Chapter 27 - Time and Time Again

...Jacque de Molay, knowing that the pope was a pawn of King Philippe, arranged for the Paris horde (of Templar treasure) be removed in a fleet of 18 galleys from La Rochelle. Most ships sailed to Scotland and some to Portugal, but the king was unaware of this and had negotiated with various monarchs to...pursue the Templars outside of France.

In Scotland however, the story was very different; the papal Bull was totally ignored. King David I of Scots granted Hugues de Payens, (the Templar head, after de Molay had been executed), and his Knights the lands of Ballantradoch, by the Firth of Forth (now the village of Temple), and they established their primary seat on the South Esk.

A large contingent fought at Bannockburn in 1314...From the time of Robert the Bruce, each successive Bruce and Stewart heir was a Knight Templar from birth, and by virtue of this, the Scots royal line comprised not only Priest Kings but Knight Priest  Kings.
                                                                  

....

In addition to the Jerusalem bullion, the Templars also found a wealth of ancient manuscripts in Hebrew and Syriac, providing first-hand accounts that had not been edited by any ecclesiastical authority. 

In the light of these, it was widely accepted that the Knights possessed an insight which eclipsed orthodox Christianity -- an insight which permitted them the certainty that the Church had misinterpreted both the Virgin Birth and the Resurrection. They were neverthless highly regarded as holy men at this time, and were firmly attached to the Cistercian popes of the era.

Laurence Gardner
Bloodline of the Holy Grail

........


"Gunther also told me that when the Templar Order was destroyed by the King of France and the Pope, that the Templar fleet transported the Templar gold to several places. One was on Oak Island, but that gold was eventually transferred to a cave somewhere in the U.S. The major part of the Templar gold was taken to the Philippines...

"Over the ensuing centuries other members of secret orders transported sacred texts from all over the world to caves in the Philippines. The texts that were transferred to these caves were made of gold or stone. Texts from papyrus, leather or paper were taken to the salt mines near Salzburg, Austria."

Rayelan Allen
The Obergon Chronicles

...........


...According to an eye witness account from the end of WWII, a German Heinkel 277 V-1 left Salzburg, Austria, bound for the East, possibly Nepal or Tibet, with a plane load of cargo believed to include the (missing) ancient Cathar relics (from Montsegur). According to Howard Buechner, a retired US Army Colonel, on board the German plane were also "twelve stone tablets of the Germanic Grail, which contained the key to ultimate knowledge."

Mark Amaru Pinkham
Guardians of the Holy Grail
referencing David Hatcher Childress

                                                                

........

The party was comfortably relaxing by the fire, scones nearly gone, when Jeanne piped up with, 'So, the huge round table, husband?' She nodded to the giant oaken table dominating one side of the room before them. 'Are ye expecting Arthur and his knights, perhap?'

A wild reddish eyebrow lifted in answer to her query. 'And what if I were, wife?' A grin hovered about his lips.
   Taking a stance before the fire, hands behind back, Alex began his sermon: 'Ye might have heard that Camelot was once thought to be in Scotland!' He nodded  at the surprised look on Em's face, (and Jeanne's look of, 'Ach, what noo?')

'In truth,' Alex looked down, slowly shaking his head, 'T'was Arthur who lost Britain and Celtic lands to the Saxons. I know, 'tis not what the tales would have you believe! But,' he raised a finger in point, 'deep study of history, and historical fact, will back up what I say to you; in the Chronicles of Holyrood and of Melrose, it is written.' Alex stated, and, pontificating like a Saracen quoting the Prophet, he began to slowly pace as he continued:  
   'Alas, Arthur became obsessed with Roman rule and Roman Christianity. This was not the Celtic Church the like of which ye ken at Iona, nor even in Eire, nay; and thus made an enemy of his own son, Mordred, who was Archpriest of the Sacred Kindred of Columba. His son was forced to oppose his father on the battlefield only to try to save the Scots kingdom from losing its ancient Druidic heritage, ye ken.'

Alex ceased his pacing and sighed. 'After Arthur, the days of Celtic lordship were done.' He raised a hand and nodded to Emlyn, 'Note well, Cambria! After more than six centuries of tradition, Cadwaladr of Wales, was, in fact: the last Pendragon!'

