Looking For Pan

Chapter 16 - Looking For Pan

..::Conor Newman, an archaeology lecturer at the National University of Ireland at Galway announced that he had located a massive subterranean temple at Tara.
 
What they uncovered eventually at the crown of the hill was a huge, oval-shaped monument measuring about 170 meters at its widest point. Around it are 300 postholes measuring two meters wide. Evidence indicates this ‘Crown’ (tiara) jewel of Irish archaeology was constructed through an enormous effort.
  300 towering oak posts once surrounded the hill. Newman thinks it probably dates from 2500 to 2300 BC and still had a big physical presence even after the posts were taken out or rotted. While the site is home to many known archaeological treasures, this latest discovery reveals that the real treasure exists underneath the sacred hill and may soon be revived.
 
Tara is the prehistoric home of the magical Tuatha Dé Danann, who are considered to be direct descendants or reincarnations of the biblical Shining Ones (Elohim), the creator gods.
  W.Y.Evans-Wentz notes that they are described as a race of majestic appearance and marvelous beauty, in form human, yet in nature divine.

The Irish called them the ‘Lords of Light’ or Illi, and they brought with them four treasures or power tools:
• the Stone of Destiny
• the Sword of Destiny
• the Cup of Destiny
• the Staff or Spear of Destiny

These treasures were housed in the so-called Cave of Treasures, inside the Mountain of God, where burns a perpetual flame.
  Tara was considered the Mountain of God, as well as the Illi’s Gateway to the etheric Otherworld::.

                 * * * *


                       

A dark night at the old house found Emlyn staring, unbelieving, at the book before her.
As she read...each word, sentence, paragraph,
stirred her blood and awakened forgotten memories, like the scent of something on the wind, reminiscent of a recollection...perhaps of some place she hadn't been, and yet she knew it, deeply within. Running like a river, a current, a connection.  A talisman.
 

The book, of course was, the Lord of the Rings, part one. She only took short breaks from it to dip into Tennyson, as well as de Vere. Those two were like oil upon her fire...
  Although HRH disturbed her somewhat...she shook her head; however she did agree with many of his assessments, and applauded his embrace of courtly love, some of his ideas she found not so much off the mark as skirting the real issues...
  Tolkien was the real mage and magic here.

"I summon up remembrance of things past..." Ah, Shakespeare, thought Em...as she closed Tolkien and leaned her head against her mahogany headboard, listening to the wind whip up the night.  Another storm brewing...

She went to her window and pulled back the curtain, just in time for a flash of lightning, followed by rolling thunder. She shivered involuntarily; although she wasn't the storm-maiden that Athena was, she could still appreciate a fine wild wind. She had to admit, however, she had witnessed more storms just occasionally visiting the east coast, than she'd experienced in her many years living in California...

Em nearly closed the curtain when she believed she heard a knock at the door. Tonight? Surely not Athena out storm-walking again...?  She leaned sideways to see if she could view the door.
  Sure enough, she noted a figure step back from the porch and glance up at the windows, barely visible in the growing twilight...then approach once more. Rapping again. Definite this time.

Emlyn flew down the stairs, hoping she hadn't been so engrossed in her reading that she'd kept whoever it was, out in the storm for long...
  Stepping into the foyer, she peered through the brass peephole, then opened the door.
 'Aleister! Do come inside!' Em ushered a wind-tossed Aleister within, 'This is a happy surprise!'

Al removed his cap and attempted to smooth his wild locks, 'Ah, Em, if only it were! Afraid I'm here on a bit of urgent business...is Jack about?'
  Em hadn't seen him since the morning. 'I believe he said he was in the lab...is anything wrong, Aleister?' She walked with Al down the hallway to the basement door.
  'Oh, probably nothing, but I thought Jack should know that, dash it--it seems Trotsky got out somehow and is missing...blasted equine! Or I certainly wouldn't be here in this blow!' Al tugged his cap back onto his head, and began punching in the code to open the door to the lab below.
 'Oh no! I'm sorry, Al. How long has he been gone?' Em followed Aleister down the stairs.
 'Ah, just since last night I believe. But no one has seen him anywhere, and...oh, Jack! I have some news...' Jack raised his dark, unkempt head. 'You may wish to return with me. Trotsky has gone missing!'
   Al wiped his ruddy face with a hanky, as Jack  got up from his keyboards; Daryl followed, after removing a set of earphones.

