Carl Ellis July 1928 - Diary

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Monday, 2 July 1928; 8:00 pm -

Once again I am filled with the excitement of new things and discovery. Carl is here; we have spent hours now, planning and discussing. I think he understands! Truly I think so -- it has been fascinating and invigorating. And together we have been able to probe into my inner self and look at the mysterious "knothole". It exists still -- more, it has grown! Amazing, wonderful! SOMETHING is happening; and I think, I HOPE, that I know what it is. It must be connected with the vision. The thing that beckons, in its awesome simplicity. Is this a thing that Pierre knew?

Over the next week or two, Carl is going to help Julian learn some basic skills. Not many -- just the survival touches like screening, mindspeech, monnitoring, and simple scans.

I have asked Zigfried if he might consent to coming to Stockton for a day or two soon to help Maddy and Byron, but there has been no reply. This is bad -- for now I learn that an expedition is forming to Africa -- perhaps to Abydos, though I hope not! which Maddy wishes to join. If she goes things will be rough on both her and Martin -- because of the Touch between them. I shall wire him tonight! He must come -- I hope he will come. There is too much at stake.

(Later) He is coming, on the Sixth. Maddy and Byron will rail out for the weekend; perhaps the six of us can solve some of these problems.

Friday, 6 July 1928; 1:15 am -

Julian has gone to the Estate to get Zigfried. They will return in the morning. The other two got here this afternoon; we spent hours talking; Maddy brought a cheesecake. How nice to be simply sociable again, at least for a time!

Dear Maddy. Really, I wish she did not wish to go away -- there is so much to learn, sto share! She says that since our last talk she has developed a sort of meditative trance-state in which she reaches out and touches ... SOMETHING. What? We do not know; and if she cannot describe it, how can we possibly hope to understand?

Tired now -- must get up early for their return.

3:45 pm - (the next day?)

Wonders never cease. I am surer than ever of this now! They may seem to, but they do not....

The others arrived before seven o'clock. I saw them in, and we settled them, then I returned to sleep. Zigfried has a beard now and is thinner, I think; but the biggest difference is inside. There is a stillness about him now, a gentle deliberation in his speech and his movements that is slightly uncanny. And his eyes -- they look beyond and through one in a way I cannot explain or describe. At times he simply stops whatever he was doing and fades away, lost in a vision of the mundane and the wondrous that only he sees. What is happening to him? I do not know; somehow I find myself reluctant to simply ask. It is too personal.

When I awakened it was after nine. I bathed and went downstairs to join the others in the kitchen; as I approached I was caught up again in a vision like the one in the Roth house. Devastating, totally without warning, complete and all-encompassing.

They tell me I walked in and simply froze there, glazed and unmoving, for several minutes. It did not seem so long. Unmoving, unresponsive, blandly staring, barely breathing, skin feverish hot. And to Julian I was simply gone again. They must have been panicked. Poor dear -- I tried to find her, tried to share with her while it happened but the link was closed off, and any efforts to open it merely collapsed the amazing thing I was experiencing. This thing is mine, private and alone. How sad that the most miraculous and expanding events in my life are the only ones I cannot share with her.

Even now the sharpness of detail is gone and only the overall impressions remain. Like a dream, like a revelation, a satori'; the Face of God cannot be remembered fully, each man must walk alone. But this is what I saw/felt/KNEW as I recall it now (and it IS a "knowing" rather than mere perception; as if my entire body had for a moment turned to thought):

The house is a thing of smoked glass and crystal; all grey angles and planes, crossing and re-crossing like a frozen photograph of my powerself. The ceiling, walls and floors are only parts of this; the visible parts of a much more complex structure.

Everything is rigid -- silver simple, clean, lifeless. How new this house is! There are none of the feelings and memories held in the Roth home, built up over the years. This home is empty. Nothing breathes; nothing moves.

My body is vanished. No presence, no sense of self; merely a viewpoint through which enters the immense and crashing KNOWLEDGE of this state of affairs.

In the midst of the stillness, a whisper, a motion! Where? There are two who move, here in silver grey; two who bend and change where everything is still.

Maddy Matson is bright; radiant yellow-white in the greyness. Stripped clean, glowing pure and simple. Strong. Warm. Compact and dense, and very strongly HER. And outside, near her, just on the edge, a whisper-touch of SOMETHING; like heat-waves on a sunny stretch of road. Or like ripples in a pond. It is new; it is sparkling; I am exalted yet still afraid -- for it is clear that things are happening to her that are beyond my knowledge or power to help or protect.

