Roland Barthes said: "what I always found intriguing, is the meaning of cultural objects."...every man-made object contains an intended message...the real meaning of a religious icon, or even just a detail in a work of art, is often rooted in the local cultural fabric at a specific time -- sometimes as old as ancient mythology and astrology.
But in too many cases, the original meaning has faded away...
Yet, some of the "messages" we find in Montreal do not seem to agree with the official interpretations. It appears that just one small missing piece of information can change the whole meaning and may be the key to solving the riddle.
At other times, it is silence that speaks a thousand words -- what is not being said and left between lines or construed in a particular design. When studied in their larger or deeper context, these symbols, many of which were derived from the Mystery religions, reveal the true nature, beliefs and objectives of the mystics who founded Ville-Marie.
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...the very old Latin expression sub rosa refers to the "things spoken
under the rose" -- things not to be revealed to the uninituated.
It seems that this (the motto of Quebec: 'Je me souviens' -- was part of the original slogan, "I remember/that born under the lilies, I grow under the rose") was a message reserved for a few readers 'in the know' -- literally a cypher...
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The first few French freemasons settled in Nouvelle-France as early as 1725 (in Quebec City), but the great majority crossed the Atlantic undercover so to speak after Clement XII's decree. These men were high ranking officers, like Ange Sieur de Menneville, Marquis of Du Quesne...
Francine Bernier --
The Templars' Legacy in Montreal,
The New Jerusalem
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"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."
William Shakespeare
Romeo and Juliet
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Some freemasons who migrated from France belonged to the French obediences and settled in Montreal. The headquarters of the Union Francaise were the meeting grounds of these masons who were in contact with those of the Grand Lodge of Quebec...
Interestingly, it appears that the masons of the Union Francaise and some of the Sulpicians in Montreal got along rather well. In 1925, this group gave the Sulpicians the statue of Joan of Arc (canonized in 1920)....
Edouard SJ Hamon ed. Jean d'Erbree, Ottowa
1883 La Franc-macconerie dans la province de Quebec, 1883
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After Jethro left with Alain in rueful compunction, none too thrilled by their impending efforts to wrestle guano from the bat caves and information from their new employer, Kidd, the many-rumoured mysterious descendant of famous pirate, Emlyn strode with Shannon into town and her shop.
'A fine day it looks to be,' Shannon began. 'Quite a difference from the weather in Montreal.'
Emlyn shut her eyes and sighed deeply. 'Quite.'
Shannon wasn't letting her off that easily. 'Do you not find it at all odd that Oncle Maurice was rather...accepting, unaffected, eh, breezy -- about all that just happened? One may think that he was not all that unacquainted with dealings with the fey, or having a thunderstorm in one's parlour producing the King of Elfland, or an unreasonable facimile and a very wrathful one at that.'
'Gwydion is hardly all that.' Em waved away such notions. Or was he, though? 'Well, possibly.' She paused, considering. 'But yes, it was rather strange, such casual compliance on his part...' She had been thinking the same thing, she had to admit. 'I was glad to exit the scene, posthaste.'
'Also,' continued Shannon, obviously not about to let things be, 'for someone who would appear to be a devoted Catholic, his easy complaisance would be rather amazing in itself; not only was he accepting of Llew and his sudden appearance and disappearance, but there's the timewalking, the whole of it, and sure'n we're there!' Shannon stopped, frowning, and inhaled, considering Em closely. 'Neither does one find freemasonry and Catholicism amix in the same cauldron, usually. Eh, don't you think ?Em? -- and where are ya now...'
Em slowed up and turned to face her friend, who, she knew, meant well. Although, just now, Em felt she had not really been ready to face these...inconvenient truths.
'Yes, if you must know,' she admitted. She gazed up at the sky then as if seeking an answer there. 'It does bear consideration. But, I've so much else to deal with, I'm content, for now, to simply go along with it...'
'Right.' Shannon knew when she'd hit a wall. But, she'd made her point and would be satisfied with that. For now. Having come to her wee shop which she'd bought from Jeanne, she reached into her skirt pocket and produced a large key with which she unlocked the door with lovely old oak and brass fittings.