When Al finished explaining the situation, Jack  decided to return to Crowley Place with him.     'Trots is a good friend, not just a horse, you know.' Jack shut off his equipment, 'I can't bear to think someone might have absconded with him!'   He looked at Em, his features tight, 'He's a fine bit of horseflesh, to some! To me, though...'
 Jack fairly flew up the stairs, Aleister following.
  'We'll be back and let you know as soon as we have news!' Aleister called as they made their
hasty exit.

'Well!' Daryl powered down his amplifier as well,
'I guess it's just us, then.'
  'Hmm...yes,' Em was staring up the stairway after their visitors.
  'Come on, then,' Daryl took her arm and steered her to the stairs in turn, 'let's get some dinner started, shall we...?'

                    . . . .

'It always seems to be storming when I'm here! I feel my presence has angered Thor somehow...' Emlyn mused as they locked up the lab.
  Daryl half-smiled. 'It is the start of hurricane season here.'
 'Only the start?!' Em hoped she'd not be staying here all that long. 'I've never been in a hurricane.'
 'Never fear, cariad,' Daryl put a comforting arm about her slim shoulders, '"It was for storms like this, that this house was built", to quote Barnabas Collins, when speaking of Collinwood...'
 'Yes?'
 'A 20th century, ah, play...set in Maine, actually, but the scene of much stormy intrigue, mystery and Gothic romance!--Even time travel.'
 Em was suitably intrigued, 'Indeed? I would love to see this play...'


Daryl and Em rounded the corner into the lofty kitchen just as thunder rumbled in the distance.
 'Ah! The gods are gathering!' Em laughed, but storms, although thrilling to her, made her a trifle uneasy all the same...

That Jack! He'd certainly made an expedient escape, back to California summer. She hoped he'd find Trotsky; his horse was part of the family, after all... At least no one would be tempted to steal her good, albeit homely Pancho, who was safely boarding at Mrs. Murphy's. Em raised her eyes to the darkening sky, wishing she was there with him now...

Daryl hummed and whistled about the kitchen, suffering from no such qualms, having grown up on or near the east coast. He relished storms; he and Athena sometimes sat one out in the gazebo, wrapped up together in sleeping bags and comforters, a thermos of cocoa with brandy handy, railing at Thor's Hammer with gay abandon...


                        

It might liven things up a bit, he mused, if he were to invite Athena over; bring with her some Dark Shadows or, better, the original Dracula with Lugosi. Em might prefer the handsome, charismatic but cruel, Christopher Lee of Hammer films, but Daryl bethought Hammer rather a bit much for Em's delicate sensibilities. Later, perhaps.

'It isn't about to break for a while yet.' Daryl decided, 'I may jog over and see if Athena wishes to join us for dinner.' Daryl strode into the hallway, opened the closet door and shrugged into his raincoat, Em following.
  'Let's see then...would you chop some garlic whilst I'm out, a lot of it...onion as well...'
  'What are we cooking, then?' Em handed Daryl his hat.
  'Hm. Don't know as yet.' He smiled, tightening his belt, 'but it's sure to need a lot of both...'
  Pulling down his cap, he squeezed Em's arm and then exited into the gathering gloom. 'Back soon.
Make up the fire in parlor, too, would you?' And off into the gloom Daryl dared...
  'Gracias, Josephina!' He called as he waved farewell, the Generalissimo having issued his orders.
 'Si, si, mi capitan!' Em, as Josephina, saluted his back. 
                   . . . .
'"Blow til thou burst thy wind, if room enough!"'
Daryl eyed the clouds massing his way, and pulled his collar up about his neck, '"but I would fain die a dry death!"'
  A crack of lightning interrupted his impromptu 'Tempest' recitation, reminding him of his need for haste...