Zigfried is there too. Layered like an onion, or an intricate flower, petals within petals, each a unique and secret side of the man I do not know. I see him close to her, looking at her as if to touch and absorb; and as I watch the outer layer shivers and darkens, as if burned by her; and the pieces peel back and fall away. What is beneath is new -- more deep, more complex, somehow LARGER than the old; and it swells to fill him with its newness and strength; he, new he, in childlike wonder and joy, reaches out to her light like a moth to a flame, or a young babe filled with brightness reaching to grasp a sunbeam.

What this all means I do not know. For each, there is a mystery. That this bright radiance is good for Maddy I cannot doubt, for the goodness is a thing I KNOW. But within the radiance are other things, dark shapes whose form and purpose I cannot devise. Does the radiance support those things? Or keep them imprisoned, at bay? And what will they mean to her when she goes East, to join and if necessary to stop an expedition which she feels is going to Abydos?

And Zigfried's -- what of him? The loss of his wife and balance has changed him certainly, but is that all I see? He is growing and changing, true. But this new thing -- is it the change of the priest growing near to his God? Or has he passed another hurdle and begun attaining the next level of psychic growth? Is that possible, without a Balance, or has he somehow TAKEN his God and People as the other half of his Whole? Again -- I cannot ask.

So many questions, and no means to answer. Alas! I wonder what Mr. Martin thinks of all of this -- of all of US? He remains very silent so far.

Sunday, 8 July 1928; 8:00 pm -

They are gone again. Maddy to pack for her trip East, Byron back to work, Zigfried to the Estate and his patient. A weekend full of revelation and mysteries; yet more frustrating than enlightening, I think. In particular I wish I had had more chance to speak personally to the two men: Zigfried because I have come to admire him in many ways, yet still he seems like such a stranger to me even though he calls me friend. This should not be; I do not desire the distance between us. And as for Byron, I simply do not know him so how can he know me? Somehow I feel that I have given him short-shrift. He is deserving of more from us than merely a "howdy and a handshake." Also, in him I see an acute perception and humor but also a distrust. Is that surprising? No; he has never had anything good come of his involvement with the Occult; why should I and mine be any different? If I am to convince him of my own goodness and sincerity we must speak further. Thank heavens the Tsin is in no danger from Stone! At least that is one nightmare over which I need no longer lose sleep.

So, we are once again three: two Carls and a Julian. Testing of the four Matrices was inconclusive; although the Power-flux is clearly being filtered for some quality, Emerson did not have the necessary precision or perceptive acuity to figure out what was being selected for. I could, I suppose, build more of these; but why? What do they signify? Enigma still.

In the next week or so I shall begin my own experiments in perception. If I can learn to feel my self more intimately I may be able to ascertain what happens during one of the visions. At the least I shall have learned something about myself!

And Maddy, I think, is ready to Cross the Veil. At least, she is ready to think long and hard upon the choice it offers and the responsibility it partners. I think it will be a good thing for her -- I think she is prepared. But will she? It is in her hands now.

Monday, 16 July 1928.

Tony has called again. He and Franklin Scott are California-bound with a cargo, if I understand correctly, of highly important people that must be hidden. Who they are I do not know; why they are suddenly running, and from whom; these things too are unclear. But they are coming here, and we shall see what is to be.

Carl says he will stay until their arrival. I am frankly glad, though it means that Julian and I have less time alone. If Tony is bringing me an enigma I wish to be as prepared for it as possible. Emerson is valuable that way.

Sometimes I wonder precisely how much he does understand. It is clear that his heart is in the right place, at least in principle; but each time we talk it is made clear to me that he sees the Vow, the Fight, and even the Principles we have agreed upon in a very different light from me. Truly, our paths are separate. But the thing that impresses me the most is that despite his obvious acumen and intelligence, despite his organized intellect and an experience broader than my own, he does not look beyond our topics of the day. He is either unable or unwilling to perfect his own vision outside of our talks, to expand the model and seek the unmentioned and unseen ramifications of what we do. I suspect that as yet it has not occurred to him that he could and should do this -- in his mind he is not used to living in a world where he is free to wonder. I shall have to discuss this with him.