Emlyn had sat spellbound through Alex's discourse. Ah, so much for Arthur, then...but she'd a niggling notion all along that what he'd spoken of was perhaps truth. Arthur, along with Gwenivere, both did seem rather priest-ridden. Especially compared with the rest of his faery family and tutor Merlin. Also, she'd harbored a secret crush of sorts on Mordred...
  If only Shannon were here to witness Alex's denunciatory deprecation of Arthur and his Roman recalcitrance...hardly the rhetoric of a true believer!

'But what of Merlin, then?' Em was curious what enigma Alex might pull out of his hat there.

'Ah, the Merlin, now!' Alex perked up. 'THE Merlin; a title, like that of The Pendragon, aye. The infamous Merlin who came before Arthur's time was Taliesin the Bard, Viviane I del Acqs' husband; a Welshman true, and Kelt in body, soul and mind. The title of Seer to the King passed to Emrys of Powys, the son of Arelius. Merlin Emrys of Arthur's time, was an elder cousin of King Aedan.'

'Ask him no question, he'll tell ye no lies!' Jeanne remarked to Em. 'However, he may never pause for breath, either!'
   ...A failing of many, Em noted.

Alex simply smiled at his lovely wife.
The lovely Jeanne sighed. '-- And the great muckle table, husband?'

'Ah! The table noo...' Alex pivoted and strode to the oaken  monster polished to a deep golden sheen and stroked it caressingly like a favorite mare. 
  'Tis a grand thing, is it no?' He bent over and looked across its shining surface, one eye closed. He straightened and gave it a final pat. 'All four square and on the level, so it 'tis!' He pronounced.

Jeanne turned to Em, smiling smoothly. 'At some point in time...tonight, possibly! -- We might just learn of the table's use and the reason for it. All in the master's precious good time.'

Unruffled, Alex turned to stir the fire and then cleared away the tea things. 'Potatoes are done. More to come, along wi' the Salmon of Knowledge!' Alex slipped them a wink in his wake.
                                                                     

                                                                        

As her husband made for the kitchen, Jeanne sighed softly.
Emlyn shifted a glance her way. 'I was just wondering what Shannon would make of Alex ripping the mickey out of King Arthur the bloody papist!'

Jeanne chuckled. 'So I was, Em!' She shook her head. 'Ah, Shannon...the wee isean never stays about long enough to give the mon half a chance!' She glanced Em's way. 'And ye've seen how he does go on once he's worked up; can't get the mon to stop his natterin' on...'

Alex softly strode up behind them then, and putting his head around Jeanne's, gave his wife a bus on the cheek, and began whispering into her ear:
  '-- A ceilidh. Aye? Serve some salmon to friends, an' a wee bit of ceol beag, and makin' free with fiddles and faoineas this night. What say ye, wife?'

Jeanne cleared her throat. 'This, is a surprise, I take it?'
Alex stood. 'That it is!' He looked well-pleased.

Jeanne frowned. 'Is it no late in the day to be arrangin' such, husband?'

'Ach, no.' Alex picked up more logs and built up the fire. 'Tis all arranged.' He knocked the ashes from the poker and set it in the rack.
  'Sean Munroe's waggon will be bringing folk up from Emlyn's patch; wi' his lady Mrs.Murphy o'course, and, eh, your friend, Jethro, is it?' Em nodded, amazed. 'Oh, and that other friend you mentioned, Aleister; he said Jack and Homer may or may no be able to make it. Now, let's see, an' the rest o' the Bards, aye...' Alex paused, 'that's a musical group, ye ken. '

'We ken, indeed!' Jeanne stood then. 'Alex, why did ye not tell me, let me help wi' the planning?'

'You had your plans with Emlyn, luv. No matter, 'tis all taken care of.'
  Alex was still grinning, knowing what his dear wife would be working herself up to. 'Ah, and!' He took Jeanne's hand and held it to his lips. 'Wee Shannon is coming as weel.' He looked quite proud then. 'She's riding along wi' the Bards.'

Jeanne gave Em a silent stare, heavy with portent. 'So I see. Well.'
  She sighed. 'A ceilidh it is then!'
                                                                               

.......


A screeching of brakes and a sudden jerk woke Daryl from a feverish sleep. He could barely get his eyes open...or could he? His head fell to his chest and he half-returned to his dream, which soon took him and rode him like the nightmare she was...and an odd one too...

