Carl Ellis October 1928 - Diary

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Monday, 1 Oct 1928, morning; back at Newhaven

Tony called me this morning. Cold; distant; a brisk professional veneer thing covering desperation and despair. I do not know what it was that he did not say, but it spoke volumes in its absence – and what he did say was bad enough.

They hit the Boston house after a week’s worth of watching. Labs; manufactory, and four or five people, led by one of the Avowed. Not KR (note - Katyana Rasmul) – but someone like her. All dead now save one prisoner. Prisoner?! What are we to do with prisoners? We are not prepared to handle such things, even if I thought it a good idea. Which I do not. But G (note - Antonio Grimaldi) has him now, for good or ill.

Proof at last, of the Dark-Trained.

The Black Man has used his own as traps. Traps! Triggered by questioning-? They tear themselves apart. Does he know? Lord God in Heaven, how can we possibly touch this fiend!! Beautiful soaring melodies, indeed!! Oh, lost, lost, lost and afraid…..!

And Tony! I am losing you too, aren’t I? I watch you, feel you slipping away …. One of the best, more lost by the hour; and what can I do? You will not touch me, will not let me touch you! Helpless! I can do nothing if you will not let me help you …. Oh, how sad and bitter it all is.

They say he never laid blame or condemned his people; and so I shall try to do the same. To stay silent is easy; but not to TRY-! That is hard, so hard.

I am afraid. So afraid.

Is the whole fragile family dying?

I have NO TIME to learn how to heal! The whole delicate edifice may be in shards before the Gathering, which once seemed so close!

How can the face of things change so fast?

Be careful, Tony! Oh, how I dread your works to come! California may be our undoing; I have no reason to feel that way, I merely do. Oh, please – step softly! We need that link so badly, let it not be shattered! Desperation leads to blindness, Tony; and blindness can kill. Beware!

Now I have done it to myself. My hand shakes as I write; my chest is cold with sorrow. What will happen? WHAT?

GOD DAMN YOU, CLOCK: MOVE ON! MOVE ON!

I will have to speak with G, when I go east. But I cannot think of what to say or ask. Hmm.

Reminder. Talk to Alex about populating the house. The children are so happy here.



Will Meagan ever understand me? I fear not. Clever, even brilliant ... but a plodder -- no, that is unkind. Say rather that she is deductive exclusively; I wonder if there is a speck of inductiveness in her? There are so many others like her -- but it is strange in one with so many "mystical leanings."

I think that she frequently touches, but is never herself touched. But that is so hard to believe; could it be that she deliberately denies the touch's understanding?

Is she so afraid?

How can she be in love, and not see?

Obviously, this humble person is unworthy of his position. I think he will pray for further enlightenment and understanding.

Trite.

Tuesday, 4 October 1928; Dinnertime, Arkham

Everybody is gone! This is irksome. Carl has not yet returned; Mrs. Williams has not yet returned; Lazlo has not yet returned …. And now it seems they are all in the same place! Cuba? Why Cuba, why now? Is there something going on that I missed completely? Dear me. And now G is missing too. I cannot talk to him. Or his ‘prisoners’. I confess I am relieved …. But what happened? What have they done with him? What happened in California? No. I will not make a fuss. Tony knows how to reach me, if there is a report to make.

Arc’s place is, if anything, more lovely now than it was when I was last here two years ago. Or is it just me? In the event, the turning of the leaves adds a poignant beauty to everything that is both exhilarating and softly tragic. But I digress, as always. And the place is all over maple trees! I did not know what they were, last time; but one of the servants pointed them out this morning.

This is going to be a lovely place for the party.

Harper (one of the staff) tells me that Arc wired a few days ago, says he is on his way. Good! I want to speak to him.

Funny about the servants. They are quiet, discrete, competent, and oh-so-professional; but after Straight …. Well, it is not the same.

Julian loves it here. I do not think she has been here before, and like me she finds it magnificent. At the same time, however, she constantly makes it clear to me that the place is nothing next to the French Estate. I surely am getting curious about that big old House! The kids …. Ah, the kids. I feel like such a heel, dragging them all over kingdom come and then leaving them with nothing to do when we get there.

But it is hard to please them both. Poor Rachael is in love with Newhaven. Truly, she is blossoming, under the care of Straight and the peace of the estate there. It broke her heart to leave; I was really tempted to let her stay awhile …. But I promised her there were nicer places ahead, and I do want to get all four of the kids together.

Hmm …. I suppose I shall have to stop thinking of them as children soon. It’s not right, I know, Lord knows they have been denied childhood long enough! But otherwise there is a present danger that I/we will come to think of them always as children, merely because of their appearance.

Think of them as patients involved in a cure. No, wait …. Students. Students of life. That is Better.

I have gotten awfully fond of those two. Even Adam, despite his spikiness. He was not reluctant to let go, dear me no! He is bored. Needs something to do. That is what started me off on this train of thought, after all …. He is a doer, not a thinker. Passive study does not sit well on him.

So. Tonight or tomorrow, with Julian’s help, he and I will go to Stockton. Check the house, feed the cat, fill the water tanks, and so forth. A good hour or two’s work; something to do. Right. And I must talk to him about his future.

Letters. One from Lazlo, one from Carl.

I did not realize that Lazlo and his young lady were so cozy already. Yet here she is, cooking him breakfast in his home. Dare I be salacious? Me, of all people? (Snicker) Ah, well. It could be innocent; and these are, after all, the ‘twenties.

I wonder what he is thinking, right now?

He seems to be in a musing state of mind. Catching the edges of the Principle, as it were – or perhaps merely skirting the edge of danger is making him hold more dearly to everything simple and beautiful? A lesson for me.

I must write to him. What are they up to down there?

Carl’s letter is more recent. A post-mortem on Kentucky, some chat. He has not received my most recent one.

Lots to say about Rebecca, especially her influence on Tony. Hmm …. Influence …. In view of the changes I have noticed in him, is it safe to think that she is bad for him? Not enough information yet, I think … but something to ponder.

She DOES need training and experience. A leader’s role in a hothouse environment has not prepared her for the variety of scenaria which she may face.

Morenotes on the Glory Hole and its activity. I have long thought that they did some of their first Gate work there … but could the others be right? Might those folk have broken through to other tunnels, or Something Else? I must not dismiss this out of hand. They will not abandon the site.