Athena's gatehouse stood at the border to the property, as it's namesake betold; not a far walk but a 'good stretch o'the legs', nonetheless.
  Daryl welcomed it...he'd been indoors much too much of late, sent within by inclement weather and business of research. He put a hand to his head and rubbed hard, as if to wipe from his mind all he'd recently worked so hard to stuff within.

'Mad as the Mist and Snow, indeed,' he growled to himself, plunging on through the battering wind.
He had to admit that, the more he learned, the more he discovered, that, really, the less he knew.

However, Daryl was a lucky man, being one of the very few who recognized that intellect is not intelligence, as Krisnamurti had realized before him.
  Indeed, all men would be but Machiavellian wolves; insular and greedy, nothing but self-serving misanthropes, or savages, (not that most weren't, in his time), if not for the intelligence of some.
 Intelligence lies in a certain awareness, and knowing oneself. What one feels inwardly, and knows to be true. And, if something seems confused and chaotic, then it probably was. Catalog it thus, and let it be...

The minds of men were fine thinking machines; compartmentalization and objective analysis came naturally to them. But, within these winding labyrinths, they easily became lost. Hence, intelligence was needed; intuition, instinct, a sixth sense. A Knowing.
  Or one might wind up making doomsday machines before realizing, Oops! I just destroyed the planet!
  Then, there's no going back to the drawing board.

Such were Daryl's musings as he trudged through the hedges and down the well-worn pathway to the woods leading to Athena's gatehouse.
  He needed to center more and quiet his raging monkey-mind...more meditation, and O, gods grant:
more sleep...
  Perhaps he simply needed to catch up on some long-lost sleep. He felt he had hardly slept since retrieving Jack.

And yet...lately he had found himself doubting everything he thought he'd known. He'd all these
certainties about how things were; tied up in neat little boxes and stored away, which he would open and trot out when required, but...
  No longer. What was real and what was not, was beginning to become a real mind-worm gnawing at his pithy positivity, ex cathedra.


Not only that, but, he had caught himself thinking, 'If only Yeats were here!', time and again. But no; Yeats was off--after dissolving the Order, on a crystal starship with a Fey woman of the Tuatha De Danann! Or was he? Did he even know, himself, Yeats? Did he even care?
  Perhaps not. Perhaps...(and this was a frightening conjecture), Yeats had also come to this juncture. Perhaps it was near-madness that drove him to leap headfirst into the unknown, to
go tripping merrily into...what? Exactly?


Perhaps it was all a hologram...a projection from the Archons? Daryl was leaning more toward this line of thought of late, since his experience with the Cup.

Indeed, Daryl was certainly no stranger to the oddities and so-called 'impossibilities' he'd experienced in life. Multi-dimensions, a certainty. Starships, beings from parallel worlds, or what we perceived as such: a question....round and round he went with that. One's mind could contain an entire universe...
  ...as with the Zen master who woke dreaming of a butterfly, and wondered if he were actually a butterfly dreaming it were a man?

Daryl stopped and sighed as he emerged from the wood, the trees singing in the wild wind. He gazed up at the dark clouds above, seeking answers, seeking peace.
 He wasn't even sure of Anara any longer...she had been absent from him, from his dreams for so long.
Who, or what was she, really? He rubbed his eyes, as if to give himself clearer vision.
 '"I have forgot much, Cynara, gone with the wind..."' He put his hands in his pockets and continued on, seeing the familiar stones of the gatehouse at last.
 'Mad as the Mist and Snow, so we are...'
                . . . .

No answer. Daryl rapped again, his hand upon the large ring which hung from a lion's mouth that served as Athena's door knocker. He put an ear to the door, hearing nothing; but hardly expected to--even when she was there, the large oaken door, with oval frame surrounded by stone, was not only secure but fairly soundproof.
 Out storm-walking? Maybe...