Before entering, she turned to Em, and put a hand upon her arm. 'Don't misreckon me, I do like Maurice, very much in fact, in spite of the wretched religion he seems to be knee-deep in.' She sighed. 'But do go carefully, will you? There is more to that man than meets the eye. Despite his being an eyeful...'
Em had to laugh at that. 'Indeed, he is.' she looked down then, a faint blush betraying her. 'Aye,' she put her hand over Shannon's, 'don't fash yoursel' as Jeanne used to say. I have taken stock of her situation and do not wish to wind up in a similar muddle.'
'Aye, and see that you don't then.' Shannon stood still as the Keeper at the Threshold. 'If I were you, I would have it out with yon Monsieur Duquesne and see if his fair countenance matches what lies within, ya ken? And, sooner the better.'
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'On the road again...' Daryl sang to himself as he pushed on down the trail, staff in hand, and further into the back country; but unlike his lengthy lamented foray in to the monastery's grounds, he now knew where he was headed.
From St.Blaise, he had caught a ride south to St.William, and after a few days of reconnecting with Frere Sebastion and the others, he'd hitched another ride to market and now was able to make it on his own heading further south, back into countryside he was familiar with. Soon, in fact, he'd enter his own lands.
Odd thought, that. After owning so little and sharing all one had, as per monastic life, it was indeed most bothersome strange to think of oneself as 'owning' the land. If anyone did own it, it would be the Indians hereabouts, he felt.
That's an idea, he thought to himself as his boots trod the damp carpet of mulched leaf underfoot, fall turning the corner at last into winter. For some time now he'd felt burdened by the Massachutsetts estate...if he could speak to some native elders perhaps, about the peculiar properties of the place, being outside of time, that is, maybe he could turn it over to them, with the caveat of keeping the house perhaps, for refuge in case of dire need.
He had not been on best of terms with Wolf Star when last they'd parted company...but maybe it would be a way of breaking through that barrier, if he could thus prove his goodwill...
He'd come away from St.William without seeing, or hearing anything of sweet Sister Cecilia...although she had been much on his mind. Wolf Star had no cause for alarm there. Alas.
So captivated was he by his inner world that he nearly ran into the man before he'd known he was there.
'Sweet Mother of -- Yeats!' Daryl stepped back, his heart pounding. 'I had no idea -- where did you come from!?' He demanded, rather stupified by seeing the otherworldly visage of Yeats suddenly appear out of nowhere. Quite literally.
'My apologies. Desole'...' Yeats couldn't hide a small smile, however. 'I wished to have a quiet chat with you, somewhere private.'
Daryl forced himself to breathe slowly. 'Ah. Yes, well the eastern backwoods would do nicely for that, I suppose. Egad man, you could have a bit of sympathy for an old man now!' Daryl groped his way over to a fallen log, sturdy staff at the ready, and after running a hand over the moss, sat himself gingerly down. 'Welcome to my parlour. Fresh out of tea at the moment, however.' -- Ya daft bugger, he wanted to add...
Yeats looked skyward a half-beat, swallowed his smile and sat beside Daryl. 'Lovely day,' he allowed.
'Yes, it WAS.' Daryl was in no mood for small talk after having his hard-won equilibrium blasted.
Yeats sighed softly, looking down at his folded hands. 'We have been taking note of you and your intriguing new lifestyle of late. Many hats you have been wearing, indeed. Or hoods.'
'Yes, I'm sure you have.' Actually Daryl was surprised by this admission; although he'd often wondered if that had been the case. 'No offers of help, however, when I was running for my life from Russian thugs or crawling about through a frozen river, half-dead from cold...lost in a dark downpour, wandering desperately through woods for miles...not to mention the bloody BEAR!'
'Oh, we'd have been there, had you really needed us. How do you know that we haven't been helping? You're here aren't you? Not dead yet.' Yeats regarded Daryl with a calm insouciance.