Had something to do with a volcano...he beheld not the mountain from outside, but found himself within the belly of the beast. In wonder he gazed about at the rivers of lava, magma flowing slow...yet he didn't feel the heat at all. And that wasn't the only oddity.
                                                                         

Volundar Kane, the Order's smith, was there with him, smiling grimly.
  'Back to the forge with you!'

He then brought forth a curved sword, and dipped it into the swirling hot lava. When he withdrew it, the hot mud became sparks as he swung it overhead, the embers disappearing like stars in morning light.
    'Recognise this?' He asked, and tossed it to Daryl, who stepped back and watched it stick into the rocks at his feet.
   
Daryl felt a hand upon his shoulder then. Turning, he saw Abdul and Rashid -- they who had procured The Sword from the Toledo smiths for him.
    Rashid, son of Abdul, stepped forth and grasped the sword's handle. 'We will keep this for you. When you are ready, it will again be yours.'
   He sheathed the blade and then stood beside his father. Abdul spoke: 'Not yet. Sleep now. May Al-Khadir keep you.'
                                                                       

   Then, as suddenly as they had appeared; together, they blinked out -- quickly as genie from Aladdin's lamp.

This caused Volundar Kane great mirth. His deep laughter echoed about the volcano's pit, bouncing off the walls like mocking dwarfs hiding in the crimson dark.

Daryl's dream-world began to shake as Kane's laughter continued, bubbling up from the magma; he could still hear it in his head as he awoke, gasping, sweating.
                                                                             

All right, old man?' St.John was sitting next to Daryl, frowning with concern. 'You slept long.'

Daryl hardly knew what to think. His head felt full of mud and magma. His mouth was dry as the Sahara. He attempted to croak a response.
  'Here.' St.John handed him a water skin. Daryl accepted gratefully and drank deep.
  'Merci.' He handed over the water. The train lurched forward once more and began to pick up speed.

'We're...on a train?' He enquired. Sitting up, he ran a hand through his hair and blinked about him. He was sitting next to  the window, St.John beside him. How the devil had he gotten here?
What had happened to Alaska? Daryl felt utterly befogged, his head kept slumping downward.

'Coffee! That's what you need.' St.John checked his pocket watch. 'Nearly lunch time. You'll feel more yourself after a good feed.'

Daryl blinked lazily and stared out at the passing scenery, trying to catch up with himself. Mind lagged behind body by many hours, if not days.
  He was going to need something far beyond coffee.

......

After his third cup, Daryl's head began to register thoughts, memories once more. Still, there seemed to be a great blank space betwixt the then and now.

'You slept.' St.John was not much help. He poked his fork Daryl's way. 'You, are the one who insisted on emptying my wee brown bottles! Not exactly mothers' milk, that...' He frowned as he ordered more coffee and baguettes from the waitstaff in the dining car. 'I assume your back is better now?'

It wasn't easy still, staying fully awake, especially with the rocking rhythm of the train, the grasses and wheat fields passing by with the hypnotic uninterrupted sameness of prairie as they headed east.
   'It is better, yes. But I've traded physical ease for mental mush, it seems.' Daryl needed some fresh air, exercise. What he would give for that last stroll along the docks and bracing sea air now...

'You'll survive.' St.John assured him, pouring more coffee and tearing off fresh bread as soon as it arrived. 'We have plenty of time yet to go over plans before we embark by boat to Nova Scotia.' He paused, then slathered a goodly glob of butter on his bread before asking, 'What do you know of your country's financial beginnings?'

Sipping coffee more slowly, now that he felt more jittery than awake, Daryl forced his neurons in gear, frowning at the effort. 'Ah, let's see; well, around the time of the Revolution, you mean? That far back?'

'A bit farther,' St.John replied, leaning back, baguette in hand like a large cigar.

'Well...Franklin, and Jefferson, of course were both dead set against a central bank. England was up to it's royal ears in debt at the time, thanks to the machinations of Rothschild et al, and Bank of England.' He held up a hand, 'And, please, no anti-semitic conspiracy crap needed; Rothschild is hardly typical of the Jewish race.'

'Well said.' St.John's wee eyes flashed a small fire within. Pointing with the heel of his baguette, he continued:
  'Hamilton it was, Washington's former secretary of the Treasury, who was the villain here; who had formed the Federalist party, which was nothing but a cabal of bankers eager to get their claws into the fresh blood of the new republic.'

