Chapter 15 - Mad as the Mist and Snow

Chapter 15 - Mad as the Mist and Snow

..::It would also appear that the Church knew that the Fey, or Fairies, because they participated in eternal spirit of the One, were themselves eternal, needing no forgiveness--for sins they transcended--and no priest to intercede for them to a god whose spirit they were at one with...They could see beyond time and tide and understand that their individual consciousnesses...weren't individual at all, but aspects of the one consciousness, which was eternal and did not require the salvational ministry of a Church...
 
  ...Therefore the Fey had to be eliminated in order for the Church to take over the communities and instil into them the kind of guilt and fear that encourages converts who can then be transformed into a pliant, captive consumer workforce. The Church recognised the problem and began a gradual process of demonisation, marginalisation, genocide and finally academic ridicule and incredulity::..


..::In Welsh Druidic lore the bird, (corresponding to the Ajna Chakra or pineal and pituitary glands),
is represented as the eagle, a typically shamanic totem bird which symbolises the ascendant spirit. Here the eagle is the god Llew, the father of the Elven Llewelyn Kings of Gwynnedd...

...Sythian Aryans, as the 'Danaan', settled in Eire and Scotland, whilst in Wales were known as the House of Don or the House of Gwynnedd. This house sired the line of Llewelyn Princes...::

The Dragon Legacy
Nicholas de Vere



                          

                  * * * *

Morning came; a wan sun barely edging onto the world through a haze of mists; the black thunderheads of the previous evening having retreated with the dawn, to regroup for renewed onslaught at another time...

Daryl had taken up residence of late within Yeats'
abandoned library loft, and today was no different; he sat upon Shane's daybed amongst the scatter pillows, (scattered on floor now as well), surrounded by books, papers and notebooks, and one other item which looked not only out of place here but out of time: The Cup.

This he would glare up at from his tomes from time to time, then resume making notes and even drawings and what appeared to be graphs as well. He'd also dragged Emlyn's makeshift espresso machine into the loft and an odd sight it made sitting on the plain wooden table next to the priceless silver Cup from beyond antiquity. A wooden bowl of apples sat between.

So engrossed was Daryl in his studies that he hadn't noticed when Emlyn entered the library and softly padded across the deep Turkish carpets, then came to stand at the loft's spiral staircase, staring up at him from below.
  'Daryl?' she called, putting a tentative foot upon the wooden steps...

He jumped a bit, but was not unduly surprised. 'Up here, filla...', he replied, then returned to his transcribing.
  Em smiled as she crested the loft, 'I followed my nose here...'
 'Eh?' Daryl looked over her way, saw she was heading toward the espresso machine, and then she frowned and came to a stop as she beheld The Cup.
 'What, are you doing, with...That?' She couldn't help but ask.

Daryl sighed and sat back, putting down his pencil.
'Actually, not a thing. Just, looking at it...' he bit his lip and picked up the pencil, began tapping it, '...have some coffee, sit down,' he suggested, frowning at her in turn.

Em did, although she was not best pleased to even come near The Cup. It seemed almost to hover, so out-of-place did it appear; the proverbial elephant in the living room would seem an intrinsic denizen most comfortably ensconced by comparison.

'You have been busy, it seems...' Em took a chair and glanced over the piles of books and papers strewn about.
  'That I have.' Daryl set several books upon the floor and crossed his legs, taking up his notebook, and began tapping it with his pencil once more, gazing at Em. 'I have been going over some sadly neglected research which may give us new insight into the problem of Gwydion, and, perhaps, Morgana as well...' 

Em was hardly reassured by this. 'What has the Cup to do with it, then?'
  Always with the Cup, thought Daryl. 'Forget the blessed Cup...' He stood then and covered it with the velvet cloth, then handed Em a coffee and sat down with his own demitasse. Emlyn sipped her espresso quietly, but thought to herself that Daryl was grumpy enough already without more caffeine.

'So,' he began, 'you are here after escaping Gwydion on May Eve?'
  Em began slowly shaking her head, 'Not my fault! Not anyone's, we truly tried...'
  Daryl held a hand up. 'Filla, I am not judging! I understand, yes?' He looked at her, and his gaze softened. He opened his notebook and commenced tapping once more. 'I have found in my research, or rediscovered, really, some little-known history that connects you, and perhaps us both, with not only the Cup, but the Fay as well...'

'I don't understand. What could possibly...how?' Em was at a loss as to any connection.
  'Just listen:' Daryl opened a large paperback book:
 ''The real 'gentry'--the Lords and Ladies--were just that: they were by blood alone, the members of a genetic strain, the Dragon and Grail families--the Fairy Blood...
  'One cannot 'become' a member by initiation: a Witch, Magus, Fairy or Elf,'' Daryl looked up from his book and locked his gaze to hers. 'Now, pay attention:
 ''These are all terms which describe the gentry. The latter--Elf--is a word which originates from 'albi', meaning a white or 'shining one'. From albi derives the French Cathar name Albigensian =
(Albi + Gens), meaning 'of the Elven blood'
--et quid erat demonstrandum!'' Daryl shut the book.

