Chapter 26 - Echoes From Futures Past

Another famous name connected with Oak Island is that of William Kidd who was hanged for piracy in 1701.

There is...a strange tale told by Andrew Spedon in Rambles Among the Blue Noses which appeared in 1863. Spedon said that Kidd had a lieutenant named Lawrence who jumped overboard and swam for it to escape being arrested with Kidd when their ship reached Boston Harbour.

Lawrence is said to have been befriended and hidden by Dutch settlers, to whom, before his death, he gave the information that Kidd had left a vast treasure buried on, or near, Nova Scotia.

Lionel & Patricia Fanthorpe
Secrets of Rennes le Chateau

........

Prince Henry Sinclair, Earl of Orkney, set off on a voyage of discovery for a great new country and dropped anchor in Guysborough Harbour, Nova Scotia, on 2 June 1398. From there, he is believed to have also gone on to Massachusetts - 94 years before Columbus...

Also, at Westford, Massachusetts, is a worn carving of what is believed by experts to be a medieval knight in efficy, dated to the latter half of the 14th C.

Frederick Pohl in 'Prince Henry Sinclair' tells us a bit more about the Westford carving:
  The long sword with large wheel pommel is of a late 14th C type. It is a Scottish claymore of 1350- 1400...
Armorial scholars say that the basinet is a form that was in fashion for only 25 years, from 1375 - 1400.
                                                            

  
                                                          



The Scottish gypsy clans of the Bailleys, the Wilsons and the Browns were centered on two 'villages of refuge' - Middleton and Temple, some 10 miles south of Edinburgh. Temple is the...location of the Scottish medieval Knights Templar.

In the museum at Rosslyn Chapel, there is a head of St.Sara that was carved in Santiago and made from jet. St.Sara is the patron saint of the gypsies and is still celebrated today, especially in southern France.

The founder of Rosslyn Chapel, Sir William St.Clair, was a member of the Order of the Knights of Santiago.

Karen Ralls-MacLeod
Ian Robertson
The Quest For the Celtic Key

........

The name 'Sarah' in Hebrew means 'princess' or 'queen'. So we have, in a tiny coastal town in France, a yearly festival in honor of a young girl-child called Sarah.

A child of Jesus and the Magdalen, born after Mary's flight to Alexandria, would have been about 12 years of age at the time of the voyage to Gaul recorded in the legend.

She, like the princes of David's line, is symbolically black "unrecognised in the streets" (Lam.4:8).

The Magdalen, herself, is the 'sangreal' in the sense that she was the chalice, or vessel, that carried the royal bloodline...
darkness was symbolic of her hidden state; she was the unknown queen - unacknowledged, repudiated and vilified by the church.

Fossils of truth remain in our symbols, our proper names of persons and places, our rituals and folk tales.

Margaret Starbird
Woman With the Alabaster Jar
                                                                           

Emlyn and Jeanne paused a moment, for breath, as it were, in the midst of revelation. Ideas knocked about Em's head like sparrows flocking, seeking home...she nearly found a nest for them; something that rounded them up neatly together, but still it seemed just beyond her reach.

Jeanne took her hands. 'You must return with me, Em. Alex is set upon ye sharing his hospitality. Perhaps, if ye just give him a wee chance, ye'll see summat of what I have seen in him,' she paused, glancing down, 'and why I do love him so dearly...'
                                                                              

'Oh, Jeanne,' Em laid her hand upon her friend's arm, 'do you, truly?' Em was surprised and touched at Jeanne's admission.

Jeanne sniffed a little, and stood, putting her hands in her skirt pockets. 'Aye. I do.' She blinked at Emlyn. ''Tis why I was so beset with eud, the jealousy, when I saw ye in the
hay, ye ken. Eudmhor, the green eyed monster had hold o'me, see.' Jeanne looked away and swished her skirts as if to sweep the air clear between them.

'Oh, cariad...' Em smiled, stood beside her and squeezed her shoulder. '"The green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on."'

'Aye, that's the one,' Jeanne nodded, with a small smile. She looked away back toward her home. 'I've never felt this way with any other man, ye ken.' She returned her gaze to Em, her eyes steady and fixed. 'It's because we both have the same goal, and the same drive. We are true partners in the same quest.'

'And what quest is that, ma chere?' Em wanted to know.

Jeanne smiled a real smile then, face a-gleam with the light of joie de vivre. 'Why, the quest for the holy grail, naturally!'

Emlyn laughed, Jeanne joined her, and they linked arms.
  'Well, count me in, then!' She grinned at her friend. 'I love a good mystery. Will we find hidden treasure, perhaps?'

'Aye, we will. Most assuredly!' Jeanne winked and swatted Em's backside. 'Come, let's clear the tea things and be off then, shall we? Alex is bent on salmon for tea...'

'You figured I'd be returning with you, then?' Em raised one brow in query.
  'Pretty sure...' Jeanne nodded, gathering tableware onto tray. She sighed, 'That is, if I were suitably, eh, remorseful...'

In answer, Em swatted Jeanne's backside in turn.

......


'It Lives!'
St.John stated the obvious as he puffed ferociously upon his ubiquitous cigar, leaning upon the ship's railing as Daryl's head hove into view from the stairwell to their rooms below.

'It's...not easy.' Daryl growled, as he crawled up the narrow ladder onto the open deck. 'Back is a bit better, but these stairs were made for a smaller sort.'

St.John turned back to his ocean view; the starboard deck was somewhat more sheltered from an icy wind that had seemed to blow up as soon as they'd cleared San Pedro Bay. Evening was fast falling now and a sliver of moon shone fleetingly betwixt flocks of clouds, growing darker and fatter, pregnant with rain, wind and snow.

'You slept through the day, old man.' St.John noted. 'And missed dinner as well.'

Daryl stood upwind and ran his hands through his hair. 'Not hungry yet. Soon maybe, a crust of bread and some Brie?'

'Eh, possibly.' St.John dropped his cigar butt overboard, ('to worm the fish,' as he called it.) 'There is always coffee and tea brewing. Strong, dark Russian Caravan. Lox, caviar, and of course, vodka.'

Daryl leaned on the rail beside his mysterious mentor and studied the silvering sea at twilight. 'Where are we now?'

'Queen Charlotte Sound,' St. John indicated with his chin. 'Out there. Not far from Ketchikan. From there, we travel onward to Stewart, then southeast overland to Calgary, and train. We've been lucky with this tail wind so far.'

Daryl tightened the scarf about his neck and pulled his hat down tight. St.John grinned up at him. 'If you could pack a pound or two on those long bones of yours, you'd be well insulated. Like a seal.'

'...Or walrus.' Daryl wryly remarked into his muffler.
'Eh?' St.John wasn't deaf yet.

Daryl cleared his throat. 'I wanted to thank you, St.John. I haven't slept so well in days... It was a mercy, truly; and much appreciated.'