Daryl broke his bread into small pieces and chewed thoughtfully.
  'True. The colonies were doing well enough with their own script until English bankers enacted the Currency Act. We could no longer print our own money, and then King George proclaimed we had to pay in silver and gold only! Madness...' Daryl slowly shook his head, gazing out the window at golden fields of wheat.
  'And, hence, soon enough, the Revolution.'
                                                                               

St.John smiled that dark grimace of his. 'Hamilton, indeed. It was after Franklin's death that he convinced the rest of the founders that having an American central bank would be better than doing business with English or other international bankers. But, he never mentioned that it would be just these same bankers who would ultimately control any American bank.'

'One doesn't learn this in schools...' Daryl mused. 'I wonder how many of my countrymen have the least notion of what's what concerning our underlying reality. Power in the hands of the few, the elite, is what brought our, ah, country...' Daryl paused, realising that he was about to say "world", '...to its knees. And, the cause of war. Really, the cause of all wars.'
   Privately Daryl wondered how things would have gone if Aaron Burr had been a little quicker on the trigger and dispatched Hamilton before he'd allowed the cabal to get their hooks into the new nation.

Daryl wondered too where all this was headed, other than New Scotland... Was St.John trying to trip him up? -- Get him to admit to some overarching knowledge of world events in his own time? And what of St.John and his own anachronistic asides? And the Order? -- What had he to do with them, Raimundo and Sebastiao?
  Was this another chess game to him? Just what was St.John playing at? Daryl knew he had better be fully awake before engaging in any battle of wits with this mini-Machiavelli.

St.John appeared rather relaxed and seemingly satisfied with how this foray seemed to be progressing. At last he pushed his plate aside and remarked, 'I wonder how things would be now,' his gaze caught Daryl's eye in a steely focus, 'if one could, perhaps, change or alter certain events of the past...'
  He sank his teeth into the remains of the baguette and teared it asunder, chewing roughly. 'Hmm...'tis an enticing supposition, non?'

.......


Daryl excused himself to take some air.
  Feeling more like simply leaping from the train, he contented himself with standing outside the back of the coach where he could breathe some fresher air and maybe get his chaotic thoughts in order. "Order From Chaos", indeed.

Running both hands through his hair, he scratched his skull frantically, trying to kick-start his mental motor. Then smoothing back what he could, he noted his hands shaking...from feeling near-comatose to hyperactive, he still felt more artificially awake than like someone who had rested well and awakened naturally.

So that was St.John's game then...Daryl grasped the railing surrounding the caboose and hung his head. What a bloody idiot he'd been! How did he not see this coming?

St.John needed a patsy, a dope, a minion, a fool to do his dirty work for him. Enter: Daryl.
  Gad, he really was out of it. Had been for some time... Time, again. Daryl had about had it with TIME; past, future, and especially now.

He looked up and noticed a steam thresher in the fields being stoked by farmhands, its iron plate open to reveal the pit of fire and coals within...and then, as the train chugged onward, it passed...
   -- His dream! That was it! He remembered now; Volundar Kane, the volcano. Flowing lava...Abdul and Rashid! And, the Toledo Sword...his prize of Damascene steel -- now gone.

That had been a warning if ever there was.
  Daryl was sure they had retrieved his sword. Later, it would be returned, they'd said. He'd no doubt that he would not find that sword at home where he had left it. It was truly gone.
                                                                           

He frowned, finding concentration difficult...the Box, however; that, and the Cup, would still be there. And, St.John, that faithless fox, had sold him the Box. Did he know of its time-bending powers? Obviously!
  And all this about Hamilton...he had put the blame for the new republic's enslavement to a central bank firmly upon the man. Was he gearing himself up to enact a coup of sorts? Daryl fervently hoped assassination was not in mind. The man would get his in a duel, later. Too late for St.John perhaps?
                                                                   

Daryl heard himself groan. How in hell had he allowed things to get this far? True, he'd been in a bad way at the time, what with his back attack, being grounded, and Emlyn's leaving, for good, it'd seemed. So much had been up in the air; and then he'd given in to his new 'partner's' seemingly unending supply of poppy juice, just when he was in great pain and at his most vulnerable.

Not exactly kidnapped, but near enough. Now here he was somewhere truly in the middle of nowhere or Manitoba, whichever...nothing for miles. May as well be Siberia.
  '"All men that are ruined are ruined on the side of their natural propensities," so saith Burke,' Daryl quoth, noting the truth in that statement. And it did not comfort him in the least.
 