Once Daryl would have become nettled by Yeats' seemingly uncaring manner, which smacked of a certain air of superiority.Yeats was merely trying to poke at him with small pins. But, Daryl had had much larger, sharper instruments gouged into him of late. Now he truly didn't care. He turned his face up to the sun and closed his eyes, content for the nonce.
Yeats came to the point: 'It is a good idea, giving back the land. It will be a beneficient thing to do, both for yourself and for Wolf Star.' Yeats stood then, gazing down at a slightly nonplussed Daryl.
'You do know absolutely everything there is to know, don't you?' .
Yeats smiled. A kind, generous smile. 'Sure. But, so do you. You've just forgotten most of it.'
'Ah, Plato: "all learning is just remembering."'
'Right. Make sure you don't forget it. Now,' Yeats fixed Daryl with a gimlet glare, 'the Council has determined that you be given back your rights to roam freely wherever you choose. And live wherever you wish. And to travel, as long as you are traveling with someone. You may not travel alone, that is still taboo, for you.'
Daryl sat, eyes shut still. Seemingly at his ease. 'So. That is... interesting.' He would have to think on this.
Yeats might have been expecting more. A 'yahoo!' at least. He slowly shook his head, now sporting a massive mane of long white hair. Still with those dark eyebrows, sprouting strands of white here and there, giving him a rather wolfish demeanor. 'Well. Good luck then.' He stood, and put a hand upon Daryl's shoulder. 'Mazel tov!'
And, in a wink, he was gone as quickly as he'd appeared. 'Oy,' Daryl gently murmured.
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Emlyn found herself once again, back in Montreal and standing before Maurice's cottage door. She hadn't been able to shake her own thoughts, and those of Shannon's as well, questioning his actions and reactions, and wondering about his motives for such forgiving behaviour, in the light of some outrageous and rather outre' events of late.
Gathering her emerald green cloak about her (the colour beloved of faery, and Oscar Wilde), she drew herself up and rapped smartly upon the old oaken cottage door.
No answer. Taking the brass lion's head knocker in hand, she rapped once more upon the heavy door, with a bit more gusto. This time, she could discern movement, shuffling within and the whump! and snap of something heavy closing. Hm.
The door opened before her. Maurice's glare turned at once to a gentle smile. 'Ah. You have come.' And he stepped back, beckoning. 'So,' he shut the door behind Em, pressing his back against it. 'You have returned to me.' He put out a hand and came to her, taking her in his arms. He held her gently and bent over her head, inhaling the scent of her hair. 'Why are you here with me now, my Emmeline?'
'I came, to speak with you, Maurice...' she began.
'Yes?' He inquired. 'I am here. What is it you wish of me?' He breathed his query into her hair, his warm breath like peppermint...
What did she wish of him? A loaded question, and her wishes at this point were not where Em had determined to lead at all. 'Please?' She asked, looking up at him.
Maurice smiled, and at last, released her, leading her into the parlour and bade her sit upon the sofa at fireside. 'Shall we have tea?' He inquired, making Em feel like a schoolgirl again, adhering to proper decorum. Em nodded, her heart pounding.
As Maurice retired to the kitchen, she stood and began an inventory of the room...nothing unusual here, except the books of course, mostly philosophical and theosophical treatise; histories, biographies...all were most compelling; many a random sampling of rather notorious alchemists of the day : Roger Bacon, Khalid ben Yezir, Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai, William Blake, Nicolas Flamel...
'Tea,' Maurice announced, setting a fine cloisonne service on the table before them.
'How lovely,' Em couldn't help herself, she did so admire a nice tea set. However...back to business.
'I haven't had the chance to study your library as yet...' Em announced as she gravitated back to the fireside. 'You have some rather intriguing works here...'
'Do you like them?' Maurice sat and poured, adding honey and lemon to both cups. Emlyn joined him on the couch. 'Yes, I do. Merci.' She took the cup Maurice offered and leaned comfortably against pillows. 'I was studying kabbalah with friends back in San Francisco. We would meet weekly, and sometimes study the constellations as well. My teacher had the most wonderful brass telescope...'