'That's what I thought you said.' St.John turned and leaned his back upon the railing. Glancing up at Daryl's somewhat haggard features, he relented.
  'Come on, lad, let's have some tea and brandy against the long night to come. Like it or not, we're stuck together a while. Let us make the best of it...'
                                                                             

                                                                         Daryl and St.John returned below deck and entered the comparatively warmer space of the galley and mess hall where a few Russian sailors sat at floor-bolted long tables and benches eating a late supper or playing cards.

In one corner a small group was gathered about two men who were huddled over a magnetic chess set, deep into play, an immense bottle of vodka half-full on the table between them. A haze of blue smoke from rolled cigarettes lingered in the air about them like the ghosts of grandmasters past.


'I'm sure I can dig up something in the galley,' St.John told Daryl. 'Why don't you find a seat for us meanwhile?' He indicated with a nod to the far corner away from the action, and smoke. Daryl obeyed with great relief.


Soon enough, St.John reappeared with a tray of covered dishes followed by the cook, who brought the tea and tableware. 'Spasiba,' St.John told him as he returned to the warmth of the galley.

St.John removed the lids to uncover a ripe white cheese, good black rye bread, a dish of dates, a plate of lox sliced thin and an apple each. Beneath another lid, to Daryl's delight, steamed a fluffy pile of aromatic kasha.

'Roasted kasha!' Daryl exclaimed, inhaling deeply. 'Now, I am hungry! Spasiba, indeed!' He wasted no time in setting upon their sailors repast with a will.

Serving large heavy mugs of the fragrant black tea before them, strong enough to have poured itself, St.John smiled grimly. 'Not so bad then, travel via Russlandic ship?'

'Umm,' Daryl agreed, nodding, taking a long drink of tea, and refilling his mug. 'I am beginning to feel summat human again.' As he stirred his tea, his attention turned back to the chess match where he now noticed piles of money on the table.
  'They're making book on the match?' he whispered.

'Naturalmente,' St.John replied, loading a slice of rye with cheese and lox. 'Chess is their national sport.'

Daryl grinned on one side of his face.
'"But we shall play a game of chess,
  Pressing lidless eyes
  And waiting for a knock upon the door..."' he intoned, slicing up an apple.

'T.S.Elliot,' St.John murmured, taking a slice.
'But I prefer Jorge Luis Borges' "End Game" --
"God moves the player, and he, the piece.
 What god from behind God begins to weave the plot,
 Of dust and time and dreams and agonies?"'
                                                                              

Daryl chewed his apple thoughtfully as he recalled the tell-tale anachronistic quotes St.John had dropped before, like bread crumbs leading to a revelatory End Game of his own.

Quiet murmurs from the men watching the match drifted with the smoke about the room. Daryl could pick up a few words he knew: 'spat'/sleep, 'shakhmaty'/chess, and 'opasnost'/danger.
  He studied St.John methodically emptying his plate and wondered about his mysterious traveling companion and new partner.

Feeling Daryl's eye upon him, St.John sat back from the table, and reaching into a breast pocket, removed a flask.
 'Brandy?'

Daryl nodded, 'Naturalmente!' He drank off his remaining tea and proffered his mug. As St.John poured, Daryl noticed his Masonic ring. Odd, that. He'd never noticed one before...

Daryl felt a Scotch toast was in order then, considering their destination. 'Slainte!' He said, clacking mugs with St.John, who nodded, returning the salute with a 'Slainte mhor!'

Taking a token sip, Daryl told himself to go slowly with the spirits; for revelations surely would arrive with the evenings discourse.
  '"Health to Marion", is it? Rather a Jacobian salute, mon cher St.John?' Daryl gazed intently at the insignia on his new partner's ring. 'And from a Widow's Son to boot...'


'Indeed. As are many of my countrymen.' St.John replied evenly, munching a date.
  'Your countrymen...' Daryl paused. 'Would that be Quebecois? Or Nova Scotians?'
  St.John took a long draught from his mug, before answering, 'Oui.'

Daryl, used to such prevarication from the slippery St.John, remained unruffled.
  'Rather late in the day to be seeking home rule and feinriaghladh, is it not?' Daryl pressed with a knowing smile.
  'Tis a matter of onair,' St.John answered, 'of honour.
Much is owed. Much, remains to be paid. In one way or other.' St.John was not smiling. Not at all.

.........


Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
  Emlyn and Jeanne arrived in time for tea. And a high tea it was, of sorts.

Whilst they were busy in town, apparently the Master of Arcadia had been busy Himself; a large oaken round table had been set up before the fire in the long hall; late blooming bouquets of flowers mixed with autumn leaves were set about the room amongst large pinecones; pumpkins big and small sat amid gnarled gourds and baskets of assorted nuts and fragrant apples.                          
                                                                          

 As Emlyn and Jeanne arrived, having turned over the lines to Maurice, the head groom who saw to the horses, they headed up the front steps to view newly constructed Corn Dollies flanking the entrance, and a pair of enormous pumpkins.
                                                                     

'Someone is getting in the harvest season spirit!' Em exclaimed, delighted.

'Oh, aye! Himself goes all out this time of year!' Jeanne smiled. 'Tis the New Keltic Year in the Old Calendar come November, as you weel know...' She opened the door and ushered Em within.
  'Halloo the House!' Jeanne called, removing her coat. 'Man o'the Hoose!' She put hands on hips and directed her gaze upstairs.

'Ach, and there ye arr!' Alexander appeared from the back rooms, and took his wife's coat, kissing her cheek.
  'And Emlyn! Welcome, at last!' He took her coat as well, then offering an arm to each, directed them both into the Long Hall.

'Ach, weel, haven't ye been busy then!' Jeanne exclaimed, as she found the room transformed into an Autumn Fantasy. 'Wuf! At least he left us the sofas!' She plopped down upon a sofa beside the fire. 'I see ye have the fireplace ready for scone-making.'

Emlyn was still strolling about the room, eyeing all the decorations amongst the decor. 'Scones, did you say?' She smiled as she directed her feet to the fireside taking a seat in the wingchair.

'Aye, there might be that,' Alex grinned as he poured them each a small sherry and brought a tray to the tea table before the fire. Taking a seat beside Jeanne, he set down a single glass of water, then raised his sherry in a toast: 'Slainte mhor!'
                                                                            

 'Slainte mhor!' replied Jeanne, Emlyn joined in belatedly, with 'Slainte mhor!' then paused and wondered, watching as Alex and Jeanne performed an odd movement of each passing their drinks over the glass of water before sipping.

Jeanne had her eye on Em, and smiled at her. 'Tis a toast to our True King Across the Water, ye ken; Bonny Prince Charlie.'
                                                                    

 Em passed her own glass over water as well then, and drank.
'A wonderful toast, and a fine sherry! Fit for a king, indeed.'

Alex smiled at Jeanne. 'You pick your friends weel, luv.'
Jeanne stared into the fire and sighed. 'If only Shannon were here...'
  'She'll come 'round,' Emlyn assured her. 'It all seems to be just a, sort of misunderstanding on her part.'


Alex stood then, 'She dinna ken wot she'd be missing this day!' He put down his glass and held up a finger as if to say, "just you wait!", then turned on heel and retreated to the back rooms and kitchen.