Some comments on Pierre. They sadden me.

More stuff on Faigon.(note - aka Boyer Rulininov) Hah! Oh Carl, if you only knew what I know! Why the Devil aren’t you home? And in King, as well. Ex-vampire? Oh, dear boy, you are in for a sur-prise!!

And, last Gathering. Delight – and loneliness. He strives to come closer even as he pushes me away. “It is a lonely job, how lonely I don’t think you know and will never know.” Why does he think that? Is is something in him he speaks of, or something he sees in me? A puzzle.

But there is real warmth in his closing.

Dinnertime – and I have written far too long.

Friday, 5 October, 1928; afternoon, Arkham

This morning, early, Julian, Adam, and I went into the basement and through the Door. Uf! What a feeling! Unpleasant – I do not like it, at all! – but not so bad as that awful thing we went through to and from China. I do not believe I shall ever enjoy using these Doors. Ever. Even putting the unpleasantness aside, it just does not feel RIGHT, somehow. Like cheating, in a way.

(But, says the small voice, just look! See how amazingly CONVENIENT they are…!)

Well, they are that, surely. Draining, though. Julian went back to Arkham, after pointing out the way; and I dithered a bit. Did not really want to use the Doors again, nobody likes discomfort; but the real reason was a sly compelling need to Go Upstairs and Look! There I was – in France! – within sight, perhaps, of the Big House! Should I peek?

No, I decided. If I was going to go to the Estate, I was going to WALK!

Adam was getting impatient. Through the door, then, to Stockton.

A hottish, dry day in California – real Indian Summer weather. The house is still in order, merely looking a bit run-down after nearly a month’s disuse. Tony has evidently been through; a few things are moved, the documents I left for him are gone, the flowers have been watered even though the tanks are dry. Nice of him to do that for us. Peanut was sunning Itself on the back porch, sassy as ever and, if anything, larger than before.

Adam was ecstatic. Something to do, at last! He has been frustrated and increasingly bored – one reason for this trip. So we filled the flower tanks, topped off the cat food machine, and he spent a happy couple of hours in the morning cool (the time difference is noticeable!), puttering around the yard, cutting grass, and so forth while I performed a few tests and gathered some things.

The Doorway is …. Interesting. Unfortunately, it is draining for me to use; equally unfortunately, when I attempt to activate it with energy from one of my discharge units, though it does fill up as before, the flip-flip is erratic and the image dim or distorted. I do not know why; but I would not want to put my safety into a Doorway that behaved like that!

Also pulled a few textbooks out of mothballs – different ones this time, calculus and physics – and have decided to give him lessons every day or two. Who knows? Perhaps he will enjoy it – and then maybe I shall have someone around to talk of my hobbies with. Sometime this week I shall have to look for others: a book on astronomy, lens-grinding, radios, & electricity. Fun things. We shall see. He has been bored long enough!

I showed him how to use the Doorway for himself, at which he quickly became adept; and we returned to Arc’s around one-thirty ... And here we are! The home house is all locked up; and I pressed the iron doors mostly closed and left a note of warning to others not to enter. We shall see if they believe it; but I truly do not want my home used as a railway terminal!

Saturday, 6 October 1928; 2 PM, Arkham

Our passports are here! They’re lovely: I do enjoy official documents. Always so stiff, with seals and such …. I feel as though a thousand bureaucratic ritual mysteries lurk behind each still-lipped page. Nice. Very.

Then came dinner – and Arc (note - Arcturus Rand) arrived.

He looks well. Strong and tan from his travelling. He came through the Portal from England, having received my letter. We worked for a while, putting some of his odder mementos into storage (that big fish’s head on the wall in the den was a Deep One!) and packing away some of the more unsettling books. And we talked.

And talked. And talked. And talked.

There was a lot to catch him up on. China. San Francisco. The search for the Black Man. Eveling. The Children. Buffalo. Silver Twilight. The Disease. Boston, Redmun, London.

And, at last, the Treaty.

I suppose it is fitting that he be the first; after all, he was the first to openly answer my questions. There were things I did not tell him – the Exchange, and the name of our Ambassador candidate – but all of the rest, yes. And the results were as good as I ought to expect.

Arc is tentative. He agrees that it could work, but does not wish to commit himself to an opinion on the subject until after all the facts are clear. He has grave doubts, but allows that they are in the main irrational, and is willing to try to set them by if necessary.

But he did promise me this: That, even should he decide against this thing, he will not actively oppose this treaty or me, but will merely withdraw.

I respect him; I am grateful for that much.

I was thinking just now about my letter yesterday to Alex Chase. Did not realize that, for all my professions of camaraderie and forgiveness, I still have not asked him to come to gathering. Well. I can justify it in the privacy of my own head …. But it still looks pretty hypocritical when considered from without.

So hard to control! The party is getting bigger and bigger – already I see I have lost the intimate beginnings I so urgently sought when we began this. But even now, even now, there are those I wish to begin with, and those to whom I hope to show a completed beginning. The Gathered will be special – they will be the first, present at the opening and the rebirth. Yet, with each new voice, each new desire added to the consensus, the chances of a harmonious whole become smaller and smaller.

Fie! It is out of my hands. Let the games begin!

Sunday, 7 October 1928; still at Arc’s, 10 PM

More and more; we are picking up speed! Called Tony back this morning with my “revelations” about the Gregory House. Seventeen eight four, hah? How convenient.

Not much of a Place of Refuge. But useful.

Now my mind is awhirl. If the plague is really being tested or disbursed here, then this place is likely to be very dangerous.

Right. No kidding. They know. Calm down.

Tony has changed. He seems a lot more relaxed, more in control of himself. Why, we actually managed to have two complete talks without anyone clamming up or marching away furiously! Makes me feel a lot better about this whole thing.

So….. once I was up, there was nothing to it but to set about the business of the day.

Morning trip out of town to visit Cassandra Felion (note - once a model for the painter Jeremiah Lambert). Poor woman. I am very disheartened. The place she is kept is nice enough … for a hospital. That is to say, the staff is no doubt quite comfortable. Her room, however, is white and sterile; and she is in no position to appreciate any of it.