T'was then Daryl heard a rumble and turning about, found an entirely darkened horizon behind him. Well. Best head back then, before Thor caught up to him seeking satisfaction.

                     . . . .
Daryl gained his door just as the scattered raindrops organized into a deluge. Removing his drenched mackintosh, he shut the door, hoping indeed that Athena hadn't been caught in this downpour. It was incredibly dark now, too dark to be out walking in the wood.

Running his hands through his hair, shaking out raindrops, he headed for the kitchen, 'Em?' he called, but rounding the corner, saw no one there.
Dinner appeared to have been prepared, however, a
pasta marinara. Daryl removed the lid to the sauce and tasted...he shut his eyes: heaven!
  Then, opening his eyes, he observed his good tawny port had obviously been used in the cooking, and divined the secret of it's success...
  But where were the perpetrators of this gastronomical paradise?

He checked the parlor, to no avail. 'Em...? Ah--!' Daryl stopped to remove his soaking boots and set them near the fire, before moving down the hallway toward the library... Except for the fire in the parlor, outside of the kitchen, the house was dark. Night, already?


As he approached the library's double doors, he could discern many voices, and music from within.
He frowned, it couldn't be Athena, with a film here, already? Noo...he'd only just left there...

He entered, shutting the doors behind him, to find Emlyn and Athena seated upon the leather sofa, wineglasses in hand, watching a movie on the 'little big screen' as Daryl dubbed his in-home theatre hidden behind a library wall.
  'Where were you?' Athena matched Daryl with the same inquiry, as she leaned forward and shut off the film, while Emlyn lighted candles.

'I?' Daryl raked a hand though his hair. 'I was out in the storm searching for you! I only just returned from the gatehouse!' He looked at the screen. 'What were you watching?'

'"Prince Caspian"!' Emlyn gaily informed him as she approached with a glass of red for Daryl.
'It only just ended.'

                           

 'You must be joking...' Daryl was grateful for the wine.
 'I liked it! Very much!' Em turned her nose up toward Daryl and turned on her heel, pouring more wine for herself. 'And that's where you were for nearly two hours? I went ahead with dinner...' she gestured toward the kitchen.

'Yes, I noticed the missing port...' Daryl smiled his half-smile, 'Tis alright! It is, in fact, quite delicious! And I'm starving!'

'Just have a seat then, lad...there we go!' Athena sat Daryl upon the couch. 'I'll fetch a plate for us, as you've been so busy searching for me! I wonder...' She leaned back, regarding him. 'Well, we can catch up anon; first the staff of life, si?'

'Indeed...' Daryl sat back, arms about the sofa, '"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well..."' He looked toward the windows then, noting that the sky was dark as...well, as night. 'Virginia Wolfe!', he called, and frowned then, looking over his shoulder at the clock on the mantle. He couldn't believe his eyes:
nine o'clock! But, he'd left...only just before seven... A trip to the gatehouse and back was only fifteen minutes, maximum.
 Curious, that.

                       . . . .

'We've decided, well, proposed, rather, that we watch 'The Hobbit' tonight,' Athena brought a tray with their dinners into the library-cum-theatre, 'if, of course, that suits you?' She stood, surveying Daryl from her lofty height. 'Caspian was a time-filler, until you got here.'

'Oh!' Em had tucked into her spaghetti already, 'The Prince was surely more than that!'
   Daryl gave in to an eye-roll. 'I'm sure he is, for some.' Attacking his salad he assured them, 'Yes, that would be an excellent choice, the Hobbit...'

Although going along with the ladies' nonchalance regarding his lateness, Daryl was most exceedingly alarmed: where had the past two hours gone? The Massachusetts property was inviolable; or supposed to be.   Had he somehow managed to get himself abducted again? And by whom? Or was it just a glitch in the Matrix? Or his mind...