Jeanne shook her head, smiling. 'Would you look at this?' She waved a hand about the newly redecorated hall. 'He's like a boy sometimes...gets carried away with things. But, he's an easy mon to like, no?'

Em patted Jeanne's hand. 'Aye, he is; you'll get no argument from me.' Although privately, she wondered about his wicked sense of humor...whatever would he get up to on All Hallow's Eve?

Alex returned with a large cast-iron fry pan and a bowl, presumably of scone batter, and taking a low seat before the fire, set to with cooking up scones.
                                                                                       

 Emlyn inhaled deeply:'I detect something cooking already...'
 'Aye,' Alex glanced at her as he took the poker and prodded about the ashes. 'I've potatoes baking in the coals ye see. They're commin' along weel noo.'

Emlyn was delighted with this simple, fresh country fare amongst all the grand furnishings and art works. She found herself approving of Jeanne's choice of husband. And, aye, she had to agree, they did seem well-suited to one another; having a similar goal and purpose in life.

Setting a large iron lid upon the scone pan, Alex stood and
removed the iron kettle from the arm which hung over the fire. He poured steaming hot water into the teapot upon the table, and removed the sherry glasses, replacing them with simple earthenware mugs for the tea.
  'A mon needs a healthy slug of tay, to fartify himself for the hard jobs ahaid!' He winked at Jeanne and smiled.

'Yoor the one, mon,' Jeanne began, 'who said he wished to cook and serve for the ladies this day!' She allowed an eye roll Em's way.

Alex sighed as he took a seat beside Jeanne, who had helped herself to the teapot and poured, while Alex adjusted his kilt over a knee as he crossed a leg, then put a hand upon his wife's knee in comfortable solidarity. Em took note of the sgian dubh,the dirk in his sock.
                                                                   

'Aye,' he said, nodding to Em. 'A Scot mun' always be prepared for annythin' at annytime.'

'My friend, Aleister, does carry such a dirk as well,' Emlyn commented. 'And, yes, came in very handy it did indeed, sometimes. Thanks Jeanne,' she added as she put a drop of honey in her mug. Taking a sip of the strong, flavorful tea, she continued, 'Indeed, I sometimes wonder how history might have gone if only the Bonny Prince had had children and prospective heirs to the throne...'

'Oh, but he did!' Jeanne exclaimed.
   Alex sat forward now, adding, 'He did, lass! Indeed. For he was twice marriet, and though his firrst wife dinna conceive --'
  Jeanne butted in with: '-- An' though she'd had an affair wi' a foppish Italian poet!'
  '-- After which Charles was granted a divorce by papal dispensation, in 1784!' Alex nodded, resuming his discourse. 'Ach, the prince had a few offspring from the wrong side o'the blanket as they say, and he was able to remarry, ye ken. In 1785 Charles marriet again, to the Comtesse de Massillan in Rome. She was a cousin by descent from Charles own grand uncle, King Charles II.'

Jeanne poured more tea all round. 'They had a son two years later, Eduard Jacques Stuardo, who became known as Count Stuarton.'

'Why have I, or anyone, not heard about all this?' Emlyn was astounded, to say the least.

'All of Europe knew of it,' Alex stood then strolling to the fire, and lifted the lid to his scones.'Nearly there,' Alex casually replaced the lid to the scone pan and stood with hands behind his back at parade rest.

'Meanwhile, back in England,' Jeanne continued, turning to Em, 'news of Charles Edward's legitimate son was immediately suppressed by House of Hanover and it's long, lethal arms! -- Tcha!' Jeanne shook her head, as if to rid it of the very thought.

Alex smiled at her. 'You are lovely when you're in a fightin' mood, lass...' He lifted the scone lid again.
 'Une moment, cheries!' He bowed briefly, hastening back to the kitchen, then returned with a tray of small plates, tableware, butter, clotted creme, honey and jam pots which he set upon the tea table.

Deftly then, he removed the scone pan and slid the scones into a cloth-lined basket and covered them.
  'Ladies...' He bowed once more, then sat himself beside Jeanne.
  Em sighed. 'I want one, just like yours...' she allowed.
  Jeanne glanced at her. 'What, a scone?' she asked, as she
selected a steaming bun, the scent rising, teasing the senses, and handed it to Em.
  'No,' Em clarified, accepting the scone -- 'a mon!'

Alex erupted into a hearty belly-laugh, eyeing his wife, as Jeanne also chuckled to herself, taking another hot scone.
  'Sorry, Em, but they broke the mold with this one.'

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

Midnight had come and gone and still the chess match aboard ship battled on.

Pouring more brandy, St.John began to wax loquacious.
  'Note bene: Indeed it was Prince Charles who was one of the main perpetuators of Scottish Freemasonry,' St.John declared, sawing off more rye loaf slices. 'This we know from Stuart history. And it was also he who never shied away from linking speculative Freemasonry with the Templars.'

'This all had to be somewhat sub-rosa, though, did it not?' Daryl rejoined, sipping slowly. 'The Church had made it clear by then that the Templars were the devil's next-of-kin.'

'Hm. Yes. That is what comes of respecting one's adversaries. Richard the Lionheart and Saladin had great mutual respect for one another. Templars knew the value of real knowledge, whatever the source.'
                                                                    

Daryl frowned. 'Richard was a bit of an arse, though, was he not? Rather overstayed his crusading in the holy land, while leaving England to fall to wrack and ruin by plunderings of petty officials meanwhile, and sending many into poverty...'

St.John stared hard across the table, pinning Daryl with his gimlet gaze. 'Yes. Quite right.' He then shifted his bulk and relaxed. 'History's hindsight prefers to call him "Lionheart" though, and tries not to look too closely at his, ah, peccadillos.'

'The Italian word for "young Arab lads?"' Daryl asked, with a gaze to the ceiling. St.John merely smiled, taking another date.

'Actually,' Daryl continued, snatching a date himself before they all fell into the bottomless maw of St.John, 'the Templars, other than Richard, presumably, began to team up with the Assassins. They had a common enemy in Saladin. It was Rashid al-din Sinan, the Old Man of the Mountain, who was the Templar's contact in most of their dealings with Muslims.'

St.John munched more bread and cheese. 'Hmm...Rashid, yes. He was hoping to make the Templars his allies, perhaps even create a Templar/Assassin joint Order. Some mis-communication nipped that in the bud, however...'
 
St.John's gaze shifted to the chess game. 'Looking rather dire for black, now, I'd say.' He poured the remainder of his brandy into their mugs.
  'Where was I, now? The Order, in Scotland, yes: Mid-1700s, it was Andrew Ramsay, known as Chevalier Ramsay, who was Prince Charles's tutor. He delivered what became known as 'Ramsay's Oration'. '

Daryl put a hand up; '...Wasn't Ramsay a tool of the Jesuits though? They baited certain societies into a false sense of acceptance, to learn their heretical secrets. ' Daryl thought little of the Jesuits, a mostly military arm of the Vatican. 'Black Pope' indeed; black deeds done, and not dirt cheap.