'Let me see that!' Emlyn reached an eager hand out and Daryl hesitated, then surrendered the odd tome.
 'It is a 21st century book...fringe esoterica, you understand. I had forgotten about de Vere, and Gardner...they, along with the Da Vinci Code, incited a small wave of Catholic outrage against their claims of bloodlines and such...'

Em frowned as she studied the book. 'This is all rather, ah...'
  Daryl leaned forward and retrieved it. 'It is all over the map, really. The significant part I already
read to you.' Em was not mollified and, in fact, determined then and there to have a long look into this 'fringe esoterica'. Later.


'There is...another bit I noted from de Vere, however: he mentions 'the Elven Kings of Gwynedd', that is, 'the sons of the god Llew, the Llewellyn Princes'.
  'Possibly there is a connection there, too; with your Welsh background.' Daryl drank off his espresso, 'I rather think that this may be so, in light of Gwydion's, ah, interest, in you.' Daryl frowned and began his pencil-tapping again.

Emlyn considered this. 'I had thought that simply because Gwydion is of the Twyleth Teg, he was a sort of genius loci of Wales...' She paused. 'This 'de Vere' you mention, the author...any relation to Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford?'

Daryl smiled, 'That he is, or was.' His grin faded.
'Yes, and who, some say, or Kit Marlowe or Ben Jonson,' Daryl waved a hand, 'or the Akon of Swat, whoever but Shakespeare, actually wrote Shakespeare. But, who knows? One thing I do know,' he rubbed his forehead, grimacing, 'especially after all this bloody research, is that, when looking into history, so-called, one may find as much to confirm a thing as to deny it, or offer an equally plausible
explanation...' he sat back, sighing.
 'Yes, alas for Nicholas...his explanations, his history...but really, only his honesty, got him killed. At a relatively young age. Assassinated, it was rumored, in 2013.' He looked intently at Emlyn, 'You see where taking on the Church and the Royals will get you. So, we must take care, Em. Even now, even here.'

Emlyn finished her cup and set it upon the table. She stood then and went to the railing, surveying the stacks all around them. Books full of secrets. Apocrypha. Heresies. Truths... 'History...and honesty. A dangerous mix, that...'
  Daryl nodded, 'Indeed.'

She turned back around and regarded him. 'You have appropriated Yeats' crow's nest.'
  Daryl smiled. 'A good name for it.' He looked out upon the sea of books.
  'And, have you heard from him at all?' Em asked casually, attempting a bit of investigation into the Mystery of Disappearing Yeats.

'"Bolt the bar and shutter
For the foul winds blow
Our minds are at their best this night,
And I seem to know
That everything outside us is
 Mad as the Mist and Snow...
Horace there by Homer stands,
Plato stands below,
And here is Tully's open page.
How may years ago
Were you and I unlettered lads
Mad as the mist and snow?
You ask what makes me sigh, old friend,
What makes me shudder so?
I shudder and I sigh to think
That even Cicero
And many-minded Homer were
Mad as the Mist and Snow..."'


                        

Daryl's head hung over his book, but he did not seem to be reading, his eyes closed now.

'That's Yeats, so it 'tis,' Emlyn commented softly, nodding once. She sighed. 'Would that I could journey there, and see William Butler's plays...' She sat upon the other end of the day bed, and took up one of the scattered volumes, paging through it slowly. 'Library poetry...' She looked up at Daryl, smiling.
  'I suppose it was, yes...' Daryl moved over, not comfortable suddenly with Emlyn seated so nearby. He cleared his throat, and reached for a frosty bottle of water, 'But, no, I have not heard from him,' he frowned in thought, 'oh...since we returned with Jack, I believe.'

Em considered this. 'Where is Jack?'
 Daryl regarded her, 'I'm not sure. The lab?'
 Em closed her book. 'I just thought that, after last night, you know, with the music and singing, and having Athena here...who, by the way, I like very much; I believe she has a positive influence upon Jack...he likes her, that's obvious...I simply thought that, well, he seemed so much like his old self last night. It gives me hope.'

'Yes. Of course.' He stood then, swinging his legs across to the floor. 'Indeed, you and Athena appear to be becoming the best of friends. I hope I wasn't interrupting...anything...' he regarded her with one eyebrow raised in inquiry.
 'Of course not, Daryl! We were pleased to have you, and Jack, join us. If only things could be so easy, always!'  Em sighed, ' Will things ever be...normal, Daryl?'