Em snuffed out her candles as Athena rolled the film, and all commenced the time-honored 20th-century-and-beyond pastime known as 'dinner-and-a-movie'.

                     . . . .

'It's really whipping up the coast tonight!' Athena commented, as she shut off the film. Now that the sound was off, they noticed the storm without; beating the trees about them with unleashed fury.
  '"The wind of change is blowing through..."' added Daryl.

'That was wonderful!' Emlyn sat, as though stunned, staring blankly at the quiet screen. 'Although much different from the pictures I had imagined in my mind...'


                         

  'True,' Athena conceded. 'There was some, ah, doctoring of the original story in this...' She handed the plates and glasses to Daryl who stacked the tray.
  'And so, do all 21st century folk attend to this custom of dinner with a movie?' Em enquired, stretching as she stood.
  'Um, most do, or did, once,' Athena rubbed her neck, 'although the term usually denotes a foray out for dinner and the theatre.'

'Oh, good,' Em strolled over to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain, 'I'm glad folk still enjoy actual live plays. And, they also continue acting in plays, as well as parlor games, after dinner?'
  'That, not so much...alas,' Daryl chimed in as he returned bearing another bottle of port, cheeses and fruit. 'As wonderful as some films are, I often think that the advent of movies, either in theatres or at home, was the death of family ties, as well as the nemesis of friendship and other relationships.'
  Daryl struggled with opening the wine a moment, then, pop! 'People became ever more passive, allowing others to entertain them. Once the film was over, they merely sat dumbfounded like stunned oxen, awaiting more passive entertainment...'

'Oh dear,' Emlyn took a bit of the pepper Jack. 'One of my favorite social pastimes was to act in impromptu plays! Or charades...I can't imagine a world without!' She sipped some port in fortification, 'And you said no one touches when they dance, either...' she shook her head. 'Reincarnation now looms as something rather worse than oblivion!' she concluded.

Daryl and Athena were both silent, not wishing to add fat to that particular fire. The clock then struck half-past the hour of eleven.
  'Well, then!' Daryl slapped his knees as he stood once more, 'We must resurrect such a custom!
We shall write, produce, direct and act a new play!'

'Dios mio, Diego!' Athena stood yawning and stretched her long, sinuous self. 'Not tonight! Not I...' She began packing up her movies.
  Daryl stared after her, smiling. 'As you wish. You may wait until morning. But you WILL stay overnight here! I will insist.'
 'Oh, and will ye, now?'
 'Yes, I will.' Daryl stood and caught Athena by the waist, and began a slow waltz with her around the low table.

'I am asleep where I sit, unless I head upstairs now!' Emlyn blamed it on their early start sans Daryl, and a heavy meal of 'macaroni and gravy' as her Italiano friends back in San Francisco referred to pasta marinara.
  Where could Daryl have been all that time? Wandering about the wood? He knew this area better than anyone else, so that didn't seem likely...

'Tomorrow, don't forget: the play's the thing!'
Daryl called after Em as she exited...she turned
about and saw the two of them waltzing as Daryl hummed what Emlyn now recognized as 'Fly Me To the Moon'. She smiled and shut the doors to the study behind her...

                     . . . .

Emlyn slept fitfully, as the storm howled about the house. At last she gave up and decided to begin her day, although it seemed rather early still...
  Pulling back her curtains, she saw that it was not pre-dawn, but that dark clouds had covered the skies, giving lie to sunrise.

                        

As she headed downstairs, she detected the familiar scent of cornbread baking. Daryl had beat
her to the kitchen, it seemed.
  'Smells divine!'
  Daryl sat at table, his feet up on a handy chair, drinking tea and perusing a thick volume before him. 'Rosemary, and onion...' he answered, by way of greeting.

As Em took her tea and cut a slice of the aromatic loaf, she gazed outside at the wind whipping the treetops, and frowned as she joined Daryl at the big oaken table.
  'Athena has left already?'