Another thing that occurs to me is this: If there is such a grave difference in views between Carl and myself, with our similar mind sets and intellectual outlooks, how much greater must be the hidden rifts between Tony and myself? Our views of life and the world are so different -- how can those of the Fight not differ equally? I begin to see more clearly the dangers of too much intellectualism in this. The binding factors lie deep in the emotions, the passions of the heart. If a man does not FEEL the essence of the thing within him, wordlessly, beyond intellect, his view of it will be marred and incomplete and no amount of talking will describe it adequately.

And do all roads differ, even in the heart? Is that why we are so disorganized?

The Teacher as Messiah: binding, not minds, but faith? Devotion to the Cause through the Man? Miss Durrell seems to imply that. I hope not, I hope not, it seems such a collossal step backwards into ignorance.

A bitter taste, that. Must it be? Man is an animal, after all. Are we really nothing but a religion with our God in our pockets?

Sacrilege? Interesting word.

Saturday, 20 July 1928.

Spent most of the day in town today with Julian. In the morning we went down to the river to watch the ships unload; the afternoon we spent in a park down by the grocers. This town is growing fast, and is much larger than it appears from our house. They are deepening the river between here and the Bay; in another year or two this is going to be a huge seaport, I am old.

Perhaps by then it will be time to move on.

I have grown up near the water, near the sea; yet how different it is to be miles and miles inland, and have the water be a great river! Difficult to say all the ways in which it is different; only that it is; and the differences, though unnoticed, are pervasive.

The smell, for example, is not salty at all; and the way the heat of the day clings to the land like thick honey. The water is much too smooth, and has no tides; and the wind is not nearly so constant or cold.

Yet, for all this, it is familiar. The lapping of water against the pilings, the clang-clang of buoys, the screaming of gulls and moaning of boat horns late at night: these things are like voices from my youth. They are threads to my past, tying me forever to what I once was.

I say was; for it has come to me that I must finally admit to myself once and for all that I am not the same as I used to be. I can never go back. Making this admission I am quietly terrified; for who aming us likes to confess that they have forever closed doors to places and times that brought them great joy?

I am frightened, yes; I am sad; but I am not sorry. One cannot go home again, or so they say. And my world now is so much more beautiful in its terrifying edritch way. I could not, can not give it up even in thought. The vistas are too grand; the song too sweet; and I am just learning that even for me there is much more to gain.

I suppose this means that I have finally begun to accept maturity. Hmm.

At the least, I am not alone.

Sunday, 21 July 1928 –

Another call from Tony. He and his mystery guests are up noth somewhere; they should be here in a few days. Tony says they are "like Julian." Emerson and I can only take that to mean that somewhere, somehow, Tony has made contact with another batch of Islanders! Why they are on the run remains a mystery to us; but the eager imagination can create a hundred fascinating tales of secret struggles between the branches of a powerful family.

I do not think I want them here -- especially with Julian present. They are highly explosive and, I suspect, unpredictable. Nonetheless, if it proves necessary we shall accommodate them. I shall begin preparing the other guest rooms for visitors.

What the devil is Tony up to?

I have spent a lot of time of late in quiet places, seeking to find the chord within myself that is touched by my new awareness. It is there; I have touched it; but only touched -- I have a very long way to go.

The silence within me is a beginning. Prompted by the things Miss Matson said I have spent an hour or two each day in some place dark and still, as I used to do as a child. In those days I would use the time to relax, and think, and dream; but now it is a screen, a black window od peace. In the quiet I sit, and think of simple things or nothing at all, and let the normal noise and hurry of my everyday mind abate until only the stillness at the center is left.

It has proven much easier to reach that quiet than I hope. Smooth, like a glass pool; and afterwards, for a few hours, I am relaxed, refreshed, at ease with myself and with the world, and things become simple and clear to me. A wonderful feeling! And it is merely a first step to a far greater unknown.

These past few minutes I have been contemplating the meaning of the things I have seen. These last few sessions I have sought the quiet in the orchard rather than the basement; and there I have begun to see further than before.

It is primitive, this new awareness; untuned and crude, without focus or discernment, without a means of interpretation beyond the most basic. But within the stillness I find what I can only describe as "impressions" of the things around me. Of their lives, and of connections between them.

A beginning, yes! A glimpse into the Dance!

I perceive a web of motion, of simple desires and hungers that wraps all of them together. It is a knowledge without thought, and the sensation is a bit unnerving. All of my intellect and education may serve to advise and interpret later, but at the time I may only know.