Miss Felion has become a cause célèbre amongst us; but as I sat and looked at her haggard dreaming face, I was overwhelmed with a sense of futility. I cannot help her. There is nothing in my power to perform that will ease her burden.

Yet, here she lies; mirror and symbol of one possible future.

Julian? Perhaps. Though I wonder about that as well. Hers is a delicate talent, for all its power; and I am reluctant now to try and put it to the test on that poor girl.

I scarcely even considered the painting. She would have to be awake to see it, for one thing; and she would begin her tirade long before becoming fully conscious. Not to mention my reservations about the thing’s effectiveness.

Poor Meagan. Well, she is happy now.

I wonder if Zigfried … but he too has places to go.

So. Afternoon we all bundled off to New York City, to Emerson’s house on Copeley Road. The kids were quietly delighted to see one another, and quickly closeted themselves away together. Even Rachel is chipper – talking to them all, smiling a bit in an easy way she never has with us. O well.

I spent some time speaking with the staff who take care of them; then Julian and I went out into the city to buy a few things. Toiletries and travel supplies; several books for each, including more texts and an ephemeris for Adam; and (o treasure!) a telescope. Not a big one; but quite enough for he and I to explore the sky. Expensive! I had not thought. Ah, well.

Back home an hour or so ago, and the kids to bed, sleepy and happy. And here I am.

Good luck, Tony.

Just as I finished the above, the telephone rings. Lazlo, from Cuba! And boy – does he have a lot to say!

This vacation of his has not been a lot of fun.

Lazlo, Carl, Andrew (?!), Pembrook (!!), and their respective young ladies all meet at the home of Andrew White, near Havana. For some reason, local Voodoo cultists are very interested in them: Images of Carl & Lazlo made into dolls (!!!) and a lovely white woman named Chiennie Faraday, a ‘priestess’ from Jamaica, is interested in them. She, it seems, has come to the island a few days previous on some business of her own.

There is also a seedy planter named LeFarb who shows too much interest in the ladies – and then, a few days later, several of the women and Lazlo are attacked by bandits and zombies at White’s house, while the others are away fighting a (convenient?) fire!

They escape; they run; the women are carried off by big black things that almost have to be night gaunts (!!!!); and a long chase follows, to a cave up in the mountains where the women are being fed to some sort of “tumescent, white and beige, slimy, tentacular, sluglike thing.”

Messy. The women are rescued; the cultists are all killed (sigh); lots of elder symbol glows; and they march back to the coast.

Lazlo says that all of the women are in deep shock, and have confused memories of some alien, ethereal beauty that fade by the hour. They also have, on the hands that were enclosed by the Thing, fine scars across the knuckles and the joints, very thin, like razors!!!! Familiar?

Terrible terrible. Lazlo says his Julia is often unaware of him. “She leaves this world and enters another,” he says. Glowing madonnalike perfection. “All so bright and beautiful.” Massive blood and life-force loss; she has dropped 15 lbs. since the incident.

This is horrible! Our people – THEIR dear ones! – grabbed up and WRENCHED like this! Horrible! I feel so powerless – yet what can I do? Lazlo and Julian are preparing to leave …. The rest of the others have headed to LeFarbe’s plantation for some answers. I do not think they will be gentle about getting them!

What about the White Lady? What about Jamaica? What connection does she have with the zombies and LeFarbe? Why was she here? The mask, the shopkeeper … what does it mean? And those scars, so like HIS …. What is the connection?

Of special interest is Lazlo’s description of the Faraday woman – the Lady in White. She had a glamour, he says, very strong, alluring, primal. Familiar? He says it is like J’s, “but different.”

Could there be a connection between this Jamaica group and the Islanders??

Wait – wait – wait. My God. I am remembering a description.

On Sandoo – ruins – and bright-white, invisible snakelike things. Loigon. Guardians of the Lady? Or echoes? Or aspects of the Lady herself?

Could there be a connection?

Loigon – Loa? My God!

“Like – yet different.” Hmm! So few things on this earth are unique and alone … it seems possible that there may be others.

Loa. Baby Ladies? O dear o dear o dear. Time to start studying voudun!

Dear Heavens – How can I ask anything of her now, after all this? How? I cannot – but who, then? Shall I speak to Carl first? Yes – he has been around, and he knows her – he will know what to do.

Balderdash. This is my plan, my burden; I must not try to put it off on him! We shall go on as before, and the Lady will make her own choice.

But oh, oh, oh. I do not LIKE this!

<Dammit, it TIES TOGETHER!>

Another few minutes. J is rousing the kids for their trip to France. She will be back tomorrow evening; and we shall go to New York.

Wednesday, 10 October 1928; At sea

It is Anchors Aweigh at last! There is something quite special about setting sail. Like a ritual turning away from the old, facing about to look upon the new. When the dock is left behind, the band stops playing, and the bow points cleanly toward an unbroken horizon, salt air upon my cheeks, I feel a lifting; washed free, for a time, of burdens behind us. Set forth to face the wonders of the new.

The last couple of days have been busy ones. After the three of them left I sat and thought for a bit; then slept. The following day, that I had thought to spend in idle tourism, was instead turned to research on voodoo.

Interesting stuff. I had time only to skim the surface, of course – and the subject is quite complicated. As with all such things, the closer one gets to the particular, the more the seeming similarities are obscured by detail; but again and again there are hints of similarity, of a basic sort of familiarity between the one and the other.

One difficulty lies in the stripping of fact from folklore. Voodoo lore contains elaborate explanations of why things are as they are; but these differ strongly from tribe to tribe, cult to cult; and they do not present a coherent picture of the sort I am seeking in any case.

Serpent mages appear throughout the religion, in connection with most of the powerful loa. Too, loa influence is passed through the blood – and the feminine loa pass through the women, as the male ones do through the men! The practice of ritual possession is ubiquitous; the spirits are said to wind down a pole from the sky, or enter the body from the earth; and always first there is a distancing between the man and the world, a setting back and withdrawal from control.

The tie between loa and Earth is very strong and pervasive. Even those loa associated with the sky or the cosmic forces appear in conjunction with the earth in rituals and histories. There is something primal, something fundamental about this association that should not be ignored.

I wonder if there is any information about voodoo at the Big House? It will be interesting to see what they thought important.

So … That night, Julian came back, tired but happy, and reported success. The kids were settled in, not without some distress, but safely. We took the evening train back to New York.