Daryl marked and closed his book. 'She has.' He stretched his arms behind him, 'There was a lull in the storm earlier.'
  Em was still regarding the tempest without.
'I was awake much of the night. Is it always storming here?' She crunched into her bread. Delicious.

'"There is no wind that always blows a storm",' Daryl smiled with half his face. 'Euripides. If you can believe him...but, no, I don't suppose it is always storming. But, it is, in part, how the whole enclosure which I hold in demesne is kept safeguarded and separate from space/time without.
If one studies tornadoes, for instance, certain anomalous findings fly in the face of physics.'

Emlyn was indeed, most curious about that fact. And many others regarding the enigmatic Daryl. He was rather dodgy about the more pertinent information that Em coveted. The more casual and disinterested she seemed, the more forthcoming he would be. Usually.
  'I seee...' she said, then sighed. 'I do hope Jack finds Trotsky, and no harm has come to him.'

Daryl was poring over his book again, 'Hmm?' He looked up, 'Ah. Yes. I'm sure he will. Who knows when, however...' He shut the book. 'Time, again.'
Daryl clasped his hands before him, elbows on table, and leaned his chin on hands.
  'Two hours, yesterday...gone missing.'

                    

Em looked at him askance. 'You mean...you just went to Athena's and back, directly, then?'
  'Yes, Em; that is exactly what I mean.' He frowned.
  'But, that takes a fraction of the time you were gone! What does this mean, Daryl?' Em wondered if another time-slip was imminent.

Daryl stood, raking both hands through his hair.
'I don't...know. It should not be happening here!'
He leaned both hands on the counter and stared out the window. 'It's never happened here before.'
  He turned around, leaning on the countertop, and rubbed his forehead, 'It's supposed to be inviolable. It was...' He stared before him at nothing, 'I wonder...'

'Yes?' Em poured more tea for them both, and Daryl stared at it a while, then sat.
  'Hmm...' he dripped honey into his cup, and sighed. 'Well, it's just that...partially, this safety zone is fortified by, ah, a sort of mental
force, of my own.'
  'Indeed?' Em wondered how he could possibly assume it to be invulnerable then. She carefully hid this assessment from Daryl, however.

He stared at the thin stream of amber honey as if mesmerized. 'Yess...' Licking his spoon then, he stirred and confessed, '...and, I must admit, that lately, I have begun to have certain doubts.'
  'Doubts about what?' Em wasn't sure she liked where this was going.
  'Everything!' Hand to forehead once more, Daryl massaged his third eye, 'Ah, Em...I am not the Mr. Know-It-All that I try to appear to be. I do know that! Despite what others perceive to be hubris, I detest running the show!'

Em merely watched him, knowing that he was winding himself up for a total confession soon. She didn't wish to move or speak for fear of silencing his unexpected torrent. He was up on his feet again, pacing now.
  'Ever since I began writing plays...I couldn't bear for my creations to be misconstrued, you see.
And so, I did it all: the writing, editing, directing, the scenery, the costumes, the actors, securing the venue...' A hand raked through his hair once more, giving him a more disheveled air.
  '...But, it drove me mad, really. Everyone running to one with their problems, and expecting a quick fix!' He shook his head, and stopped, turning to her, 'And so, I quit. I was at the top of my game, and I walked away from it; this place, the fame and glory...' he waved a dismissive hand,
'Everything.'

He resumed his seat next to Em once more. 'Little did I know then, that once I gave up the world I knew, that the real challenge would begin.' He drank half his tea, 'Then, I was forced to realize just how small and insignificant my little kingdom was. How small I was, as well.'
  Em helped herself to more cornbread. She wasn't going anywhere for a while...

'I...I have been wondering, of late, if I'm not just following Jack down the rabbit-hole...' Daryl looked genuinely pained.


                        

 

  Em put a tentative hand on his arm, 'How do you mean? Daryl, despite, well, everything; you've done nothing but worked miracles to keep everyone safe and together!'