I know them, these small lives, from a distance yet intimately. They dance their danceof mutual need and do not notice me, for I am far beyond their sphere. The trees and grass barely exist for this new insight. The insects and small things are tiny sparks of rawness by the thousands, whirling in their carefully orchestrated way. The birds and the squirrels are scarecely better, they are larger and their needs are greater and more intricate, but they too are not self-aware.

I see all of these things, and I know that I am outside of their Dance. I touch their Dance yet I am not contained within it -- so what they might perceive of me is only a small piece, much like the Square's perception of Sphere in Flatland.

And I learn that I too have been less than correct in my vision. For what I see is a Unity, but it is not the simple Unity I have imagined. Rather, it is a vision of layers within layers, each contained within the next, each containing a lesser and interacting with a greater only as it may -- for the circles of the Dance are worlds apart, and scarcely touch at all. Intervention of one into another is like an awful miracle; it cannot be understood or anticipated by those who much witness it, for its origins are incomprehensible.

And I know one more thing, given to me without reason within the stillness, and that is this:

For one such as I who perceives the levels of the Dance it is possible to move within the Dance; to act and interact on the different levels and know them as they know themselves. I can do this, I know. I do not yet understand how it can be done, but it is a beginning, a road to seek and to follow.

I think I shall spend another week here, communing with my orchard friends, and then begin to try to observe the world of mankind.

Will it be a wonder, or a nightmare? I wonder.

23 July 1928 – Monday afternoon;

A letter from Arc today. Unfortunately very brief; merely a bit of chitchat about the Estate. Seems we can use it any time after August. Sure wish Tony would get here: we need to discuss the Gathering.

I have had a lot of earnest and interesting letters the past week or so, including a heartfelt "count-me-in!" note from LTH (note: Laszlo Hollyfeld), and a strange, evocative text from Zigfried which contains some interesting hints about the Islanders but mostly struggles to free itself from the mists of dream.

24 July 1928 – Tuesday; On the Train.

Tony is in Oakland, with his charges. Emerson and I are going there to interview them. There are five. Five. Where on Earth have they been hiding, that they were find-able by Tony? Soon we shall know.

Wednesday, 25 July 1928 – Oakland;

I was wrong. Carl and I have met the Children, and they are different than we expected.

Not Islanders, these. But "Like Julian." Yes. Like her -- her companions; her classmates; her fellow trained slaves from early years. One or two of them even remember her.

They call her Martha.

Impressions: Rebecca: Group leader, the oldest of them. Close, defensive, afraid to be human. Looks 22 or so. A very scared empath.

Samuel: 18-19ish. Field man; scanner. Pleasant, quiet, smart. Notices more than he lets on.

Ester: 17? Bouncy, bubbly, inquisitive and always wanting new things. Can hold or attract power.

Adam: 15ish. Latino -- a field worker's kid. Elder of the new kids; brought through after Martha's abduction. A Power channeler. Lots of pent-up emotion; lots of frustration.

Rachel: Maybe 13. Brand-new. Very young, silent, scared. Supposed to become a General, not no Talent, yet. Fresh from the hands of the torturers.

These kids were raised for Eveling; trained by a mysterious dark-haired man -- the same as Julian's teacher -- and kept in seclusion in Madisonville to fight Eveling's psychic battles.

Wednesday, 25 July 1928 – Oakland, CA (continued)

So it seems I was right all along. There were more of the Children, and now they have been found.

I cannot say I am entirely pleased!

Consider: Eveling has a decades long organization dedicated to research and ponic development, of which these Children are a part. Decades! Working from the times which they gave me in their interview, I have to conclude that Rebecca is at least forty years old; and that this station in the Kentucky woods has been planning and researching since the 1880s.

What was it like, then? How did it all start, with the present Eveling Patriarch a callow young man? Why did it start? The clues are beginning to appear; and I am feeling very small.

Then, too, thanks to Franklin and company, the Eveling are undoubtedly in a turmoil now. They know what has happened, and doubtless who did it as well. The war may have just entered an open phase, and we are unprepared to care for these kids! My only hope comes from the knowledge that Eveling now has no “safeties,” no slave-Trained to fight their battles. I hope this means they will slow down and stop research for a time. I cannot guarantee it.