Daryl couldn't help but laugh. 'Normal? Ahh...' He
looked at Em, 'What fun is that, eh?'
                       . . . .

Daryl soon regretted his jest, as Jack appeared below then, shutting the library's double doors behind him. Daryl looked upon him, his smile softening, and closed his eyes.
  'Jack!' Emlyn called, going to the railing and waving, 'Up here!'

Jack ran a long finger along the stacks as he approached the spiral stairway. His footsteps echoed as he gained the loft, 'I smelled coffee...'
  'Duly anticipated...' Emlyn was at her beloved apparatus drawing a fresh steaming jolt of caffeine for Jack, then she decided it would best be adulterated with more water, before offering cream.
  'Merci...' Jack was feeling French. Em wondered why. The blessed Cup made her nervous...

Jack flopped upon the bed vacated by Daryl and began to peruse the research material adorning most of the loft space. 'Interesting...you are researching the Cathars?' He reached forward, taking an apple from the table and began to polish it on his shirt.

Emlyn glanced to Daryl and he at her; charged, electric glances. Daryl took a seat in another armchair as Em joined Jack upon the end of the daybed.
  'Yes. And other histories, and variations thereof...'
  Jack smiled and closed the book. 'Indeed.' He sipped his coffee gingerly. 'Last night was grand.
I do like Athena...' he looked up at Daryl, all receptive and ingenuous.

'Yes.' Daryl was glad Jack was 'coming 'round' at last, but...the lad needed to learn better defenses. 'She is, one-of-a-kind...' He smiled a slight, quick flash of a smile; a magician's trick-smile. 'You sounded good last night. Although, more practice time would stand us all in good stead...'
  'Exactly what I was thinking...' Jack agreed.
  'Absolutely!' Em shook her head, 'I haven't held Felix in my arms in too long!'

The men simply looked at her, saying nothing. Finally, a '"Felix"?' from Daryl.
  'My mandolin.' Em blinked, 'After Mendelssohn, of course.'

                      

 

Daryl smiled and gazed into his empty cup. Really, though, he'd had enough rocket fuel already; having been up and at it early despite their late night's revels. Head humming, insomnia. Espresso ever the cure for lack of sleep?
Daryl knew better...he would no doubt crash hard later.
  'You know Mendelssohn wrote not only about the Faeries, but forget not his Opus 32, Melusine.'

'One of my favorites,' Jack offered, settling back comfortably, knowing of old that Uncle Daryl would soon venture into the Land of Tall Tales:
  'Indeed...and this may be of interest to you, also, Emlyn, as it concerns...' Daryl nodded in the direction of the now-hooded Cup. 'You recall the motto we found written upon it?'
  '"Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense?"' Emlyn did recall.
'From the Order of the Garter, you said. How does that tie in with Mendelssohn's 'Melusine'?'

Daryl was staring down at the book by de Vere. 'Yess...'he slowly raised his head, 'There is a rather, esoteric, occult meaning behind many mysteries. And, perhaps, this may be one. Alright,'
he crossed his legs and sat back with his espresso.
  'First, as to Melusine, or perhaps we best begin with her mother. This was a well-known tale from the middle ages which was much translated and later popularized in 'chapbooks' about the UK...
  'It tells how in the time of the crusades, Elynas, the King of Albany (an old name for Scotland or Alba), went hunting one day and came across a beautiful lady in the forest. She was Pressyne, mother of Melusine. He persuaded her to marry him but she agreed, only on the promise — for there is often a hard and fatal condition attached to any pairing of fay and mortal — that he must not enter her chamber when she birthed or bathed her children. She gave birth to triplets. When he violated this taboo, Pressyne left the kingdom, together with her three daughters, and traveled to the lost Isle of Avalon.' Daryl paused and sipped, then took an apple from the fruit bowl. He regarded it a moment.

'The three girls — Melusine, Melior, and Palatyne — grew up in Avalon. On their fifteenth birthday, Melusine, the eldest, asked why they had been taken to Avalon. Upon hearing of their father's broken promise, Melusine sought revenge. She and her sisters captured Elynas and locked him, with his riches, in a mountain. Pressyne became enraged when she learned what the girls had done, and punished them for their disrespect to their father. Melusine was condemned to take the form of a serpent from the waist down every Saturday. In other stories, she takes on the form of a mermaid.
  'Raymond of Poitou came across Melusine in a forest of Coulombiers in Poitou in France, and proposed marriage. Just as her mother had done, she laid a condition, that he must never enter her chamber on a Saturday. He broke the promise and saw her in the form of a part-woman part-serpent. She forgave him. When during a disagreement, he called her a "serpent" in front of his court, she assumed the form of a dragon, provided him with two magic rings, and flew off, never to return.'