I find it a constant delight to be alone with Julian, even for a few days. Hidden holds are removed; our lives, oir words, the way we look and react come easier, more harmoniously. Even when we are doing things, they are done simply, naturally. It is a gentle, joyous thing, and one that does not happen when there are others around.

Oh, how much my Golden Girl means to me! Like oxygen; like music; I need her to live. Apart, we survive; together, we are magnificent!

The poor dear had been up for more than a full day and night; she nodded off on the train, and practically had to be poured into bed when we arrived at the hotel. But a night’s sleep works wonders for the young, even the forever-young, and we were on the road in a rented car, bathed and fresh, well before noon.

Charot is a tiny town on the North Jersey coast, and Mrs. Harden’s home is a white Gull Cottage sort of affair set about a mile back from the beach. The sky was high but grey, and there was a constant cool breeze off the water. Good Easter October weather – a nice day for sailing. The gulls seemed happy too, far away.

I have no idea of Lisel Harden’s true age; but if she married young, say eighteen, and appeared right after at Gathering in 1852, that would make her born in 1834 … and her age somewhere around ninety-five! Remarkable. She is still a lovely woman, even now; but sadly she shows every one of those years.

I did not know how coherent her thoughts would be, after Tony’s comments. She was charming. She has a grim and defensive housekeeper who guards her ferociously, and whose name I fear I have already forgotten.

We talked for perhaps a half hour. I introduced myself as a compatriot of Ceryous Outt’s, and said I had come by to pay my respects. I admit to a bit of a shock when she mentioned that Benjamin (note - Lisel Harden's deceased husband) was not home but would return shortly, and would we care to wait? But this, and a slight tendency to be a bit time lost, not having been apprised of the terrible events of the past few years, were the only barriers to what might otherwise have been a gracious and effortless visit.

Poor, dear woman. She does not know all that has happened. If she did, it would break her heart. That, more than anything else, was my reason for cutting the interview short. I could not bear the thought of shattering her fragile gracious world.

I was immensely moved by her love and devotion for her husband. One could hear it in her voice when she spoke of him. “Dear Benjamin has been very quiet lately,” she said. “Sometimes I hear him downstairs, when he thinks I am asleep.” So much. So much. It wrenched my heart, so I felt I wanted to weep.

I do not think she will live much longer. Her housekeeper said her strength has failed much in the past few months. I left my card with them: I hope she will get my letter, but if not … perhaps I shall hear in time to attend the funeral.

Benjamin will be home soon. Dear God.

Julian was nearly as distressed as I, though for different reasons. She had never met a very elderly person before. The tragedy of mortality has never made an impression on her life until now.

We drove to the seashore, walked on the beach, and ate the picnic lunch I brought, and talked. In a while, things got better. The edge of sorrow eased.

I shall send her a scarf, from Paris.

We drove back to the City -- had dinner at the hotel restaurant -- went out to see the Jazz Singer at the Metro (my second talkie, her first); spent the night, and this morning set sail.

Steamers are always immense amounts of fun, and this one, the Prince William, is no exception. Cunard has a typically British sort of understated luxury -- and for the first time in either of our lives, we are riding High, in a first-class luxury stateroom on board one of the queens of the sea! Three hundred crew; eight hundred passengers; two dining salons, two bars, a nightclub, a ballroom, a theater, a swimming pool, and more.

So, let the worries and wants stand aside for the moment. My Wife and I are On Holiday!

Friday, 12 October 1928; At sea

Life on board this floating Fun House is doing things to my mood. I feel more relaxed, expansive, even giddy in a way. A true "vacation" feeling. It affects the way I act. I wrote a letter to C. Outt today that was much the same way -- flamboyant, brash, even a bit bragging. Ah well. What it says is true, and it matches my mood and possibly his as well. Send it. Send it.

Julian is off on deck somewhere, lazing around in a deck-chair like a happy cat, occasionally importuned by young hopefuls eager to make acquaintance. She has quite settled in, and is enjoying herself immensely. Last night they offered us a musical revue in the Victoria Lounge (an incongruity which appeared quite amusing to me!) and we both enjoyed it immensely. Tonight is the Captain's Reception, for all of the First Class passengers, that is to say Us, followed by the Officer's Ball which is supposed to be a swanky affair in the Grand Ballroom on main deck. All furs, feathers, silk and satin; jewels and champagne-- Julian is absolutely ecstatic.

Quite a bit of bubbly on this boat, all of it legal and a good portion of it destined for my golden girl. We shared two bottles at the gala splash when the Prince entered international waters, and got very silly. Don't know when the real party ended; our private one lasted until dawn and beyond. Gives me a warm glow just to think of it! And scarcely a hangover following. Although I will say, the seas seemes a bit rougher than they ought.

Speaking of weather, it has so far been quite calm, though October-chilly as expected. Lovely to wake nights and feel the thrum and slow sway of the ship in the darkness! We went out on the upper deck last night and found a secluded spot where we sat, held each other close, and were briefly the only things alive in a magically infinite world. Julian -- your scent lingers in my heart; your warm softness close to me in your furs; no sight nor sound but the hiss of the waves and the endless moving sea beneath the clouds and the moon, and your heart singing music silently with mine!

Travelling openly with my darling as wife is splendid, exhilarating, fun for me! A bit of a sense of guilty freedom, relief and caution mingled in a brew that is very heady. I do not know what the others we have met think of us -- they have been quite tolerant of us so far, but we do carry on so at table, you may imagine! I am so overflowing with happiness and love for my darling darling that even without the bond we share I feel that I could know down inside the warmth of her; and when she smiles my whole world sings; and when she laughs, or makes fun of something, I am quite swept along and carried away. The others, as I said, are very polite; but I have seen the glances they give one another, and the way they watch us. I do not think they approve much of me. My wife is SO YOUNG, after all! And we have been silly.