Daryl patted her hand, 'Perhaps. But, Emlyn, know that I am not the tower of confidence I may sometimes appear.' He stared into his tea cup. 'I may not even know...about Anara, anymore.'
  'What do you mean?' This sounded serious.

'I mean, I don't know!' Daryl looked lost, his eyes pleading with her, 'Who or what she is! If she is 'real', and in what reality? Is it all only in my mind?' His head fell on one hand, his eyes closed. '...Or is it just a phantom projection of the Archons?' Daryl sighed once more, 'You see Em, I was thinking just such thoughts, when I was...lost in time yesterday, en route to Athena's.'

This was serious. If Daryl didn't know...then, who did? 'But, it is real, Daryl! I know Anara, and Thelene, and Axelis...as do you, yourself! You were there, with us!'
  'Was I, Em? Was I, really?' He shook his head slowly, 'I just don't know. We could all be fooled...you, Yeats, myself...oh, gods only know...'

'But...' Emlyn did not like where this was going,
'But, I also know someone in the Otherworld, you know.' She looked down. 'Someone...like Anara is to you, so is he, to me.'


                          

Daryl opened his eyes and sat up. 'Yes. You mentioned this once, I believe.'
  'Yes...and it's rather odd...' Em began, a faraway look in her eyes, '...but last evening, while waiting for you, when we watched the 'Prince Caspian' film, well...I was surprised at how much he resembled Caspian; or rather, the actor who played him, resembles...my Otherworldly, ah, 'significant other', is that the term?'

'Hah. Yes; 'Otherworldly Significant Other' would do nicely, Em,' Daryl smiled. Briefly. Then frowned again, 'Hmm...interesting. You couldn't have possibly seen the film before, so, you couldn't have gotten his image from there...'

'Unlike yourself, Daryl, I know this isn't all in my mind,' Em was adamant. 'It comes from without.
Most of the time, unexpectedly. And, unwarranted, to my knowledge.'
  'I wonder...' Daryl frowned her way. 'I wonder about Athena, and the gatehouse. More and more.'

'What has this to do with...Athena?' Em wondered herself.
  'Athena's gatehouse is on the borderland. She is, in effect, the Guardian of the Threshold...'
Daryl's eyes half-closed in thought.
  '"The Guardian at the Gate".' Em commented.
  'Exactly. She, and we, would make a fine Triad ourselves. At the gatehouse...' Daryl rose then, staring out the window. 'Perhaps, tonight...'
  'Daryl...!' Emlyn called after him, but he was already down the hall, and, taking his coat, flew out the door, slamming it behind him.
  Em stared after him; knowing what was to come next. Daryl sought answers and she feared where he may seek to find them. She feared for him, most of all. The last time he plumbed the depths of the Cup, he'd lost his head...
 
                    . . . .

WATCH and LISTEN!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQ3WqNWcXo4


                                

THE PAN WITHIN
Come with me on a journey beneath the skin
Come with me on a journey beneath the skin
We will look together for the Pan within
Close your eyes, breathe slow and we'll begin
Close your eyes, breathe slow and we will begin
to look together for the Pan within
within...
Swing your hips, loose your head and let it spin
Swing your hips, loose your head and let it spin
and we will look together for the Pan within
Close your eyes, breathe slow, we'll begin
Close your eyes, breathe slow and we will begin
to look together for the Pan within
within...
Put your face to my window,
breathe a night full of treasure
The wind is delicious,
sweet and wild with the promise of pleasure
The stars are alive and nights like these
were born to be sanctified by you and me,
lovers, thieves, fools and pretenders
and all we've got to do
all we've got to do
all we've got to do is surrender
Come with me on a journey beneath the skin
Come with me on a journey beneath the skin
and we will look together for the Pan within
Close your eyes.....
Close your eyes....
Close your eyes, breathe slow, we'll begin, we'll
begin,
we'll begin, we'll begin, we'll begin to begin...
Written: St Marks Road London 1984/5
Appears: On "This Is The Sea", "Live Adventures"
and "The Whole Of The Moon

                             

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...'
                             . . . .