                         

'I love it.' Jack's eyes were closed, enjoying the mindscapes within. 'And, to relate this to the Countess of Salisbury, then?'

Daryl finished his apple, and drank the rest of his demitasse. 'Ah. Well. Just this: for the temporary loss, and retrieval of a lady's garter, it would seem odd, don't you think?--to create a fraternal order about the entire, brief episode?
  'One is to believe perhaps, that with courtly love, and chivalry being the order of the day, that any such act would be deemed worthy...but, surely there is more to it than that, oc?'

'Oc, indeed!' Em looked up from the Dragon Legacy book which she had been surreptitiously perusing throughout Daryl's long-winded impromptu lecture.
  'It has been a long while since I've heard Occitan...Alice used to speak it at home...'

Daryl shot Em a sharp glance. 'Indeed? It would seem that there is more to our Mrs. Stein than would first appear...but, to return to our tale...
  'The entire business would never have been so immortalized, if it had been any other lady's garter so unfortunately lost. However, it belonged to the Countess of Salisbury, who was also the Maid of Kent; 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci', who acted, it is said, as Queen of the Fey and the Witches in merrie olde England at that time...it was, of course, a red garter.'

                          

'Ah!' Em shut the book, and picked up another, studying it, 'So, the king was sanctioning the countess's ah, 'moonlighting'?--is that the term, Jack?' she smiled his way.
  'It's perfect,' Jack returned her grin.

'In a way, yes,' Daryl replied. 'The red garter of the witches, you see, also relates to the red belt of the Cathars.'

Jack stood, stretching. 'Well. I'm inspired anew! Back to it, then...perhaps you'll come visit the lab later, Daryl? I'm working on a healing symphony; or at least that's my hope...'

Daryl seemed lost in his own faery tales, staring into space. At last he looked up at Jack.
  'Sounds wonderful. I surely shall. Later this afternoon, then.'
  Jack took Emlyn's hand, kissed it and made a mock-courtly bow, 'Milady...', and off he went clattering down the spiral staircase.

'Well, it is getting on...' Em began, as she stood, and Daryl followed suit. 'You've given me much to think about, Diego.' As Daryl took apart the espresso machine to rinse it out, Em picked up a third book, Tennyson, and put it atop the other two, 'May I borrow these? Just for today?'
  'Hm? Oh, yes, fine...just don't lose them...act like a librarian, would you?' Daryl waved a hand her way, concentrating on the task before him.
  Em put a hand on his shoulder, making him jerk.
'Merci.' Then, down the stairs she fled, congratulating herself on having secreted the 'esoteric fringe' book of de Vere's on the bottom of her borrowed stack.

As she headed for the door, however, she could hear Daryl intoning to himself:

  '"She found me roots of relish sweet
    And honey wild and manna dew
    And sure in language strange she said
    --I love thee true"...'

WATCH AND LISTEN!
Waterboys: Mad As The Mist and Snow
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lfzL1yLh9no


                         

                  . . . .

Chapter 19 - To The Back of Beyond, and Back Again

Chapter 19 - To The Back of Beyond, and Back Again


"1655: It might be here very seasonable to enquire into the nature of those large dark rings in the grass which they call 'Fairy Circles', whether they be the Rendezvouz of Witches, or the dancing place of those little Puppet Spirits which they call Elves or Fairies."

                         * * * *

"Every moment beginneth existence, around every 'Here', rolleth the ball 'There'. The middle is Everywhere.'

--Nietzsche
                            . . . .

'Mr. Yeats!'
Emlyn exclaimed, (cursing Chortling Daryl), 'Ah! Oh, do come in!'
'Watch your head!' Daryl warned him.


Yeats removed his hat and bending somewhat, passed under the door frame and entered. 'Daryl. Emlyn,' he nodded a greeting.
'Really, Daryl, you are too much sometimes,' she shook her head slowly. 'You live for dramedy, don't you?'

'Where did you learn that word?' Daryl frowned at her, 'Jack, no doubt...' Em's silence confirmed this, 'remind me to beat him.' Daryl indicated the Spanish chairs, 'Welcome. Yeats, have a seat if you like...these are safe for sitting,' he added.
Mendelsshon had segued into Mozart's 'Magic Flute' with the arrival of Yeats.

Yeats strolled about the room, inspecting items, even lifing a sheet here and there. He paused before the flaming blue fire a moment, then turned and regarded Daryl. 'Anything new?' he asked. Apparently he was no stranger to Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe.

'Ah, since you were here last, probably not. I've been much too busy south of the border of late.' Daryl stood, hands in pockets, watching Yeats.

'Ummm...' Yeats ceased his circumnavigation about the room and took one of the Spanish chairs. Em took the one beside him, noting that Yeats' knees came up past his armrests.