Maurice had an arm upon the back of the sofa and was studying Em carefully, a small smile hovering about his lips. 'I should have liked to have joined you there...under the stars.'
Em took a sip of tea. 'This is very good.' It was. Rich and dark. 'I should have liked that, too. Maurice...' She ventured, '...it would seem you are no stranger to the more, shall we say, esoteric subjects of study, going by yon shelves...'
'Ah.' Maurice set his tea down. ' Yes. Perhaps it is time that we, umm...get to know one another better, oui?' His dark eyes searched her own. 'I also have some questions for you, cherie.'
'Yes, exactly.' Em also set down her tea. 'We should take the time to discover if we are on the same page, as it were...'
Maurice smiled. 'The same page, from such intriguing books as you found here, perhaps?' Em nodded.
Maurice stood, holding out his hand to her. 'Come. It is time, I think, to show you something.' Emlyn took his hand in hers and arose, hoping that soon this bonhomme would ease her mind, provide answers to questions that loomed over them both. And then...? Then, perhaps, they would be free to move on to other discoveries...
Maurice led her down the back hallway until they stood before a large wooden door, and taking a brass key from his pocket, opened the lock and smiling at her, he opened the door and ushered her within...
Em gazed about her in amazement.
'This, cherie, THIS, is my library.' Maurice's hand went to a lantern upon a nearby table and lighted it. 'I like to use natural light in here when I am not engaged in reading. Bright light does cause some old items to fade...'
Maurice went round then, lighting candelabra on tables about the room, and he did open some heavy drapes about a tall window on the wall across from them, allowing sunlight through as well as a rainbow of coloured patterns from a stained glass half-arc above. Em's attention was captured by an old carven spiral staircase with intricate ironwork reaching into the loft on high...
'This is...like something out of an enchanted cottage in a fairy tale...' Em exclaimed, as she paced about it, gazing upwards at the loft floor. She belatedly realised perhaps she should not have mentioned that particular 'f' word...
Maurice, however, seemed to have moved on from all former remembrances of a certain fey fellow who had come to call via riding the lightning into his humble home.
'Eh, I like it well enough,' he declared rather demurely. 'There are books here I have saved from my grandfather's day.'
Emlyn shot him an appreciative look. 'I'll bet you have. Maurice, I do love it! You know, I worked for many years in public libraries, even in San Francisco for a time...' She wandered among the stacks, blissfully enjoying perusing various artwork upon the spines and covers of beguiling authors and titles.
The tall man smiled then, happy to have found a kindred spirit. 'Ah, but this is not all I would show you, cherie.' He held out an arm, allowing her passage before him across the parquet floor, lined here and there with vibrant soft Turkish rugs. They halted before a small stone fireplace.
'...Just here,' Maurice gestured with his hand beneath the thick block of burled wood which made up the mantlepiece, and pressing some hidden lever or other, a panel of shelves swung outward, displaying a row of stairs, leading down into darkness.
'Your friend Daryl is not the only one with the secret stairway, non?'
Emlyn gazed astonished at what Maurice had just disclosed to her. 'Oh, Maurice...' She was rather confounded by it all. She gazed with wonder at this compelling man before her...was this to be deja vu all over again? He did admit to being a freemason. Surely there was not another chest full of bones in the cellar here?
'Well, ma cher, tell me, what do you think?'
Em didn't know quite how to answer...she could only ask herself, who is this man, really?
CLICK right to listen ~ Who you really are
Praise for the high tide, Praise for the seaside, Praise for the sun at high noon. Praise for the lightning, Praise for the singing. Praise the Father sun, And sister Moon
Praise for the red dawn, Grass that we walk upon, Praise for the river's whispered tune. Praise for the Wind Brother, Praise for the Earth Mother. Praise the Father Sun, And Sister Moon. Praise the Father Sun, And Sister Moon.
Hey-ya, hey-ya, hey-ya-a-a! Hey-ya, hey-ya, hey-ya-a-a!
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