St.John glowered, ignored him, and continued: 'This declared that Freemasons had evolved from 'Crusader Knights' as he called them, who had formed themselves 'Lodges of St.John'.'
 He paused then, and rapped his knuckles thrice upon the table.

Just then, a cry of 'Mat!' was heard from the chess contingent as a White Knight took the Black King. Cheers and grumblings were heard in equal measure as the party relaxed, lit cigarettes and poured more vodka, amidst the pocketing of rubles.

'Shah Mat!' Daryl lifted his mug. 'The King is dead!'
'Long Live the King!' St.John clacked his mug and joined Daryl in a long-overdue toast.
 'And to absent friends...' Daryl added, with a sigh.

 Brian Blackmoor's Mickey and Broom Play Chess

                        

CLICK BELOW TO LISTEN:
Alastair McDonald Skye Boat Song

Chapter 25 - Return To Centre

In the ancient world, the balance of opposite energies was understood and honored. But in our modern world, male attributes and attitudes have dominated. It is a short step from the worship of the power and glory of the male/solar principle to "son worship," a cult that too often produces a spoiled and immature male -- angry, frustrated, bored and often dangerous. Eventually, unable to integrate with his other half, the masculine suffers burnout.


This book is an exploration of the heresy of the Holy Grail and an argument for the restoration of the wife of Jesus based on important circumstantial evidence.  It is also a quest for the meaning of the Lost Bride in the human psyche in the hope that her return to our paradigm for wholeness will help to heal the wasteland.


Margaret Starbird
Woman With the Alabaster Jar
                                                               

 ................                                                    
It is certainly possible that under the supreme guardianship of Henry Sinclair, earl of Norway and prince of Scotland, along with a trusty inner circle of Knights Templar, the ultimate treasure of the temple was spirited away to what at the time was considered a secret refuge - a "rose" settlement - in Nova Scotia, or New Scotland. 

The ultimate purpose behind this daring and dramatic adventure was not only the need to establish a refuge for members of the Holy Bloodline and its guardians, the Knights Templar, but also to reactivate a series of ancient longitudinal meridians, or roselines, through the inland movement of the Holy Bloodline to strategic "rose" positions across the New World.

William F. Mann
The Templar Meridians
                                                                         

.........

Scottish Freemasonry in particular, has always been termed 'St John's Masonry', a tradition that pre-dates the first Grand Lodge of 1717.

By and large, however, St John's Masonry has more generally been understood to refer to the institution as a whole... In Scotland, specifically, we find St John connected in an official manner  with masonry by an enactment of 1799, when it was resolved by the Grand Lodge 'that they sanction the three great orders of Masonry, and these alone, of APPRENTICE, FELLOW CRAFT AND MASTER MASON, being the ancient order of SAINT JOHN.'

Karen Ralls-Macleod
Ian Robertson
The Quest for the Celtic Key
..............
                                                        

'St.John is in New Brunswick,' Daryl frowned. 'Not Nova Scotia.'

'O, ye of little faith...,' St.John slackened not his pace but tapped Daryl upon the backside with his cane. 'Do try to keep up. In 1784, the partitioning of the colony of Nova Scotia into the new colony of New Brunswick was thought to be named 'New Ireland' with the capital to be in Saint John, yes. Do I consider it such? No. Meanwhile, our ship will be leaving in...,' he checked his pocket watch, 'approximately 40 minutes.' St.John quickened his steps.


Daryl shook his head and kept pace with the wee martinet.  
  'My doleful ignorance is no doubt to blame, but I see not how we shall gain the eastern isles by ship here in the west.'

'We shall take ship north to Alaska first, where I've some business to take care of, then head overland, of course, eventually meeting the train. Canada's rail system spans the nation, dear boy. We are hardly without wherewithall.'

'St.John, that's all very well, but I can hardly be counted in this venture; I have business of my own.' Daryl was brought up short when St.John stopped suddenly and spun round to face him.
  'Have you? Have you indeed?' St.John frowned, looking grim. 'Just what business have you so dire and important?'
  Not waiting for answer, he turned back onto his chosen path, stubby legs beating away the miles like pistons working.

He had him there, Daryl had to admit.
  'I need time at least to phone the house and let them know where I am and...I suppose we have no idea when we shall return?'

'None whatsoever.'

'As I thought.' Well, Daryl was rather at loose ends now, having been...grounded. As long as he had enough poppy derivatives in case of back attack.

'What pier? St.John, I shall have to meet you there. I need to stop in Chinatown first.' He caught at the little dictator's arm.
   
St.John looked at Daryl's hand on his sleeve.  
  'Oh, do remove yourself.' He sighed. 'You won't have a problem with procurement. I know about your little...proclivities. Where there are ships, there are also sailors. Your poppy problem isn't a worry here.' His voice dropped into the lower registers of a growl, 'Worse case scenario, my own private stock is sufficient for the entire Russian navy -- Avanti!' His cane raised high in salute to adventure.

'You, St.John? Truly?' This was news, thought Daryl.

'You young pup! Do you really believe you know anything about pain?' St.John barked a seal-like laugh. 'Just wait until you're my age! You'll be begging for Davy Jones Locker...and sooner the better.'

That remark shut Daryl up for some time until they reached the ferry terminal. 'I'll just make a quick phone call, then. Where shall we meet?'


After agreeing upon a meeting place, Daryl unwound himself from St.John's magnetic personality and headed for the public phone  at the ticket desk. A good thing Rosa was home now; she took the call and his explanation of long-term travel without question, only wishing him good journey.

And that was that.
Daryl felt himself loose and adrift now indeed; with Emlyn gone, and nothing and no one to keep him here or anywhere else. He was free to go.
  Well, why not?


In the spirit of what-the-heck, Daryl began to whistle as he sauntered over to the chowder/fish and chips stand near their departure pier where he spied St.John seated at one of the picnic tables, busy as usual with sustaining his great bulk with fried clams.
  How did he manage it?
                                                                     

 ........

Emlyn was awakened by a knocking at her bedroom door. Completely disoriented, she rose and went stumbling to answer, throwing a tartan robe about her.

Mrs. Murphy's formidable presence loomed at the door. 'Someone to see you!' She announced, and was off down the stairs.
  Well, Em guessed she had been 'informed'. Nothing for it but to scrape some brains together and dress somewhat.

Quickly washing up and tossing a gown over her head, Em tried to comb her unruly red locks into a semblance of order, braiding the tail as she went downstairs, wondering who in blazes could be here at this early hour...

-- Jeanne!

Em couldn't have been more surprised.
...........

Deciding to take tea on the veranda, Em brought a tray outside to where Jeanne stood, attempting aid.
  'It's fine...,' Em assured her.
  'No, please, allow me,' and Jeanne insisted upon serving them both.

'You're no doubt wondering why I'm here...,' she began, handing Em her cup. Without waiting for a reply, Jeanne continued, 'Oh, Em...I am so sorry I could not have spoken with you sooner...I'd hoped you would stay to dinner at least.' She frowned, and paused for tea. 'I know why you left so early, though.' Her hand shook slightly as she set down her cup.
   'Jeanne, I...I did want to stay, last night,' Emlyn assured her.