Wickedly, Emlyn found it satisfying that, for a change, men would find 'her' chairs not of the most comfortable fit.
'Well?' Yeats addressed Daryl, 'I suppose we had best get on with it. It IS here, is it not?'

Daryl regarded Em and Yeats a moment, as if assessing the situation, then he nodded, and, oddly, went to the Cabinet of Curiosities that Em had found so...enchanting.

  Taking a small key from his vest pocket, he unlocked the bottom doors and, upon opening, Emlyn could plainly detect the scents of sandal and spice within. Daryl reached inside and brought forth with both hands, an object wrapped round with a purple velvet cloth.
This he brought over to them, set it carefully upon another of the Spanish chairs, and dragged a small table next to it. Lifting the item, he sat it gently upon the table and took a seat in the chair. He looked up at Yeats, who, Emlyn saw, was now leaning forward eagerly...even his eyebrows seemed quite eager, she imagined.
Inhaling, Daryl reached forth and slowly drew the cloth from the object. As it was unveiled, the song ended, and a new one began, Em recognized: 'In the Hall of the Mountain King'.



Strangely, the tune seemed to fit the moment perfectly, for, upon the humble wooden table before them, sat what surely was a very old, and no doubt, priceless artifact...

 It was a Cup, or more accurately, a stemmed bowl, for it was large for a drinking vessel. It was most certainly gold, an old gold, and heavy, one could tell. It was ringed with a silver edging with rivets about the rim, and three equidistant handles upon the sides, obviously of old silver.   It had some ornamentation, nothing fancy, which only added to it's air of antiquity; it verily appeared a thing out of Legend...spiral designs surrounded the centre, and upon the stem which rested upon the table, Em could make out what appeared to be a triskele, fanning out from it's hub, in what surely appeared to be a Keltic design...

'Oh, Daryl...' she breathed, '...it's quite magnificent!'
The men simply stared at it, enraptured as she.
At last, Yeats began to slowly shake his head.

  'I can't believe it's really here.' He spoke in a low, hushed voice. 'Is it? If so, this...' he cleared his throat, '...this belongs in a museum!'

Daryl, also leaning toward the Cup, looked up at him, 'You know we can't do that. As much as I would like to display this for all...that, I fear--' he nodded at the object which seemed almost to have a glow of it's own, '--It would never allow...'

'It would seem almost...sacreligious...' Emlyn agreed.

All kept their voices soft and low, in reverence to the Cup.

They sat watching it, as if waiting for it, somehow. The blue flames from the fireplace reflected eerily in the deep gold of the Cup, and Emlyn noticed then, along the sides bordering the spirals, what she at first believed to be asimple design pattern was actually writing.
'Ah...Daryl, there is writing upon it! Is it French? Or Oc?'

'"Honi soit qui mal y pense,"' Daryl read, sitting back at last. 'It is the motto of the Most Noble Order of the Garter of Great Britain.'

'"Shame to him who thinks evil of it,"' Emlyn translated. 'But, why would a British maxim be written in French?'

Daryl and Yeats gazed at one another, saying nothing. At last, as usual, Daryl side-stepped the question, 'It is quite old...from the 1300's I believe...'

'Where is it from?' Emlyn sat back, and riveted Daryl with a look which demanded answer.

He sighed, 'Well, from Scotland. That, is where I was when I...came by it. And it had been there for some time. The French and Scottish were on friendly terms, off and on...'

'I believe...' Yeats began, '...that possibly someone, decidedly a Knight, however, perhaps, not of the Order of the Garter, seeking asylum in Scotland, brought it with him.

The Mother Church was making things uncomfortable for certain of Her Crusaders after they had returned from the Holy Land with riches, and acquired land...much coveted by others...'

'Ah. The Templars.' Emlyn was somewhat acquainted with tales of the Order of the Temple . Indeed, many were rumored to have fled the inquisitions and left for Scotland.



'That appears to make the most sense,' Daryl agreed, 'but, it is a Mystery, still.'

'Perhaps the writing was added, at a later date, by another,' Em proposed, 'someone who was not the origianl artisan.'
'Yes, I've thought that as well,' Daryl nearly smiled...then he eyed the Cup intently.

 He found himself raising a hand toward the Cup.
He paused then, and looked at Yeats, who frowned, then nodded. Daryl reached out, and took hold of the Cup's silver handle nearest him.

The music stopped.

Inhaling deeply, Yeats roused himself and also reached slowly toward the handle on his side and clasped it. He and Daryl regarded one another silently for a moment. Then they turned to Emlyn.
She looked at both the men, then, licking her lips as her mouth had suddenly gone quite dry, tentatively reached out, and grasped her handle.

The fire died...

...No light within the chamber now, except what could dimly be seen as a muted glow coming from the Cup. Almost a soft hum Emlyn thought she could discern as well.