Consider: These six are the Children that we know about; but they are the tip of the iceberg. The first three Children were raised by Eveling then Trained, but Ester was raised by an elderly farm couple somewhere, then brought to Madisonville later. Adam was recruited from the migrant labor force. And no one knows about Rachel, so; the abduction may have slowed Eveling, but it is merely a delay. In another year they could have the beginnings of a new group in training.

Consider: The valley around Madisonville has become a hotbed of activity. Eveling is there, and the Children; Gravemaster is there; Dargan is there, with whoever and whatever he works with. Why have they all collected in this spot? Interest in one another, perhaps; but where did it start? I think SG (note - Steven Gravemaster) was first, but by how much? Could this valley be connected with the Place of Birth? Watch it – o, watch it!

Consider: The greatest enigma of all, the Man in Black. Eveling did not Train the Children, did not teach them their Vows. That was the province of the Black Man, an outside expert. He oversaw their occult training; he witnessed the Vow. He took young Martha to West Virginia (another project entirely, it now seems; though connected, obviously, by interests and personnel). A tall, slim man, black haired, solid of body. Gray blue(?) eyes, angular bony face. Left-handed? Serious and cold. Long fingers, soft hands.

And he touched them; looked into their eyes; and knew hidden things about them.

Just like Farquell.

And all of them have wounds in their memories! None, except perhaps Rachel, are as extensive as Julian’s; but none can remember precisely what He said at any point; or what his voice sounds like; or even his exact bearing or facial expressions or gestures, as Julian can.

Though they remember their childhoods; as Julian cannot. It was a shock for me to realize that. What makes her different? I begin to think that Julian’s amnesia was her own doing, and not exclusively His.

They say Julian used to sing.

Another name, somehow familiar: Senator Paul Kinnerly, and the Common Man Reform Association. Kinnerly was replaced by some sort of monster; the thing wore a symbol like the Black Man’s.

Do not ask questions. Do not lie. Do not make noise. Do not refuse. Obey. Obey. Obey.

And always the threat. If you behave the men will not come to take you away.

What a nightmare! These people have perverted the Vow in the only way possible: they have taken innocents and controlled every aspect of their lives in total domination; then fed them the Vow as tools to be used and thrown away. They are soldiers in the basest “neo-Farquellian” sense; they know only the Fight and self-denial. They have little concept of joy, or wonder, or any of the things they serve. Poor innocents; they embody the purest form of innocence, yet know so little of it themselves…

Avila had a ‘safe house’ at Eveling. Was he, too, involved with the Children? He must have known something of them, through Marklin, if not otherwise. Marklin knew where Julian had been put.

Avila, Stone, Eveling, Marklin, Black Man, Dargan; where does it end? What is the hierarchy – where are the connections? We know so little! And every time I look at the picture, it seems grimmer and grimmer.

Who is ‘above’ whom? At any rate, it seems clear that Eveling is at or near the bottom of the ladder. Was the WVa operation an Avila ‘pet’ that drew on Eveling resources? I suspect there are many levels that remain as yet unseen.

Tony will bring the Children to our house on Saturday. What will they say when they once again meet their lost Martha? What will she say? I must prepare her; it will be difficult, I am sure, to meet these strangers who claim they know you. Will it help her? Will it jog her memory? I hope so, but I cannot predict. Whatever she shut away so long ago cannot have been small or trivial.

Good luck, my very dear. God keep you close.

Thursday, 26 July 1928 – At home

They are due to arrive in an hour or so; I thought I would jot down these words before they come. There will likely be more later.

Julian is interested in meeting these newcomers; and a bit worried too; but I think I am more fretful than she! It is tough to explain why it was so difficult to tell her who they were. I fear that, in part, it was simply that our time here has been special; that I think of myself as the only one who truly knows her; and that I expect things to change at the meeting. Ah, well. Greed is in every man.

This is going to be fascinating!

Friday, 27 July 1928; Sometime before dinner.

The worst is over; and things will settle down now, I hope! But it has been pretty hectic here.

The arrival of the Children did NOT produce the results I expected! No, indeed!! They came; we let them in, Julian took one look at Samuel and Rebecca; and the screaming began; and she fainted dead away.

But before she fell – my God! The pain! It filled her; it filled me; a burning white knife deep down inside…

She is all right. Or, she will be. All is quiet now,the house settled, the shouting over. But I cannot forget the silent screams. They went on and on…

She is whole again. She remembers. Everything; from the first days of her arrival, oh, so young, to the lessons, to the Promise, to the kidnap and all the rest. It is all stirred up in her now like mud from the bottom of a roiled pond brought to the surface; clear and immediate, as if new; but before and behind all of it is the memory of the Lessons; the terror; the pain.