In any event, our tablemates are a pleasant crowd. We have the second sitting at the second officer's table, along with five others. Officer Black is an impressive man, tall and lean in his mid-40s, with neatly trimmed brown hair and a pencil moustache. He is infallibly British and very polite; says he comes from Salisbury. Miss Sherrell (I believe her first name is Alice) is a schoolmistress from Virginia, about thirty but solemn beyond her years in a disapproving and rather cliché fashion. The Huxleys, Robert and Caroline, are large and amiable people. He is the manager of a steelworks not far from Manchester, and his wife the raiser of their three children, all of whom are married and moved away. I think the Huxleys view us rather paternally; Robert has twice asked us to his cabin for cards, and Mrs. Huxley loves to chat away about weddings, homes, and grandchildren to Julian, who is not quite sure how to take it all. They are on their way home from a visit to Eric, their eldest, and his family in New York, and have decided that we are on our honeymoon, which is not so far from the truth.

Max Hasselblad is an aeroplane designer from Ohio who is on his way to take a position with Dornier in France. He is young, intense, and slightly unkempt despite his best efforts. Gregory Patten, on the other hand, is immaculate in the way that only those born to wealth and leisure can be. His family has a big place somewhere on Chesapeake Bay, and he likes to sail and is not shy to remind us. He is traveling to Italy with his "fiancée" Lydia, who looks a lot like Maddy but who has a strong New York Irish accent and finery is very very new. That's six in all; but Max has not eaten with us since the first night's dinner; none of us know why. Quite a diverse crew indeed.

Eager to try out the best the ship has to offer, the two of us had ourselves "done over" yesterday, she by a beautician, me by one of the barbers. Haircut, shave, manicure, eyebrows and some hairstyling for the lady; and Voilá! The Fight's Most Elegant Couple! I do not find that I look any different myself (well, not much anyway,) after all I always look like this in my mind's eye. But HER!

Boy oh boy!! Positively tasty; enough to burn my eyes out & melt my heart away. Enough said.

A few new clothes in London for me; some things from Paris for the Lady; and we shall indeed be ready to take tea with the King and Queen.

Saturday, 13 October 1928; At sea

The Ball was tremendous fun! The Reception was, well, a Reception. We met a lot of folks whom I shall never remember later, and a few whom I most certainly will. There's a Knight, a Baron, and two or three The Honorables on board, whom we saw. We even spoke briefly to Captain Sir Donald Shaftsbury (retired) during the course of the evening. It was not very memorable.

Anyhow, it went on everso long, and we danced ourselves silly on a tide of music and bubbles. I suspect that the breakfast seating was empty this morning; certainly we didn't go! Julian is still asleep, I only got up to write this before bathing.

I wonder what the Circles look like on shipboard? There are a few animals on board - most likely more than I am aware of - but nothing like the normal distribution. Pets: dogs, cats, a monkey or two, and I've seen a chinchilla and a fox!

No, the chief inhabitants of this place are people. So! Today, some time, probably after our noontime game of shuffleboard with the Huxleys, I shall spend some time looking over Springboard, just to see what the Circles look like; then try a new dive -- try to look for the Gate to the Blind Dance!

Monday, 15 October 1928; London, Evening

It happens, you know. One forgets. And frankly ... the mad social whirl rather carried us away. Oh yes, lots of fun, to be sure, and a bit of good research as well. But nothing conclusive. No big advances or major insights. What does one expect on holiday, after all?

I am not really much interested in writing, even now. But we're here, at the hotel in London, and it's late, and - well - it's a bit of a habit by now.

Docked this afternoon under leaden skies and occasional desultory showers. Goodbye to the Huxleys; a cheery wave-off; and any time you're in Manchester, don't you know, do drop by won't you. Customs and clearace; a bit of fuss, I noticed, from Lydia, who by now seems to have had a parting of the ways from her glittering young friend. Something about some jewelry?

So -- a few hours by fast rail, and now, here. An excellent, though heavy, meal at the Carvery. Soft music, pleasant atmosphere ... and behold!
I am very tired.
My lady is already asleep.
Sigh....

Wednesday, 17 October 1928; Evening; In the Channel

On the train. Tomorrow, Paris; a rendezvous with painted scarves; and then finally on to Mecca. Yes.

Some few surprises in London this trip. Tony's message at the Express office leaves no doubt where to look, and the papers are full of the business of the burning Clinic, so it was simple enough to take score of all the public knows. Harry has, he says, a lot of long leads but nothing hard and fast for me; and I did not put him on the Thasylwaite thing, precisely because of the public furor. Tony! So messy! I wonder what you missed?

As for TMF -- well, helpful and not. The usual ahem-ahem attitude, and I am sorry, Sir, but you know we cannot divulge that to anyone, etcetera, etcetera. I learned a bit of thia and that (turns out Tony has the keys to the Lyon house) but nothing hard and fast, nothing USEFUL.

If I knew more already! If I knew when I walked in the proper questions to ask! Then ... yes. Perhaps they would answer. But not otherwise.

There is, for example, a safe box in keeping for the Estate. TMF admits it freely. They will not, however, discuss the contents, let alone show them. And so it went.

But Miriam -- ! Ah, surprise indeed! I came to see her on a social call, of course; after her last letter I reluctantly promised myself that there would be no more cat-and-mouse games, no questing for forbidden hints and knowledge any more. Such sparring was bringing only upset to us, and threatening to undermine our friendship. Thus: no more. Merely friends. The visit solely for conversation.

Surprise!

Scarcely have we poured our tea -- scarcely have the amenities been satisfied -- when it is she, not I, who throws wide the door!

I have always trusted her. From the first beginnings of our acquaintance I have felt that she waqs both honest and open with me. Yet, her actions and words were so unexpected, so much at odds with everything I knew of her, that I felt the sting of mistrust despite my faith.

She asks for sanctuary from her people.

Such a shock!

Her reasons are still a bit muddled, at least to me; but they are understandable (or perhaps I am merely naïve.) She has had a flash of premonition, of her future or her child's; she does not wish that future for either Clarice or herself. And, she says, she does not wish her final child to be placed in the Foundry's hands.

So, her bid to escape. Come february, come March, we will spirit her away -- across the waters, perhaps, to Newhaven, or perhaps to France -- where her child will be out of the grasp of the Lady and the rest.

I hope.

It is yet unclear to me just how far the Lady can reach, to find one of Her own whom She knows well. Might Wisphers' walls shield Miriam? Might Newhaven's? Certainly either, while a lovely prison, would be a prison still. Not the best way to raise a daughter, though far from the worst.