'You did not bring the artefact!' Daryl hissed at her. Not a question, more of a rebuke.

'No, Daryl, I did not,' Em whispered. So he had heard it too, or felt it. She believed she could feel a subtle vibration in the Cup as well.

'Hush...!' Yeats commanded.

The three sat holding onto the Cup as it thrummed gently between them. Suddenly, to Em's musician's ear came soft, but unmistakable sounds of chanting. She glanced up at Daryl who caught her eye and bit his lip, he had heard it also; obviously this was a first for him with the Cup.

The faint vibration increased along with the audible chanting, and the Cup seemed to glow brighter, somehow more golden... The Presences about the attic room loomed larger, as if an invisible host was crowded about the Cup as well, awaiting it's next move. It hadn't long to wait--

--It was the work of a moment; all at once, blue sparks like unto petite lightning snaked about the Cup's edges and the Triad's hands as well. The next sound heard came as a low rolling thunder, and with a crack of lightning, the three were blasted back against their seats, seemingly insentient.

                          . . . .
          

Emlyn found herself, with Daryl, who was holding the Cup tight against himself, running along a dim, narrow stone passageway. They were oddly dressed in somewhat tattered rough robes and the sandals upon Em's feet were little protection as she hastened down the corridor, knocking into objects in the dark. Footsteps sounded behind them, farther off, but, they seemed to think, not far enough...

The corridor ended and Daryl handed the Cup to Emlyn, then
knelt down and felt about the rough stone walls. Finding what he had sought, he grasped the large stone at the bottom and began to pull, push and work it out from it's place. Taking off his cloak, he wrapped it about the Cup, and hid it within the opening, and together they pushed the stone shut against it.

Turning opposite of where the Cup now lay hidden in it's cold cell, Daryl was feeling about the wall again. His fingers found whatever niche they sought and with Em's help, they jimmy'd a heavy stone away to reveal a small opening, just big enough for someone to crawl through.

He pushed Emlyn into the dark dank hole and then followed her; on the other side he took hold of an iron ring and pulled the stone door shut upon them.

  'Avancer,' he whispered, as they crawled down the damp narrow tunnel, none too soon apparently, as they now could hear the advancing footfalls of many feet and dim voices on the other side of the wall.

Shaking, Em crept slowly downward, cold, bruised, cut, bleeding and as time dragged on, becoming quite claustrophobic...then, thankfully, she bethought she could detect a faint light ahead of them...

  She could now smell the salt tang of ocean air and dimly hear waves upon a shore...yes! The shaft was opening wider now and they soon found themselves within a sea cave; and, luckily, the tide was out.

It was early evening she saw, as they exited the cave, and a moon hung over the sea in a slender crescent. Faintly, the western sky was still illuminated with a misty glow.

  Emlyn felt dead tired, shivering with nerves and cold, bloody from scrapes inflicted in their urgent flight...
Daryl looked like a wild man, hair rather longer and darker, hanging in wet strands about his grimy visage, bearded now, and bloodied as well.

Too tired to say anything, they walked down the narrow strand of beach and then began to climb up a rocky hill to the headland of the bight. Emlyn followed Daryl up, clambered onto the bank, then nearly ran into him as he suddenly halted before her.

Looking up, she could just make out in the growing dark, a tall dark man in mail, a large sword in one hand. Behind him were others, who began to fan out encircling them.

'Adieu paniers, vendanges sont faites...' He said, approaching...
  "Farewell baskets, the vintage is over," Em heard and understood quite well. They'd been found out. There was no escape.

The man in mail came closer and, as he did, despite the facial hair, Emlyn recognized someone she well knew:
It was Yeats!

'Hors de l'Eglise, point de salut,' his voice, hard and low, pronounced as though in judgement:
 "There is no salvation outside the Church."

The avenging knight advanced upon Daryl who, with arms out, backed away along the cliff's edge, frowning, as though not believing what he saw, nor what was upon him...

Emlyn froze in horror, watching, as Yeats-as-Knight turned slightly to the side, then grasping the great sword in both hands, swung it up and around, taking Daryl's head with it's lethal arc...
 'Sorcier!'
                          . . . .

All was dark and still within the attic room full of secrets.
  Emlyn took a deep, shaky breath, then dared open her eyes; just in time to see the blue flames leap back into life upon the hearth. She jumped at that, then blinking, stared about her and frowned. What had just happened here?

The Cup sat quiet, still, enigmatic, before them. Yeats sat back stiffly in his seat, head back, eyes shut, a look of frozen pain upon his features. Daryl sat slumped over, but thankfully his head was still attached.

Emlyn leaned over to Daryl, afraid to wake him, but she certainly didn't want him to fall over. She didn't fancy hauling possibly two large insentient men about.