The pain which she tried so hard to lock away.

So much terror, so much loss; and the battle of two selves, two entirely different personalities and pasts locked together into one person, and we unable to turn away or close it out. It was truly mind – and heart – breaking.

I think that, had I not been here, with her, within her to support her and me, she would not have remained sane. As it was, it was a near thing for both us, I think.

Even now, the accommodation is flimsy, though it will strengthen with time. Julian is dominant, and I am very thankful; but from time to time flashes of pure Martha will surface. She is simple, fanatic, direct; and, when she needs to be, remorseless. And she and Rebecca do not seem to like one another. Conflict of leadership, I expect.

I watched over Julian in her rooms for the remainder of the day. It was not until this morning that she came down and actually met the others! What a strange meeting! The Children are constrained by their laws from asking any questions, though I know they must be curious.

Tony was shocked to see the Martha-traits in Julian. Alas, I fear he distrusts her now more than he ever did. We two had a discussion, which evolved into a fight – I am uncertain now what we fought about! – which ended with Tony, in good Tony fashion, grabbing his bags and leaving in a rage, exclaiming that he would never return! He took Rebecca with him. I am even now uncertain if that was a good choice, or if Tony should have taken responsibility for any of them; but it seemed a right idea at the time, an I suppose we are stuck with it now. Samuel and Ester will go with Emerson to ‘see the world’ when he goes; and the two youngest will stay here, in the quiet and the sun.

Tony called later, from town, to apologize, and J(note - Julian) and I joined those two for dinner at the hotel. I am worried about Tony. He is so full of anger and hurt! I fear we are losing him; and I worry about what he might become.

Things were quiet for a while here; Emerson(note - Carl Emerson) and I launched into another philosophical debate; Ester upstairs in the bath; Franklin entertaining the others in one corner of the living room.

Then Franklin decided to show them a “keen trick.” He pulled out his handcuffs and made as if to put them onto Rachel. Well! She shrieked as if her worst nightmares were after her (which they may have been!) and curled up. Adam, poor fellow, leaped up and attacked Franklin in defense of his girl. They were rolling around on the rug when I stopped them. Took the cuffs away, sent F to his room. Absurdly parental – yes – but very serious at the time!

Franklin is in his room, sulking. (I hope he feels stupid!) Samuel feels like a traitor for telling me what happened; Adam is in his room, curled up in shock for breaking his Laws; Rachel is with Julian, in a pretty bad way; and dear Ester missed it all.

I am tired. So much, all at once; and it is only beginning. Still, I think it will begin to underline the fact that the White Men will not come and take them away! Thank heavens for Emerson – he is running the household while I flounder.

Up again; I shall do a few more chores then take a rest; then spend some time with Adam. Poor lad.

Saturday, 28 July 1928; 4 PM or so

Tony is gone, Rebecca’s gone too; and already the world is beginning to change shape.

Julian does remember. Remembers everything; and with a depth and clarity that is astonishing. Unbelievable, actually; I must conclude that she has some kind of Talent or Skill that allows her such vivid recall.

An interesting note: not only does she remember even the things the before were blocked, the details of some of the events she recalled previously are noticeably different now! More than just blockage, then!

And again the Dark Man is center of my speculations. He and his organization. A thing of very long standing, it seems. A large faceless staff who obviously know quite a bit about what is going on; yet who have never risen to the surface either of the public’s eye or the view of the Trained. I cannot help but think that the relationship between Avila/Eveling/WVa is much more long-standing and intimate than had been supposed.

Why has it not been supposed? We have been misled: deliberately distracted from the truth by a master chess player. And the misty window of time obscures so many things that unless we begin to dig – dig seriously and deeply – we shall be overwhelmed by ignorance!