He'd have to play along, for a while. When he found himself back somewhere that was Somewhere, he could better effect an escape.
   Daryl sighed. He wondered where Emlyn was now, what she was doing. At least she was surely in a better situation than his inescapable present. And what would St.John think, once Daryl had to confess he was grounded? Better that he simply disappear before it came to that.
   'Wherever you are, Em; it's nothing like the mess I've landed myself in.' And that, at least, was some comfort to him.

.........

'This,' Emlyn declared, 'is by far the best salmon I have ever tasted!'

Alex smiled and offered more salad. 'Alder smoked,' he commented. 'I have connections with some of the local tribes here and have learned from the masters, indeed.'

'Indeed,' Jeanne echoed. 'The salmon, salad and, lest we forget, the potatoes, are all delicious, husband. But, my dear, how will this feed tonight's party?'

In answer, Alexander held up a hand, then, heading to the French doors, opened both wide. He slipped them a smile over his shoulder.
  'More cider?' He enquired, returning to table where he topped off their glasses.

Jeanne sent an unfathomable look to Em, but stayed quiet and sipped cool cider a while. Soon, there wafted through the air from without, the definitive succulent scent of roasting meats and fish...

'Tis all under control, wife.' Alex looked pleased with himself as he turned to build up the hearth fire. 'Marcel and Tobias are with the salmon masters, and I have entrusted the comestibles for the evening into their capable hands.'

Jeanne and Emlyn were up from their seats in a trice, heading for the doors, leaving Alex's chuckles behind them.

'Tis a potlatch!' Em exclaimed excitedly, leaning round the door beside Jeanne, who looked quizzically her way. 'An Indian cook-out and party. Everyone brings something and all are fed. It's a way of giving back to the community.'
                                                                     

Alex sidled up behind them, putting an arm about Jeanne's waist.
'That's so. I bought a great mess of fish, and they are trading their cooking expertise for that...and one of the Clydes.'

'A fair trade, indeed.' Jeanne seemed pleased. Turning to Em she whispered, 'One less Clydesdale will be not an inconsequential addition of more hay and grain to the horses' larder. We've Clydes to spare.'

'Aye,' Alex sighed, 'Tha's so. I'm a collector, ye ken. Just look about, eh?' He waved a large hand, 'And Joseph Tall Bear was glad of the harse for the harvesting.'

Emlyn bethought to herself that the man must have means indeed to be a Clydesdale Collector...she also noted the grooms gathered about the large fire, now burned down to coals, with a haunch of beef above on a spit, and several chickens as well, ringed with split salmon on small upright stakes around the fire.
  Close by, beneath a giant oak tree, was gathered a group of native men, smoking and talking together, who would occasionally arise and check the fire, adding wood chips and turning the meats.

'Is there anything we could do to help, in the meantime?' Emlyn enquired. 'It will be hours until supper time.'

'Nay, 'tis all arranged.' Alex shut the doors. 'We'll head out there soon enough. But, come! Take your cider and we'll show ye round the hoose, eh? There's much ye've not seen, still.'

.......

And so it was that Em at last became privy to the sights which Shannon had claimed were worthy of shock and awe.

   Amazing, astounding, enormous and intriguing, all; and yet, Emlyn wasn't so...so, well, discomfited as Shannon had been, at the sight of towering statues of avenging archangels, sword or lance in hand, or paintings of Sir Galahad with angels hovering over, or a buck-naked Mary Magdalene by Lanfranco hefted aloft by wee angelic arms...

                                                                       

 

 

 '1600s,' Alex stated proudly. 'Before the Church could bind more art with chains, eh?'

Indeed, Em's assessment of Alex's rare and eclectic assortment,  on the whole, would be considered anathema to any church-goer, be they Catholic or Protestant. At the very least, heretical, and not far from being absolutely antithetical to anyone's notion of Christianity.

Finding these dissident religious icons and items cheek by jowl with cavorting Greek gods and goddesses, (Pan, satyrs and nymphs a-plenty), Egyptian statues of Isis and Osirus, Ibis headed Thoth and Jackal headed Anubis would strike most observers as being positively heterodoxical, as well as so eclectic as to be positively chaotic. A reflection of Kidd's inner being, perhaps?
                                                               

'"I am for religion, against religions,"'Alex stated, quoting Victor Hugo.

'"We've enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to have us love one another,"' Jeanne countered with Jonathan Swift.