'Good. I hoped that you had. Em, I hope I didn't, scare you off,' Jeanne looked down, as if she regretted her earlier coolness.

Emlyn only wanted to know what the problem was. 'I don't scare so easily,' she smiled. 'But Shannon...'

Jeanne sighed, pouring more tea. 'Yes. Shannon. That stiff-necked Irish...feannag!' She sipped her tea, grimacing. 'Nay, I'll not even dignify her prattle with cawing of crows; they know more about what's what than that wee...,' Jeanne waved a hand in exasperation as she muttered in gaelic. 'Ye know I do love Shannon to the moon and back. But there are times I could wish her there!'

Emlyn, who hadn't breakfasted, cut slices of pumpkin bread and apples for them.
  'She can be...well, rather obstinate, sometimes,' Em agreed. 'But, she feels things deeply.' Em took a bite. 'And she misses you, I think.'


Jeanne sniffed, taking her plate. 'I'm right here! I have'na gone to China!' She ripped into her apple slice, chewing with a vengeance. 'She does'na like Alex.'

'Well...,' Em began, wondering how to approach such a sticky subject as religion. 'She is, ah, confused, or just concerned perhaps, about his, some of his, collection?'

Jeanne began to chuckle then. 'She told you about the crosses and such. I knew it.'

'Ah, yes. Well, you know some Irish have not altogether embraced St.Patrick's teachings --,' Em began.
   'Padric was an arse,' Jeanne looked as if to spit. 'He burned over 100 books of the Druids! The wee Roman bastard!'

Em wondered at that. 'I thought the Druids didn't believe in writing things down, as it impaired the memory?'

Jeanne waved away that bit of logic. 'Any road, he was a blight on the face of Eire. Bridget, on the other hand! Now there's a saint! She knew not to toss out the Irish culture but to blend a bit. The Culdees of Scotland, that's the right mix.'
  Jeanne sat back, noshing upon bread and apple and seeming somewhat mollified for the moment.


Well, she didn't seem overly priest-ridden to Em, not after her vitriolic assessment of Padric the Arse.
   'So...what then, is the meaning behind all the Christian regalia in your boudoir?' Em decided she may as well have it out on the table.  'It is what seems to have Shannon up in arms.'

Jeanne nodded. 'Yes, I figured as much.' She paused a moment, gathering he thoughts. 'My Alexander, you see, is rather a throwback; a sort of Jacobite, still.'

Emlyn wondered how that could be. 'Home rule, you mean, ah -- fein-riaghladh, is it? And just whose backside should sit on the throne of Scotland, then?'
                                                                      

 Jeanne stood  and paced slowly along the terrace, looking out at the Indian Summer's day about them, early morning sun already creeping toward the meridian; fall would be coming soon.

'It's rather complicated. But, I know you, Cymry; you have studied, and you know a thing or twa. I'll try to be brief...so you do ken that Scotland and France have had a tight connection going back centuries.'

'Oh, indeed,' Em knew. 'Bonnie Prince Charlie, and all that.'

'Yes, aye, and long, long before that,' Jeanne turned to Em, leaning back against the porch railing. 'We're all Celts, ye ken; so we're all the same tribe, different regions. The Standing Stones in Brittany tells that tale bold enough!'

Emlyn nodded. 'Truly. Ancient connections, then.' She paused. 'Not to mention the Templars. When they found themselves in trouble in France, many fled to Scotland.'

Jeanne perked up at that. 'Just so, Em!' She resumed her seat beside Emlyn. 'And where do you think they went from there, eh?'
  'Ah, well...,' Em's studies hadn't taken her that far, as yet.
'I don't know. They had to leave Scotland, then?'


'Aye, they did,' Jeanne warmed to her subject. 'You may have heard that when the Templars fled the Holy Land, after losing Acre, they made for Portugal or back to France, carrying with them a great treasure, perhaps from Solomon's Temple, it was said...and from there on to Scotland; but with the encroaching of the British they felt pressured once more to leave, and wished to have a place of safe-keeping for themselves, and for that which they were sworn to protect.'

'Indeed? And what was it they were protecting?' Em asked, thinking she probably had a clue.

'Treasure. Of course.' Jeanne continued. 'But, something else as well, quite different than you may think.' Of this, she also waved away any further details.
   'It is Alexander's, and my own, desire, to explore this connection, and to cultivate it.' Jeanne looked at Em intently, studying her reactions. 'For those with eyes to see and ears to hear, things may not be what they seem at first glance, ye ken.'

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


Daryl sidled up alongside St.John but remained standing as he watched the big man shovel it in with machine-like efficiency.
  '"Pure reason avoids extremes and requires one to be wise in moderation,"' he stated, giving St.John benefit of his counsel. '-- Moliere.'

St.John glared at him briefly. '"I see no objection to stoutness in moderation."' He paused, raised a napkin and belched gently. '-- W.S.Gilbert.'


'Touche,' Daryl relented, smiling on one side.
  'Tis a Russian ship, this.' He observed, gazing at the great steam and sail cargo ship about which sailors and longshoremen were busily loading crates and barrels, while upon deck the crew bustled about readying for imminent departure.


'Aye, 'tis that,' St.John agreed about his mouthful of clam. He polished off his lunch and dipped serviettes into his water, fastidiously cleaning face and hands. He then pulled a cigar from his pocket. Daryl moved upwind.

'And by the way,' St.John added, 'Yvonna has resumed her queenship at the tea room. Her niece Anna is staying on as well.' He lighted his stogie, then continued on, waving his cane before them as they strode toward the gangway.
 

'Too bad we could not have bid them a farewell.' Daryl was still gazing seaward, glad to see the fog lifting somewhat at last.
   St.John regarded him. 'You could have joined me at table if you were hungry. No lunch, then?'
  'Hunger isn't my problem just now...,' Daryl gasped,closing eyes tight against pain.


St.John regarded the younger man. 'Back, eh?' He shook his head sympathetically. 'That can be difficult, I know.
   'Well, let us board then. I have just the brown bottle you need in my cabin. Actually, I hadn't time to bring much off ship. This had been merely a passing stop en route, for me.'
  St.John puffed robustly. 'We will not remain long in Alaska, either. Merely to conclude some legalities with some partners there, signing of papers as to goods delivered and such. Then, then we are off home.'

'Home, to New Brunswick.' Daryl chided.

'Do you want that bottle or don't you?' St.John picked up the pace as they neared the ship. 'You do know that Scottish Freemasonry was and is, referred to as "St.John's Masonry"; to distinguish speculative freemasons from stone masons or such. "Nova Scotia": "New Scotland". Now, do you understand, oh ye of little mind?'


'I hear and understand.' Daryl put a hand to his side. 'Had I the back of a much younger man, I would bow to your wisdom.'

'Perhaps later...,' St.John smiled as he swung his belly round 
and the rest followed up the gangway

Daryl glanced about wistfully, then stared after him, shaking his head. St.John was no Yeats or Yoda, he told himself grinning woefully. What was he getting himself into? Or out of:
-- The City. Memories.