The Man himself – the black Prince, the Evil Twin of fairy tales. Tall, slender, thinnish features but a sturdy athletic frame, black hair, pale skin. Long hands, slender features. Dresses in black and white, with a fancy watch and that Symbol on the fob. His hands are well cared for, but heavily scarred just the same. Long jagged scars like claw marks run up the backs and into the sleeves; and more fine hair thin lines that run across the knuckles and joints of the fingers – as if they had been sectioned and replaced in some distant past. His voice is deep and strong, resonant with power and compassion totally out of keeping with his otherwise stiff, cold demeanor. When he is alone with her, or not closely observed, he is gentle, tender, his actions and stance suggesting great compassion. It is difficult to tell how much he is being false or patronizing – for he is so masterful that his every word is intrinsically believed. Such power! Such charisma! In so many ways, I believe in this man. It is as if he contained within him the essence and understanding of the Path; and still chose the dark road! But why? I would love to believe that he was somehow at war with himself, that the difference between his stance and overt activity and the apparent compassion in his eyes and voice represents an internal conflict; but the man has been busy for an awfully long time. It cannot be more than wishful thinking on my part.

He frightens her, deeply and viscerally; yet his demeanor towards her is gentle, vaguely loving as if to a favored pet or small child.

An odd accent – like Spanish but with odd lilts and emphasis; as if an archaic tongue learned native when young and never wholly shaken. I am reminded of an ancient monastery in the mountains of Spain, and a man who fell into the darkness long before his time …

He did consider her valuable. To himself, and to others. A Butterfly, he called her. Why a butterfly? Knew all about her, they did! All the future as well … And THEY GAVE HER AWAY! Julian was thrown into the hands of the “peasantry” DELIBERATELY! Why? To save trouble? Or to hide something more valuable? The other Children, perhaps? Or the Eveling connection? Or the Avila connection? (Must remember to look deeply into the WVa site for history. Paper chases have helped before! The site most likely has a shorter and more visible trail than Madisonville’s.)

Point and point and point and point and point … A sudden vision comes to me, strange and evanescent like a dream. Twisted, strange … butterflies and peasants … a peculiar twinned dance through centuries.

I wonder what it means? Almost; I dare not speculate.

And he is so strong!

Marklin (note - Frederick Marklin) is another case. Poor soul, twisted and full of anger and hatred … why? What has turned him so against his own faith and family?

Who were his parents, anyway?

We have a couple of leads now … Marklin himself, of course; and possibly this Doctor Kent, if we can find him; and now, thanks to Emerson’s teachings, we can possibly touch upon two of the WVa project staff who worked with Julian.

I have learned many things these past few months. One of them is this: that the Vow is not a thing of the Fight. It is not a “chosen tool”; it is a way of life, a state of being. The Light exists, but within, not without; and it is a state of grace of illumination, that must grow within each of us if it is to be.

This means several things.

It means that the ‘restrictions’ and ‘punishments’ meted out to those who have spoken the Promise but not lived by it are not truly that at all, but merely expressions of the pain and stresses felt by an organism forced to strive against itself.

It means this, and more: It means that we are alone.

The Light is a state of grace and understanding, but it is not a deity. It exists within us, as it does within all living things. It guides us to peace and love and harmony … but it cannot know what we do not, for it is not a mind.

We are the intellect of the Light. The Light does not fight, we do. It is a Purpose but not a Power. Oh, it has power, but it is not itself a Power. You see.

If there are plans to be made, we must make them. If tools are to be devised and used, we muse devise and use them. We are the ones who fight the Fight, we and the Dark. The Light is our goal and our greatest bastion; but it represents a means and an end, not a strategy for victory.

The Unity partakes naturally of the Light, true; but it is diffuse and undirected. All that we do, we must be responsible for; and we can expect no help from God.

Forgive me if I ramble; but I am in a rambling mood.

It is strange having the Children here. They are quiet, yes, and unobtrusive in the extreme; but the house feels different with them in it. It is as if they fill it more, and leave echoes when they pass. A whisper of sound, a discarded item, a flash of movement on a far-off laugh. The Children rarely laugh.

We make our own ghosts, I think. Everything touches, and is touched … and the traces remain.

Even at night I can feel them, or so it seems; in the creak of timbers, the sigh of the wind outside, the tiny motions of the air in a sleeping house. We are four, now, not two, it says. It changes things.

What do they think of us, I wonder? Adam, so silent and moody most of the time, who walks and walks outside and scarcely says hello? In his heart of hearts, does he like us? Despise us for being what we are? Or are we merely a new set of owners, jailers without keys to be obeyed without thought or feeling? And Rachel: poor dear, scared of the birds and of the open sky. Are we so terrible that there is no way to reach her? Quietly, quietly …

We must not distance ourselves from these Children. We must find a way to touch both of them – to extend a hand, as it were, and pull them out of their private Hells.