Oy, Emlyn sighed mentally, having been stunned rather sledge-hammerlike, by the opulence of it all. 'All I see here is...for me, truly beyond words.'
 
Alex smiled. 'Well said, Em. But, come -- ye've yet to see my study!'

Off they trooped behind Alex as he led them downstairs, down a long hallway paneled in dark mahogany. Opening a pair of doors, they entered a room walled round with dark burgundy and forest green plaid. Crossed swords, pole axes, and lances lined the  walls between the artworks.

'Enter of thine own free will'!' He ushered them within, closing the doors behind. Emlyn wondered about that as she drifted about the room, gazing at the many paintings artfully framed in dark woods, not the rococco gilt that could distract from subject. That, a relief, at least. Her eyes ached from so much looking...but she soldiered on. Of her own free will, hmm...shades of the Twyleth Teg, that.

'It would seem...' she began, 'to be a profile of Scottish history in art?',

                                                                    Robert the Bruce

'Oh, well done, Em!' Alex shot a look at Jeanne, who rolled her eyes pleasantly, used to her husband's habit of buttering up guests, as she bethought it, and took herself a seat upon the comfortable sofa...which matched the plaid walls. Of course.

'Tis just that,' he continued, sidling up to Emlyn who was engaged in study of a battle scene. 'Robert the Bruce, of course. He'd sheltered Templar Knights who had escaped into Scotland, on the run from the king of France, as well as the pope. T'was their aid helped the Scots to win that day; the Feast Day of St.John, June 24th, at Bannockburn...
   'And here, of course,' He strode farther on, noting the latter works, 'Our Bonnie Prince Charlie.'
                                                                   

Emlyn was of two minds regarding the prince. Such a waste of Highland bone and blood, all for this man...could it have been prevented?

'They ought ne'er to have turned back at Derby.' Alex was speaking so softly Em had barely heard. 'If only the Scottish army had continued from there, onward into London! Ach! There need never ha' been the massacre at Cullodun!'

Jeanne had arisen and joined Alex, taking his hand in solidarity as they all gazed at the painting of Charles Edward Stuart before them. Alex sighed, and turned to Em.
  'Have ye never thought how things might have been changed for the better, if Scotland had won their independence back then? And how things would be now, if only, somehow, it would be possible to travel through time, and make it so!'

Emlyn returned his gaze, and although his words had seemed innocent enough, just an offhand remark...his eyes seemed to glitter with a wild intent that she found rather disconcerting.

'Yes, it does make one wonder,' she replied. But her wonder concerned Jeanne's enigmatic new husband, and his intentions...
   Just how much had Jeanne told him, she worried; for, in the spirit of Triad Sisterhood, she'd allowed Jeanne and Shannon to share in her timewalking. Shannon even had a portable device.

Suddenly, Emlyn wasn't so sure about the seemingly too-good-to-be-true Alexander Kidd, gentleman pirate? Things were becoming oxymoronic fast.
She also felt the need for backup. Jethro & the Bards couldn't get here quick enough, she felt. 

Kidd's hospitality gave off a wee whiff of duplicity...
....................
Scottish Hospitality:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XVJIWl74Qbs
thanks to Ricky Fulton's "Scotch & Wry"

CLICK BELOW TO LISTEN!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YEDy3vEX8Ms 
 Ye Jacobites by Name - ARANY ZOLTAN

 Robert Burns lived not long after the Jacobite Uprising of 1745/46. Following the conflict, many songs were written, usually in support of the Jacobite cause. But a few were written putting the government/Hanoverian point of view. When Burns was putting together a collection of songs he had found while going round Scotland, he found one of these and wrote his own version. While Burns had expressed sympathy for the French Revolution, he clearly had no liking for the Jacobites.

 Ye Jacobites by name, now give an ear, give an ear, Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear; Ye Jacobites by name, Your fautes I will proclaim, Your docrines I maun blame - you shall hear! What is Right, and what is Wrang, by the law, by the law? What is Right, and what is Wrang, by the law, What is Right, and what is Wrang, A short sword and a lang, A weak arm and a strang, for to draw! What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar? What makes heroic strife, famed afar? What makes heroic strife? To whet th' assassin's knife, Or hunt a Parent's life, wi' bluidy war! Then let your schemes alone, in the State, in the State! Then let your schemes alone, in the State! Then let your schemes alone, Adore the rising sun, And leave a man undone, to his fate.

.......

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........

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