 'Daryl,' she said low, putting a hand upon his arm.
Nothing. Then, weaving slightly, Daryl began to fall, 'No!'
Em cried, catching his shoulders before he toppled. Yeats came back to himself then, blinking, and gazed at the shadowy scene before him, with a rather blank look about himself.

'Mr. Yeats, help me!' Em looked over her shoulder at him, trying to prop the still unresponsive Daryl back up.

Yeats rallied, and looking grim, came over to Daryl and knelt at his side, taking him in hand. Em relinquished Daryl while Yeats held his shoulder, then put a hand to his head.

  'Feverish,' he pronounced, and looked about. 'See if you can find a couch or table to lay him on...'

Em went about, pulling sheets off likely looking objects, and at last found an old settee, hard and uncomfortable, but serviceable. Taking Daryl's legs, whilst Yeats wrestled with the rest, they at last had him laid out upon the thing, and Yeats took off his coat and folded it over him.

'Damn it, old man...' Yeats muttered as he knelt beside Daryl, taking his pulse. He sighed, 'He'll be alright, I think... Emlyn, take this torch; downstairs there is a service area where there are tea things and a small gas stove. Do get some strong hot tea made? With sugar. Alot.'

Intuiting that Yeats needed time alone with Daryl, Em took the torch and managed to find her way downstairs... Lord and Lady, what had happened? What did it all mean? And, what of Daryl now...?
Stumbling about, Em searched along the walls until she found, behind a curtained area, the small stove, matches and kettle and water. Her hands were shaking she noticed, as she lighted the stove and put the water on. She found several candles, however. Apparently the power had gone out, by whatever means, here before.

The homely routine of making tea steadied her somewhat and, finding the sugar bowl at last, she believed she had accomplished her task. Loading a large tray with candle, teapot and cups, rattling as she shook slightly, she slowly made her way back upstairs, half-fearing what she might find there...

Yeats had pulled a chair round to Daryl's couch and was regarding him intently. Daryl was sitting now, propped up with a pillow behind him, legs still stretched out before him, staring blankly ahead.
Emlyn set the tray down beside Yeats, then went to fetch round a chair for herself. She gazed at the Cup as she passed; such an altogether fearful and awesome spectacle it had become this night...seeing the velvet cloth, she picked it up and covered the Cup. She pushed the heavy chair over beside Daryl.

Yeats had poured for them all, and was adding sugar to Daryl's cup. 'See if you can rouse him, my dear,' he handed it to Emlyn.
Em leaned forward and placed a hand upon Daryl's arm, 'Daryl?' she asked. Nada. 'Diego, como estas?'

 Daryl at last slowly turned toward her.
'Oh, Diego!' Tears welled in Em's eyes, unbidden. She could not help seeing over and again, that dreadful scene she had just witnessed in her mind's eye. She wondered if she would ever be rid of it.
  'Please come back! Take some tea, por favor!'

She took his hand and placed it about the cup, holding her hands around his. 'Diego, you must. You are in shock. Drink something, the sugar will help...'

She helped maneuver the cup to his lips and finally managed
to get some tea down him. Daryl closed his eyes again, then lay his head to the back of the couch. 'I feel ill...'

  Yeats sprang up, yanked open the curtain and opening the window, manhandled Daryl to it just in time for a mighty heave-ho...
'I'm alright, I'm alright...' Daryl mumbled as Yeats took him back to the couch. Daryl fell upon it, and pulled the coat over him, 'Cold...' he muttered, shaking.

 Yeats shut the window whilst Emlyn soaked a tea towel in tea and washed Daryl's face...poor Uncle Daryl, he looked truly low. She had never seen, or even imagined indomitable, cocky Daryl as any other than his robust self. I suppose losing one's head could do that to a man, Em mused...

She rinsed the towel and soaked it again in tea and held it against Daryl's head, somewhat cooler now. Em looked over at Yeats in silent query. Now what? And what, exactly, had all this been about? And why? Had it been worth it?

'You...you were there,' was all she could muster to say to him.
Yeats, elbow bent upon the armrest and leaning a hand over his chin, regarded her earnestly and nodded. 'Yes.'

Em couldn't think what else to say then. They sat together awhile in the soft candleglow and the silent ghostly blue flames in the hearth, watching over Daryl, who seemed to be asleep, breathing deeply.

'I'll take us back,' Yeats announced finally, 'I think he is up for it now. Give me your hand, and take Daryl's' Yeats
waved his other hand at the hearth, putting out fire and candles both.

Emlyn took his hand and Daryl's, and after a brief space of black nothingness, they found themselves in Daryl's parlor, with him lying on the sofa. Em thought Yeats must be well-practiced in his Timewalks to have made such a precise 'landing'.