So much to do, and we only two. Have we TIME?

I wish that there were more laughter.

Monday, 30 July 1928; 11:30 AM

The morning chores are done and it is time for a little quiet thought. We still have no real idea of the pattern our lives will fall into in the next week or two…

Julian is with Rachel again. Adam is moping in the orchard. I went out to speak to him a little while ago, but he was resentfully withdrawn; and I could think of nothing to say that would reach him. How familiar he seems … and how far away!

New letter from Miriam (note - Miriam Roth) in the morning mail … at last. I still am uncertain just why, but I cannot help but be impressed by the depth of my own admiration for her. We hold far too many secrets between us yet; yet even so, in every word I find peace and personal solace. It is her serenity perhaps that does it; even in her letters the feeling shines through; I see in memory the calm, vaguely sad acceptance of her smile, and I relax.

She sends me news, good and bad. The November babe will be a boy, and thus even more unsuited to the Island Lady. Miriam says the Foundry (note - Cedra Foundry) is furious, railing against the father and the fates in megalomaniacal splendor – but that she may yet be appeased, convinced to wait rather than try investiture.

Hope so, for the baby’s sake.

Wonder who the father is? Avram? Marklin? As always her latest letter fills me with more questions than I could ever ask her. Most are forbidden by the rules of the game we play. What do they know Marklin? Gravemaster? How old must the Godchild be before she may be Invested?

This last may prove significant: Miriam believes she may herself again be with child. If so, and this looks right – the child will be due in early April.

Does this mean we have to worry? What happens if the Lady is freed? Can she be freed into a babe? And does the One’s mind and memory make a difference?

Even though I remain convinced that the Lady is not a Darkling (note - Outside) creature, I am still very wary of her; I can have no idea of Her goals and motives save that they are wild, childishly selfish, with no knowledge of restraint. Her power is so great that I could not hope to oppose Her, were She freed; and so I wonder about the April babe. Might we need to expect the Lady come May? Do we rather get a few years of growing, during which She could not come even if we needed Her? What?

It is to my continuing sorrow that, although I wish I could offer alliance to these beleaguered people in good faith, my only valuable offering might have to be Julian. Then, too, the Foundry’s attitudes on the superiority of the Chosen over the rest of humanity do not give me much hope for any negotiations anyway.

Besides: My lady is NOT for sale!!!!

I wonder … is Gravemaster right, about the Lady and the First Fathers? Is there a way to release her from her island without the sacrifice of a Chalice to be filled by Her?

If so, and we could learn the method – THEN I would have something truly of value to offer the Families in an alliance!

Should one be needed. Of course.

If it were possible to know … I believe I may have found a way to discover the answer – but, as all such things must be, it is fraught with peril.

To return, through life and life and life, to the time of the First Fathers, to watch and learn as the Gift and the method was given – is it possible? Could the Observer learn, as the Observed did?

A long path and difficult, even for Julian; even if the lives do follow the taint; even if she can see into a man in that way. Six lives? Seven? Ten? Three hundred years is a long time.

And at the end of the Road is the Lady Herself in all her strength. Could Julian look upon Her, and remain sane?

Another possibility – shorter but more perilous – Gravemaster: First Father Garnsley.

If we can perfect Julian’s memory-recall,
If we can learn to use it on others,
If we can persuade G (note - Gravemaster) to explore with us,
If we can survive G’s Pact with Something,
If we can reach the memories that preceed it,
If we can stay sane through G’s madness,
Then we again face the Lady firsthand. And this time through one who has had direct contact with Her on the Island

I cannot know. It is worthwhile speculating; but the road is long even before we may begin; and Julian has more say in this than I.

In the meantime there are many other memories which we can explore safely, both mine and hers. Her earliest childhood. My vision at the Roth’s, and both meetings there. Both sides of the Lady’s attack in London. Julian at work as a General. And others.

Perhaps we shall start today.

Tuesday, 31 July 1928; About 2 PM

We shared a dream or two, but never got back to any real research. Instead we spent the remainder of the day in fantasy dreamplay. Lovely, and very good for both of us ... but no real professional gains, I fear. Sigh; so tempting to be simple, a child in the summer, to play and play all the time!
It is good for the soul.
Even now I still can feel my love beside me ....
Today is far too pleasant to finish Miss Crawford's letter. I shall wait 'til tomorrow.