At last, he heaved himself up and allowed his feet to take him where they will, heading after his mountebank master.
  'Here's to the Call of the Wild,' Daryl murmured to himself;  and as the sun began to steam off the fog-hold upon the bay, he found himself feeling rather Jack Londonish already.
                                                             

........

'A Jacobite,' Emlyn had fastened upon that at once. 'Is Alexander a Catholic, then?'

'Eh, no.' Jeanne shook her head. 'I'm using the term as it relates only to those loyal to the house of Stuart. Although Rome and royals do chum together it seems.' A pause. 'Usually.'

Jeanne poured the last of the tea for them both. 'I know it sounds rather odd. But ye must believe me, Em, that we both, Alex and myself, still have the same distrust of the Roman Church as you and Shannon. To us, it is an old enemy. It is merely the continuation of the Roman Empire! And, as ever, fiercely opposed to folk like us. "Heretic" they would name us.'

'But, Jeanne...,' Em wasn't sure how much of Shannon's revelations to disclose. She sighed. 'What about all the large crosses and angels and such about the house?'

'There's plenty else there! Egyptian, Greek et al!' Jeanne seemed
exasperated. 'Yes, we have icons a plenty. But, they're not Catholic! Angels and winged beings are everywhere, all the world round. No one 'owns' them to the exclusion of anyone else.  We have no Latin crosses. Equilateral Jerusalem and Templar crosses, yes. Yes.'  She sighed then.
  'Em -- you told me once about a past life as a Cathar, yourself and Daryl, oc? That, my dear Emlyn,' she took both Emlyn's hands in her own, 'That, is what I am trying to speak of here!'

'Gnosticism!' Emlyn exclaimed.
'Gnosticism,' Jeanne smiled........

CLICK BELOW TO LISTEN:
The Band Joni Mitchell Neil Young - Acadian Driftwood
                                                                       

Chapter 24 - All In Flight

The first emperor of Austria, Francis I, who at the time held the title of Holy Roman Emperor, was an ardent Scottish Rite Freemason and supporter of the royal Stuarts.

He was also a contemporary and friend of Charles Redclyffe, and his estates in Lorraine were said to have provided sanctuary to exiled royal Stuarts from Scotland. During the period that he was Emperor (1804 - 1806), Francis's court in Vienna was known as the Masonic capital of Europe.

Scottish Rite Freemasonry claimed to have descended directly from the medieval Knights Templar and promised initiation into greater and more profound mysteries - supposedly handed down in Scotland, (from Templars there who had been forced to flee France), and passed on to French royalty including Bonnie Prince Charlie - than did other varieties of Freemasonry.

According to this vision, a new holy empire was to be ruled jointly by the Hapsburgs and a radically reformed Roman Catholic Church, supported by the Scottish Rite Freemasons.

This new empire would be genuinely holy and secular...embracing all who followed the true mysteries. Their dream was finally to be realized in Ontario.



.......



One of the more exceptional gentlemen to be involved in the Oak Island treasure mystery was Reginald Vanderbilt Harris, a well respected lawyer besides being the supreme grandmaster of the Knights Templar of Canada  1938 - 1939 and provincial grand master of the Grand Lodge of Nova Scotia from '32 -'35.

Among Harris's extensive papers were volumes of notes on Oak Island, including the draft of an allegorical ritual within a Masonic pageant that was apparently designed to accompany the rite of initiation into the 32nd degree. It is set in 1535 at Glastonbury Abbey where the English Crown is evidently attempting to confiscate the Order's fabulous treasures, including the Holy Grail. But members of a secret order spirit away the Grail across the sea for safe keeping. The allegory ends with a number of suspected members of the Order being dragged off to the Tower of London for torture and death.
                                                                      

.......

The general area around the French Shore is known as 'The Land of Evangeline' in recognition of Longfellow,'s masterpiece of 1847, 'Evangeline: A Tale of Arcadie'. Though he had never visited Nova Scotia himself, Longfellow's epic poem was tremendously popular, meshing a fictional love story with the tragic tale of the expulsion of the Acadians from their homeland between 1755 and 1763. He apparently based the poem on an account found in Haliburton's 'History of Nova Scotia'.

According to Acadian tradition, Evangeline's real name was Emmeline, and she was the daughter of Acadian  Benedict Bellefontaine. It is said that the heroes of the poem, Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith and Rene LeBlanc, are not fictitious but rather were also real-life Acadians at the time of the expulsion.

‎William F. Mann
The Templar Meridians
                                                         

.......


Daryl flew out the door and down the street propelled by the force of sheer bluster alone. Halfway down the block he slowed his pace. Did he really wish to stop in on Connor and Bridget so soon?


-- No.
What he really wanted, no -- needed, was to see St.John; indeed, WHAT had all that been about at St. Cat's that last night, only days ago, yet now seemed like the distant memory of another lifetime?


Bygods, the man was a cypher!
Daryl slowly resumed his pace as he turned his steps toward the waterfront.

Daryl knew deep within that he ultimately trusted them; Sebastiao and Raimundo and all their company, (even Volunder Kane who had given him so much grief.)

What did they call their Order, then? Daryl thought that perhaps they never had said, really. Or, if they had, his memory had been wiped of that information. Interesting.
  Rather hard to research an enigma.


But St. John! He seemed such a nefarious old rapscallion...(as Sebastiao seemed a nefarious young one?)
   Any road, St.John had always seemed beyond the pale of most. Had Daryl not just deemed it necessary to warn Anna and Yvonna of him and his machinations?
  Which Anna had assured him was unnecessary. Daryl smiled. No doubt Yvonna had machinations of her own.


Suddenly Daryl stopped, sucked in his breath, a hand to his side. -- Damn the bloody back! He shut his eyes, willing all pain to cease. It didn't work.


It had been one of the greatest acts of his career; his meeting that morning with Emlyn and his pretense that All Was Well! The opium had helped. But that had worn off by now, it seemed.


No, no more. He needed a clear head if he was to deal with St.John today. One foot in front of the other...he forced himself onward. Just then he heard the ring of the trolley bell coming from behind. Saved! He hauled himself upon the steps and found a seat, sighing.
  It was the bloody pits getting old...

........

Meanwhile, back at the Kidd Estate:
  For the nonce, all were rendered somewhat silent, as Emlyn tried to brush the hay from her gown and hair and recover some of her dignity she had so blithely tossed into the straw; in front of Jeanne's new husband! (At his urging, too! The great daft booger...)


Said Booger spoke at last: 'Ah, weel noo, let us all into the hoose, shall we?' He put a proprietary arm about Jeanne's waist, as his loving wife glared hatchets at him, and herded his guests back toward the mansion.
   'Ye'll all be staying for dinner, I insist,' Kidd continued, 'Ye've nae lived til ye've tasted a salmon steak the way I prepare 'em...'