'I'm afraid I must leave. Sorry, but it is urgent.'
Yeats took his coat carefully from Daryl's prostrate form, and setting his hat upon his head, regarded Emlyn and the Cup, which, somehow, had managed to tag along.

'Do NOT touch it again!' he admonished, and was gone.

Em found a blanket and settled it around Daryl, who, feeling his forehead now, appeared to be quite cold. This rather alarmed her, although putting a hand upon his chest she could feel him breathing. She built up the fire and got it going, then telling herself that Daryl wasn't about to expire or disappear anytime soon, she fumbled her way into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

It rather startled her to see the brightening of the sky and to realize the dawn was now come. She felt quite wrung-out...
  Taking her tea back to the parlor, she was reassured to see Daryl's face with a more healthy glow, although perhaps it was just the firelight...bending, she felt his cheek and he seemed normal enough...whatever passed as normal for Daryl.

She curled up in the armchair opposite and sipped her tea, wondering what had happened this night... Somehow, she felt as if she had truly been Elsewhere and had just made that awful trek through the stone passage and the sea cave...she half wondered why her hands were no longer scraped and bloody. She felt quite done in.
She didn't even notice when she finally fell asleep...
                          . . . .

'I like well your new name, Emlyn.'
Em found herself once more beside the seashore, however this was a peaceful place, one she recognized as being the abode of her sister of the Otherworld, Anara, who kept company beside her.
'I'm told it simply means 'work' or 'worker',' Em replied,
as she strolled beside her sister, her future-self.
'Aye. It also means 'industrious' and 'around the valley.'
Anara smiled her way.

Em liked that, 'around the valley'--it described her Pankhurst self. That, too, had been the place she had worked most industriously.
'Anara...' she began, not knowing if she ought to broach the subject of her experience with the Cup, but wondering all the same if her sister-self might shed light upon it, 'I had the strangest experience, with a very old Cup--'

Anara turned, facing her and put a finger to her lips,
'Speak not of it! For that is from another World than this, and contrary to us here! It belongs in your world, not ours.' She took Em's arm and recommenced their walk.

'You might ask Thelene of it, but let us speak together of other things now,' Anara gazed at the sea beyond them, 'what I am here to impart to you is just this: You alone, Emlyn, are your own salvation. Look not to either gods or men for that.'

'I will say this, the time of which you spoke, was a Dark Time for us all. It was the beginning of the end, an age of Iron, of Ignorance and War and Greed and Want. Folk turned against their Mother Earth, and trampled green and growing things under feet of iron and turned the earth into a battlefield fed by blood. All in the name of one god or other...such was a ready excuse.
  'Women were treated worse than animals or slaves and not much has really changed, in your world. What you know now of the Future, is the result of all that: a world full of toxic poison and decay.
  'But, that age is passing. It is in it's death-throes.
A new age is waiting to be born. In it, you will realize your true natures. You will no longer live like savage children, begging for an omniscient Father to save you from yourselves.

  'Humankind must now put away the things of childhood and
become adult, and resume their role as care-takers of the planet. The great secret is only this: you, and you alone, are responsible for the health of the planet, and you alone are responsible for yourselves, and for one another.

   'Preachers, men, of one kind or other have fed the folk the Great Lie to make infants of your kind; that they are weak, and helpless, and ignorant, and incapable, and require an all-knowing Father who demands constant praise and worship or hell will come upon you. Obviously, hell is already upon the people, and by their very helplessness and willfull ignorance, thus was it brought about. A populace that feels intrinsically powerless is easily malleable and controlled.'

'That all sounds fair and reasonable, Anara...' Emlyn knew it was so, but it seemed quite impossible, knowing how things, and people, were, for it to change anytime soon. 'I cannot imagine people acting as other than they are, however. Basic human nature would have to undergo a great permutation!'

'Yes!' Anara stopped and turned Emlyn toward her, 'That indeed is the plan!' She smiled at Em's puzzled look, and led her to a large driftwood log and they sat together.

'It has been a plan long in the making, but it has been implemented in secret, over many thousands of years! And yet, now that we are coming to the End of An Age, and entrophy has given way to catastrophe, our efforts have increased exponentially.
  'Desperate times require desperate measures, it is said, and indeed, that is the juncture we now come upon. Might, obviously, does not Make Right.

  'We have been forced to extemporize, as we are now under much pressure all round, but, at last, it may be said that a light is seen at the end of that long dark tunnel!' Anara took Em's hands in her own. Em shied away from any thought of dark tunnels.
  'My sister, it is well that you have found your sisters-in-Gaia. Hold together, and become like the oak, planted firm, and focused on your goal. Know that we watch over you, and will send to you the knowledge and help that you may need in days to come.
  'You are not alone. Stay strong, and rest now, Emlyn. You have done well...'
                             . . . .