So the future once again holds excitement and interesting changes, great storybook deeds to perform ... and (just possibly) an innocent life or two to make whole or redeem. Hmm.

Give meaning to? No, still too grandiose. Hum.

Sigh; so romantic!

I wonder what she'll make of Julian?

Thursday, 18 October 1928; Paris at Sunset

A diversion from our original itinerary, though I think a day will not hurt us. We had to stop, you see, in order to look for some painted scarves for Mrs. Harden; and as long as we were here, why not get some new outfits made up for Julian? So it has been a busy day.

We found the scarves, all right, lots of them here and there about town, but just to make everything proper we spent some time looking for just the shop Mrs. Harden remembered. It is still there, as it happens -- on a corner by the river, right across from the Shakespeare & Company bookstore - and went in. The place was modern and very busy, not at all the quaint little boutique Mrs. Harden recalls. But the scarves were there, and other lovely things. We bought several and had them wroapped and packaged for mailing. I shall send them along with a letter I have yet to write.

Poor dear woman. Even now she is beautiful.
Echoes of an age that is ending.

... and then we went shopping. Not much, not long this time, the stores we visited already had Mademoiselle's sizes; but three hours or so of watching models display frocks ad gowns is enough for me for one day, thank you! Julian is not a greedyguts, but she does like more than she dislikes (and be honest, Mister Carl, she looks awfully good in most of it!) so I had to work a bit to keep her down to one new gown, two new outfits, a shawl, a hat, and some shoes.

Thank heavens I am well-paid! My wife has expensive tastes. I shall have to develop some myself to keep up.

Ah, Julianjulianjulian! I loveyouloveyouloveyou! All the joy and the laughter and the golden honey glow of your smile and the tender warmth of your arms --- !

Forever, Beloved. Forever!

Friday, 19 October 1928; On a Train Somewhere

We're nearly there! I can feel it inside; the excitement bubbling up and spilling out all over! Julian says the countryside is starting to look familar; according to the timetable we have less than an hour to go (if we are on time, which is somewhat less than likely. The train keeps slowing and stopping, then starting up again, and the last big town we passed was nearly half an hour behind schedule.) It is nearly sunset now, and the landscape is beautiful, a panoply of greens, reds, oranges and browns, and all those long, long shadows, reaching toward the mountains. It has been getting hilly too, a bit -- the little towns and farms perched on the hillsides and in the valleys between like bits of flotsam floating on a rolling green and orange sea. Some vineyards, none very large, filled with great long rows of spiney clumpy grape trees like they have in the Valley of the Moon back home; but here they are well-tended, here they have not gone wild or been torn out since '17!

The people on the train are very nice and friendly, even though they tend to leave us alone, foreigners that we obviously are. Most of them regulars, local types, they greet one another familiarly and settle down for a chat, or simply head for Their Seat and fall asleep after a long day. The car is filled with the music of their speech: Darker, throaty, more singsong than the guttural nasality of Parisian French. A pleasing, homey sound.

Soon. Soooon.

Saturday, 20 October 1928; Wisphers Estate

I cannot explain this place. Neither can I describe it; not if I have any hope of doing it justice. It is too big, too grand; too full.

Everything is meaningful. Everything is redolent of echoes. Ghosts. Memories. I stand in a room, or in the hall, or on the staircase -- and everywhere the silence is filled with the secret sussurus of a thousand lives.

THERE is where it happened!
THERE is where they met!
THERE --! And THERE --! And --

Oh, I am immersed in it! This place, this hopme, this amazing, WONDERFUL part of the tyapestry of ourselves and the Fight! I feel it around me, like a thick thick bath, each new touch or angle makes it reborn, fresh, anew! All those hopes, all those lives, all those dreams! They live on, alive, vibrant within these walls; silent only because for a time there has been no one to taste them, no one to FEEL!

Hello. Hello. I know you. I feel you part of me. We are one.

History. Mine. I am a part of this thing.

The whole place is like that. Beauty, serenity, peace .... I had suspected it might be, from seeing Newhaven; but I had not given thought to the rest. THIS is no mere manifestation of the house-soul, magnificent though that may be, I have not dared to look. No; THIS is ... is ... I cannot think of the proper words. History; tradition; the sheer reality of all those lives, left here, in the walls, in the very air, silent music for all time. An echo of the Dance made substance! Not mystical, but human; wrought in every shadow, every scar, every scuff on a chair, or bent leaf in a book.

Four centuries. One life. One dream.

I am supremely awed, and humbled.

We arrived only a little bit late at the station in Chalon, which is really no more than a platform and a watchman's hut. It was so peaceful, once the train had gone. The country quiet was a joy to hear, along with the darkening colors and the sharp autumn air. The old man in the hut was only too happy to call for a boy to pick us up in his wagon. Henri, the boy is; bright, chipper, maybe sixteen and immensely voluble in that lovely patois which I cannot follow well. I rode beside him, Julian in the bed with the luggage -- her choice -- through the town (which is small but exceedingly prosperous) to the town house where the autos are.

It seemed to me that I did not wish to finally arrive here in a clattering loud smelly machine; so I turned down the car, and we rode the wagon up to the Estate through the deepening gloom.

Passed Henry Williams' farm. A ragged sight, now. Disused for some years; once a prosperous vineyard. What a terrible shame.

And through the forest, along the road and the drive, to the great iron gates. Henri opened them and walked us through.

Into the Estate.

Furlongs and furlongs of parkland. Trim grass, tidy trees, everything in its place, healthy, balanced. The magic of the house-soul at work, I think. Up the drive, over a rise, and there:

Shining, bright, all immense white facade of Georgian sparsity and gleaming columns. Every window brightly aglow -- the whole place lit up like a cathedral at night -- smoke rising from a half-dozen chimneys, thin and straight to the sky.

The Big House. At last!

To the door; it opens; there he is. Bent. Self-contained, proper, bent-over wizened gnome of a man; dry and formal, but commanding in his way.

"Welcome Sir!" he says, and bows deeply.

Inside (shock of warm air and the smell of oiled wood) he has the entire staff lined up in the main hall! Every one, waiting to be introduced. The cook; maids, gardeners, hostler; all of them.

Gathered to meet the new Master.
Me.
Ye Gods and Little Fishes!
The biggest "Ah!" of all.