Kidd rambled on as they walked, pointing out the creek which ran along the tree line, and talked of the great herds of deer that grazed his property.
                                                                      

'Aye, they do,' Jeanne remarked, relenting a bit and seeming not quite so offended as she had been. 'They graze upon our garden's produce!'


'And I'm fixing a tall fence for that, my love. The lumber is being planed as we speak, back at the mill,' Kidd, Alexander, reminded her. 'But the wee rabbits...they're a problem, they burrow underneath, ye ken.' He glanced at Em, venturing a twisted smile.


'The dogs are a help, but they're loud,' Jeanne continued, 'they raise such a hullabaloo as to be heard in the next county, all for a wee bunny!'
 
'You have hounds, then?' Emlyn ventured to ask, feeling timid still, after her faux pas.

'We do indeed! Would ye like to meet them?' Alexander's smile widened and he strode ahead of them up the stairs as they approached the 'hoose' and onto the wide wooden veranda which wrapped about the entire great log building. Opening the back door, a vast sea of legs, tails and fur was dashed upon them like a hairy tsunami.
                                                                  

                         

'Ah, wolfhounds, are they?' Emlyn was delighted, as was Shannon, who was familiar to them. They both made much of the huge beasts who wriggled and oozed about their legs, tails wild and a-wag.

'Aye...,' Alexander affectionately pet his beasts who obviously were the light of his eye and knew it. 'Deagh cu...deagh luaidh cu...,' Alex cooed to them in gaelic. 'They rule the roost, so they do here.'

Jeanne shut the door behind them and held out an arm. 'Come, Emlyn, let me show you to the back where you may be refreshed, while I make the tay...'

Go and make yourself presentable, you great hoyden, was what she must be thinking, Em told herself as she meekly followed Jeanne to the rear.
  'I'll just be helping you with the tay, then,' Shannon offered. 'We'll be in the parlor, Em, when you're ready.'

.......

At last, brushed up and picked free of (most) hay she'd been wearing, Emlyn strode slowly down the hallway toward the light she assumed was the parlor and house proper...the halls were wide, with walnut wainscoting and she found herself absorbed by the art, articles and artefacts she observed en route: an entire suit of armor bearing a pole axe, heavy gold encrusted Spanish crosses, a large Egyptian statue of Anubis, paintings of what appeared to be scenes of Roman mythological gods and goddesses feasting and capering about, and -- could it be? -- a bas relief with cuneiform writing? And the de rigeur paintings of those whom she assumed to be Kidd's ancestors, noble and ignoble.
                                                                   

But that was nought compared to what awaited in the parlor...

                                                                   
Rounding the corner was more like unto walking into a museum-cum-library than a parlor: enormous statues of archangels loomed above Greek and Roman statues of Diana and Athena, while smaller Egyptian icons of Sekhmet and Isis, Thoth and Maat were scattered about them like attendants.

                                                             

                 
Books lined the walls here on three sides, while great windows opened wide upon the estate flanked by heavy velvet curtains.
  Beauteous tapestries were hung depicting unicorns and maidens, knights in armor and dragons, pegasus, bear and lion all peaceably mingled amongst the flora which appeared rather other-worldly; great flowers and herbs loomed over the people and fauna below a night scene with recognisable constellations amongst the daintily embroidered stars.
                                                                 

Gathered about the roaring great fireplace at one end of the room, Emlyn found the others comfortably seated upon well-upholstered chair and couch; no hard-as-iron, backside-numbing antiques here, Em thought gratefully, as she took a seat beside Shannon upon the sofa. The wolfhounds lounged about thick Persian rugs and seemed well content.
                                                                   

                                                          

Alexander, Himself, poured a cup for her, adding honey and lemon, 'Just as you like, I'm told.'

'Yes, thank you.' Em managed a sip which restored her spirits. 'Your house is simply amazing, I must say. I feel as though I'm in a museum, only I could never imagine such being so warm and welcoming.'

Alexander, (or 'Alex, please,'), smiled and resumed his seat in the wing chair beside the fire, while Jeanne sat in its twin opposite. She passed a plate of scones to Em, remarking, 'Walnut and currant scone? I made just this morning.'

Thanking Jeanne, Em munched the delicious scone, dressed with just a bit of clotted cream and honey.
                                                       

   'These are just as amazing as this place, Jeanne! Divine! I feel I've fallen into a fairytale just coming here.' She leaned back against the tapestried pillows and sighed.
   'And by the way, congratulations, Alex, and best wishes to you both,' Emlyn belated told the couple. 'I was rather, ah, surprised, when I heard of your marriage from Sean Munroe, the dowser.'


'Did you now?' Alex raised eyebrows on high. 'A good mon is Sean, and aye, he dowsed for our wells here. I went ahead and dug and drilled for twa whilst we were at it.'

'It has been so dry, with drought of late. We thought it prudent,' Jeanne said, frowning.

Em meanwhile could not take her eyes from all the largesse about her, wishing she might ask from where had it all come, and how had Alexander gone about getting it here? But she thought that rather imprudent as well...piratical familial relations and all.

The party relaxed, chatted, noshed and warmed themselves congenially and yet Emlyn noticed that Shannon had seemed unnaturally quiet throughout. There's something a bit off here, certainly, she felt, although beyond the ultramundane atmosphere, she couldn't imagine what it could be.


Then Shannon spoke suddenly: 'Thank you for the tea, Jeanne, Alex; but we must be heading back soon. I don't wish to be out on the road too late after dark. Fall approaches...'

Much consternation, and fruitless pleas for them both to stay  overnight went for nought, as Shannon stood and made ready for the road.

Jeanne seemed strangely indifferent to their sudden departure, although she frowned as she brought their coats and scarves to them at the door while Alex dispatched his grooms to fetch the cart; the hounds milled about their knees as all walked outside to take their farewells.
While Alex was entreating them to return soon, ('Ach, the salmon will be running, indeed...and ye haven't yet had a mouthful of the best fish in the werrld!'), Jeanne seemed a trifle less enthusiastic, which Em put down to her earlier 'hay-leppin' debacle in the barn.

Emlyn assured them they would certainly be meeting again, as she hoped to be able to stay a good long while in fair Arcadia this time; then Shannon was already seated and holding the lines, impatient to be away.

'Haste ye back,' Alex told them, as he handed Emlyn up into the cart.
  And, that was it. Away they went, off back down the tree-lined lane, as Em turned round to see Alex and Jeanne both waving, Alex put an arm about his wife and Em waved back, happy to see them so happy.


'So what do you make of all that?' Shannon asked.

......

Emlyn wasn't sure.
   'I noticed that you weren't very talkative. That isn't the Shannon I recall.'

Shannon snorted. 'Aye, well, Jeanne isn't the Jeanne you recall now, either.'

Em looked down. 'I know that I hadn't made a very good impression when we met this time. Oh, I'd no idea that 'Alex' was not simply a groom! And it was Himself all the while, egging me on to greater feats of infamy!'


'"Infamous" is the word, aright,' Shannon looked grim. 'Oh, not you, HIM! Himself is...well, not quite what he seems.' She was quiet for some time. 'Exactly what he is, I have yet to discover. He is definitely hiding something.'


