, he knew. Daryl supposed he was a born pagan, and to him, God was a woman.
     But a Virgin, a cold statue...left him cold.
 
He put bow to strings and poured out his loneliness and longing. Like the howl of the lone wolf.
                                                                                  

.............

Father Michael sat at his office desk, going over accounts and trying to see if Daryl's gift actually might cover a new barn roof. However, his concentration was interrupted, as he thought he heard...violin music?
  Not just any fiddling about, either. This sounded quite...transportive. Some virtuoso was at work here, clearly.

He stood, and walked over to the old mullioned window, cranking it open to the gardens outside. He noticed the brothers working in the herb garden had also paused in their labors, and were rapt, listening.

Sweet came the sounds on the wind, and yet held a note of sadness, such as would bring a tear to the eye. It seemed a song of longing, and loss...for something once held dear, but had now been irretrievably revoked.

Father Michael sighed. He supposed that was his doing.
He fingered the rosary in his pocket, knowing the great burden his office carried, the great Secret that was buried at the monastery here, under his keeping.
  'Mea culpa,' he whispered, head bowed.

                                                                      

..............
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Edelweiss Amy Piano and Violin