-- There was more later, of course. A set of keys to everything. A thick sheaf of legal papers. I can look at them here, as I write. Huge! I have only skimmed them so far. Prepared by TMF: Itemized inventories of everything in the House; staff and salary lists; deeds of properties all over the world; more, and more, and more:
Assumption of the power of attorney.

Me! Why me? I don't have the knowledge, nor the experience, nor the expertise.
I have not been groomed for this!

You may always refuse to sign, Sir, he says/ He knows it is not so simple.

Why me? I asked him. Why did you choose me?
The choice was not mine, Sir, he said.
Whose, then? I asked.
It was the decision of the House, Sir, he said.

The House. Lord God above -- the House. Beloved partner; centuries old; with its eyes that see so far. Shadows of things to come.
What, dear Heaven, does it see?

And so I sit. And toss, and turn, and sit some more. Thinking. Afraid. It is so much larger than I had thought! So much more immediate!

I have walked the grounds, seen everything, unseeing. I have looked down the halls, entered the rooms, held the ancient treasures in my hands. I have been everywhere -- briefly -- except one. The locked room. The War Room. There I will not go.
Not until I am sure.

Later, Same Evening --

Tony and Rebecca have arrived. He is being so strange, so formal; does he know what has happened? Ah, Tony, you seem so far away .... Where is the ease, the camraderie?

He has been to Lourdes -- and found nothing. I am not too surprised.

Where are they? Where are they?
And what am I to do?

Sunday, 21 1928; Wisphers

Tonight we see if the stars are right. I have set the telescope outside on the patio, and Adam has been studying his algebra and the ephemeris. I have started him on the Mathematics of Motion, and we shall work toward Newtonian mechanics and Kepler's law. Should be fun.

So many people. So many worries. Am I to be everything to everyone?

A short but pleasant visit with Zigfried; a chance at last to meet Mister Parsons, a bright and likeable fellow though rather irreverent; and a long and turmoiled talk with Tony.

Ah me; ah me. How can he be so troubled all the time? Next to him, I have no troubles of my own.... though I have quite a few to give to him.

He is not happy about the treaty. Upset and unhappy about a lot of things, generally, I think; but the treaty for certain. There is nothing I can do about it , of course, and truthfully I would not risk trying; but so much of our old superficial camraderie has vanished over time with the assumtion of new burdens. I hope that this basic disagreement about the treaty will not be the final straw, the thing that breaks us at last.

We went "riding" today. Um. Well. At least, we sat on horses and they moved. Quite fast. Whee. Tony and Julian are both quite graceful on horseback. Not so, myself; I never had the need nor the means, except for occasional pony rides. It was troublesome, and no doubt quite amusing; I hurt now. The only small consolation was that Rebecca was even less happy than I. She clung grimly to her mount and was rather upset about the whole thing. I should hate to be in Tony's shoes -- he suggested the ride!

Afterwards I spoke to Zigfried. For the first time in, oh, I don't know how long it's been. About the Light, and this and that, what he said to DAF, and so forth. Emerson has shown him the bragging letter -- he say only that it is him, the Black Man, one and the same for certain. There is more; I can tell it in his eyes, but he did not say. As for the rest -- he is not comfortably eloquent with poesy, it is difficult for him to speak of things that are not rational, things of the heart or spirit. Ah well. We will talk again. We must; there is so much I have to learn from this man, and perhaps a bit to give as well.

Parsons is a curious fellow. A Jazz musician with connections to the Mob. Receptive, but aloof, I am unsure what to make of him -- how much hope I may place in him. But Tony has invited him to Gathering, so what will happen will happen.

Monday, 22 October 1928; Wisphers

Tony is gone. Scooted off this morning. Told no one. Blast.

But, Theo is up! He's well -- he's talking -- he met us at breakfast. Thank Heavens! What a wonderful thing, a gift for the day.

Zigfried says Theo remembers nothing of the attic, or of subsequent events. It is clear he's not yet read my letters either. Keeps asking questions that I wrote him about already. Ah well. Time is all he needs now. That, he has. Thank Heavens!

Tuesday, 23 October 1928; Wisphers

She agrees. I have spoken to him; I have spoken to her. He is desperate. She agrees to the task. It may break him.

Dear God, I hope not. I hope I have not caused a terrible thing.

Have I destroyed a friend for this treaty?

Lots of talk. Lots. He was, by degrees, intrigued, excited, elated -- and devastated, when he heard the terms. But he is still with me. With me. Oh dear.

Wednesday, 24 October 1928; Wisphers

Contact! A touch, a trembling fragment of meaning in the morass. At last -- a piece of the bigger thing -- oh, I am babbling! So difficult to simply say what I've seen -- always the words are too many and too small.

Today I met the House. How bright! How joyous, how magnificent! And how slippery-easy, once the voyage is begun. Calling, pulling, guiding, drawing. One has to work to stay away. Certainly no labor to arrive.

Brilliant, electric, living vibration; a thing that both feeds and excites as it draws.
The House has eyes that see far.
It is so strong, this thing, so alive and immediate --!

-- A thought: Might the twists of the Paths from Springboard be somehow related to, or representative of, the signatures of the Circles? What a lovely thought! It does feel right, it fits; but how to test, how to find out for sure?

The path to the House is part of the House, somehow. And the thing ITSELF:
Faerie!

Feel the whole world all at once as a thing alive; feel the House. Feel the bright outwelling of Life, and Joy, brilliance of Being; feel the House.

Become what you feel; BE the House!

And see far.

O Bright! O Quick! So huge, so huge, ripple out and out in circles toward awesome distant walls; read the shadows and BE BE BE! So big so big and all ME, all ONE, the Unity in miniature, the loving the sheer Happiness of outpouring ...!
But I ramble. I shall return.

DAF came today. So abrupt he is. So demanding. He unbalances me. Zip, zip, zip! Like a hummingbird with no respect for anyone.
Wants gossip. Wants information.
Wants a job to toy with. I gavce him Gundoni.
Good luck.

It would be wonderful to show him. I want to show him. Show all of them! But the laughter stays within me, the marvellous murmurs of transcendant meaning, so clear to me, are silent elsewhere. They do not see!

They cannot know, like I do.
Humbling.

Friday, 26 October 1928; Wisphers

I am contnually impressed and amazed by the sheer immensity of the thing! Both within and without; as above, so below.