Em didn't quite know what to make of all this. Shannon continued, 'You saw some of all the pirate booty he's gathered to himself there...'

'Yes,' she replied. 'I had wondered where and how -- ?'

'-- You haven't seen the half of it!' Shannon interrupted, 'You'd not believe what else he has hidden in the upper and lower levels.'

Emlyn was silenced. What was going on here? Shannon made it sound as if Kidd was a criminal of sorts. Was he stealing from museums? A burglar of collectors?
  'His pieces are certainly authentic looking,' she ventured.

Shannon nodded as she jogged the lines, encouraging Artemis to pick up the pace as the sun headed lower in the west.   'Oh, they're real aright. The problem isn't the legitimacy of the stuff. But what it IS!'

Em wondered what she could mean. 'Exactly what IS it, then? Please just tell me, Shannon! Is he a Bluebeard then, or what?' She was becoming frustrated by her friend's prevarications.

'Bluebeard? Nay,' Shannon coughed a short laugh. 'Sommat much worse!'

'-- Shannon!' Em had about had it. 'OUT with it, woman!'

Shannon smiled then. 'At least you haven't changed! That's the Emlyn I recall...' She sighed. 'Alright. Well, for instance, upstairs, in the master suite, it is all full of...oh, I canna say it...'

'YES you bloody well CAN!' Emlyn scolded. 'I HAVE read de Sade, you know, if that's why you're so squeamish! What, is it; full of whips, chains, a crocodile pit, perhaps?'


Shannon laughed heartily. 'Oh, Em! I am glad you came...' She shook her head slowly. 'No. Sommat much worse...' Another sigh.
  'All right, then. If ye must know. The boudoir is full of...religious icons, Em -- Christian icons!'

Emlyn sat speechless.
                                                            

.......

Daryl left the trolley at the Embarcadero.

It was good to be back at the waterfront. It always lifted Daryl's spirits, even on a foggyish day like today. The fog swirled in pods like boats adrift in a sea of sky, showing patches of blue here and there.


  Weather here could turn on a dime and give change back; a fogbank could suddenly drift off and away, unveiling a bright summer day, or the opposite could happen as quickly; leaving punters out for a sunny lark suddenly enveloped in bone-numbing chill with nothing visible beyond their own hands before them.


Today could go either way, Daryl thought, as he slowly hitched his steps down to the warehouse St.John kept to house his cache and collection of treasures.


Daryl couldn't pull his mind away from recalling that night he'd seen St.John suddenly appear in St.Cat's at the Village of Sopa and Fog. He'd seemed as out of place there as a moose in a ballet production of Swan Lake.
  Daryl had no idea what could be in store here now.

.......

After knocking at the door with the coded series he'd known, Daryl put hands in pockets of his mac and waited, collar up, scarf wound tight against the invasive fog.
  'Come on, you old reprobate...' He was about to attempt a second series of knocks, when he thought he detected sounds behind the door.

At last, after hearing chains rattle, bars slid back, locks clicked, a noise of something scraping the floor, then the door finally opened a crack to reveal the Man Himself in all his disheveled, disreputable glory.

'Not standing here for my health. At all.' Daryl informed him.
   St.John hid a grim smile as he stepped aside and ushered a freezing Daryl within.
  'You're late,' he told him.

.....

Emlyn and Shannon approached the village just as the sun had disappeared into the foothills.
  Any further information hadn't been forthcoming from Shannon; not much, at least. When Em tried to get her to elaborate, Shannon simply shook her head, or sighed and clicked to Artemis to step up her pace.

At last, pulling up before Mrs. Murphy's place, Emlyn pleaded once more for Shannon to please clarify her statements.
   
'I simply wish to know, what does Jeanne think of living in a bedroom full of...I don't know what? -- relics, or sommat? Has he an ossuary in the closet? Oh, Shannon...'

Em climbed out from under the heavy plaid woolen lap rug
and walking over to Shannon, put her hand on her knee.
  'What is it, luv?'

Shannon let her head and shoulders drop, looking at her feet, lines slack.
  'Em...it isna that I don't trust you or sommat. It's just...,' she looked up and away toward the west, the sky dark now but for a streak of orange, purpling at the edges.

  'Ya know I'm Irish and, well, the church has had such a heavy hard bootheel upon the Irish folk...I cannae explain it to someone who hasn'a had to live it, ya ken. We wouldn'a be such a poor, priest-ridden country if it wasn'a for the bloody church...'


Shannon straightened then, and gathered the lines.

  'I must be off home. Have to open shop tomorrow.'



Emlyn patted her knee and stood back.
  'You know I feel the same, cheri. Although not to the degree that you've had to come to know.'

'Do you?' Shannon asked, frowning down at her. 'Do you really know?' She looked up, her eyes moist. 'I also thought that Jeanne had felt the same as you and me. Appears I was wrong there.'

And without further ado, Shannon urged her mare back on the road home.

.......


When Daryl entered St.John's Warehouse of Antiques and Treasures, he was stunned into silence.
   -- It was utterly empty!

Daryl moved past St.John who stood smiling grimly, as he walked through the wide open space into the man's office in back...St.John followed slowly.

'Yes, everything's gone.' St.John confirmed the impossible

Daryl spun about. Even the office files, safe, everything; completely vanished.
  'I, I simply cannot believe it!' Daryl couldn't. His last visit here: furniture, statuary, cannon, old anchors, even tombstones; heavy, heavy pieces -- and now, all disappeared as though by a wizard's wand.

'Yes, well, I had been considering selling out and putting all my investing into something rather more satisfying than puttering about with dubious antiques.' St.John reached into a closet and removed his hat and coat. Swinging a tartan scarf about his neck, he took up his wolfshead cane and regarded Daryl.
  'Fantastic,' was all that Daryl could manage.


'Mm-yess...,' St.John murmured, as he led the way back to the exit. 'Even more fantastic, nearly all of it was purchased by one entity!' He stopped at the door and turned about, facing Daryl, who stood frozen in shock.
 'Well, are you coming, then?' St.John tapped his foot. '"Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately kills all its pupils", as Berlioz wisely noted...'


Bestirring himself at last, Daryl wondered when he'd have the chance to catch up with all these new changes coming over his world.
   'Yes. Yes, I suppose...'

He slowly turned and strode back to the stout gent holding  the door. St.John, thought Daryl, I hardly knew ye. Just what the devil are you about, you old rascal? Daryl stopped just short of following said rascal without.
   'Ah...just where are we headed, then, may I ask?'

'St.John,' replied St.John.
Daryl stared blankly. St.John sighed, pulling Daryl's sleeve to haul him beyond the door, which he slid to and locked, one last time, by the look of things.

'It's a place?' Daryl ventured.
   St.John nodded, as they turned back to the docks bearing tall ships.'Ah, much more than a place,' St.John smiled. 'It's home.'
 He raised his cane and pointed north.
   'St.John, Nova Scotia!'
                                                                

                                                                        
.......
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O Evangeline: Emmylou Harris & the Band