Deep inside, the Motherspirit of the house continues to touch and fill things with joy and meaning. So huge, so long ... so QUICK! Laughter, like ripples of whitegold music caressing a million-million souls -- instant -- forever -- harmony and crystal and green silver wood grass SELF and that whirling, spinning Radiance in the center! Patience; love; protection; Giving; so wonderfully HAPPILY generous it is!

On the surface, the Estate is serene and perfect. The trees turning to fall; the rocks, the pond, the birds and small animals rustling in the undergrowth; like a fairytale. The enchanted land. All of the valley is owned by the estate; but the Estate itself, the Person within the walls, is more than a mile on a side, and so full! So full.

Beyond, the estate itself is huge! The entire valley, thirty-four square miles, the whole village, all the vineyards; properties in France, Spain, England; mines in America; treasures and more treasures, priceless antiques; the Amûn itself; ... and ....

So much. So much.

SO MUCH! Oh, oh, oh -- how can I explain? I am so small, to be given all this! So young, so new! It fills my heart, my chest, the ache of need, and responsibility, and all the joy and sorrow bubble up and outward, coloring the world around me and the silence behind my eyes. Shades of significance touch me, all the time. I want to share.

Do the see? Do they know?

Everything is ... deeper. Further away and closer, more important, all at once. I feel as though the light has thickened, coloring things comehow new, different, more importantly. And I look for that hint of awareness in others' eyes, a touch, a glance that says: I know.

Do they?

Daily, I feel it around me more easily. An electric thrill underneath the obvious -- like the prickly feel of an oncoming storm. Whenever I touch the House I know; I feel it; aware, loving, THERE.

I am becoming more attuned to it, and it to me.

And sometimes, just for an instant, I hear echoes of footfall before Bent arrives, or know he is present before he speaks.

I am going to sign.

Sunday, 28 October 1928; Wisphers

Early morning. Early. I cannot sleep. I am consumed anew by tragedy, sense of loss, dear things taken before they were ever known. Weep, my heart of hearts! To feel the closing of a dooe, so dear -- Oh!

I want to cry. I want to pray.

These words are blind, fumbling caricatures of meaning. They mock me. Not sorrow -- not loss -- but a thing richer, so deep and poignant in its power that I cannot speak through tears, cannot even truly perceive the shape of the thing that sweeps through me. Too close. Too deep. Too dear.

It is done. Midnight. Bent, and the candle. The keys. The last door. The last room.
Walls and maps. Cabinets. The table. Smell of dust, age, things neglected. So much darkness here, at the heart -- the secret center of the dream.
Silence. Rich and thick -- like a dagger to the inside of me.
He offered cognac. Heady red in the candle. A scent from across the room, tangs the nose and tongue in memory. Simple silver tray -- decanters -- two glasses.

Gone. I am alone with the letter.

Our Father, Who art in Heaven, Hallowed man that is borne of woman is Dearly beloved, we are gathered here....

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no Evil, for Thou art with me. Thy Rod, and They Staff, they comfort me.

Amen.
Until death do us part. Oh, my beloved.

Thick, old, hand-folded; the glue gone to dust at the edges, the paper yellowed. The envelope. Nothing on it, no name or date. A sacrilege to open it.
A fear of learning what is written within.

Given to me. By all of them.
Bent; the House; and dear lost Pierre.

How can I love the man so much? How can I grieve, can I mourn so deeply his passing? We never met; yet he has shaped my life in infinite ways. I am his son, newly born; and he my father and my friend.
Gone, oh gone in the hour of my awakening. Now we may never meet, never know the joy.
Touch fingertipe, yet never shake hands.
His only regret.

REGRET! DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN! IN AM NOT YET STRONG ENOUGH FOR THIS!

The page blurs. I think of it again. I cry. Tonight the ghosts are very thick, very real. I cry. For loss; for loneliness; for the spirit of a good and gentle man, who looked with calm and knowing eyes beyond the end of his own days; and for all of us who remain, scattered and confused, a pitiful parody of what we might be.

What we may become. If I can find the way.

Resolve helps. Fills the hollow weeping emptiness. So does Julian. My wife, my darling, my life.

Will you walk with me, beloved? Will you pray with me, at the grave of an old and much-loved friend?

Flowers, my love. Flowers and folded hands. Eyes closed, pure before God.
Help me to find the way.
Amen.

Later, same day --

Andrew Scott arrived this morning, shortly after breakfast. He was tired, in body and spirit, but I fear I was unable to help him. All I could do was ramble. Babble. My own heart and spirit were far away.

He will stay on here for a few days, to rest and relax. It will be good for him. May he enjoy.

The four of us left in the afternoon. Bent formally tendered farewell, and we were driven to the station in one of the House autos. It is strange not having that second trunk with us any more.

Theo is quiet but interested, taking in everything. He is quite an experienced traveler. Zigfried too, but his approach is different: he folded himself into a seat and went promptly to sleep. Clever man.

And so I watch the countryside. Full daylight now, rather than sunset; so much more familiar than before. I feel now as if I belong, I am no longer a stranger any more.

Julian watches me with concern. She does not entirely understand what happened to me last night, but it affected her deeply as well. We are one, we are one, and the folio at the House is correct. merely by being, she lightens my load.

It is, however, strange and irksome to be once again a stranger. The whole subterfuge of distance now seems bothersome and unnecessary. I am become spoiled, but how necessary is it all, really? These two men are my friends. Why should they not know? I am being petty about this. And, just now, I need the comfort of her presence by my side. So let them draw their own conclusions. Just now I do not care.

Monday, 29 1928; London

It is shortly before dinner. We arrived here this morning, put up for the day; since then I have been locked in offices. The transfer of the Estate required more than a few signatures. There were more forms to fill out, seals and notarys to attach, and I wanted to ensure that we'd gotten to all of it. I also treid to set up some sort of account so that the available funds could be drawn upon, but, international finance being what it is, that would take longer than a day to do. So it will wait til next time, no hurry.

All that was left was to pick up my suits that I ordered on the way east and get our tickets changed. There was some difficulty in doing the latter, since the vessel departed France about the same time I walked into the offices in London, but we shall see. We sail tomorrow morning, and they cannot assign cabins at this late date; we shall have to take whatever's available from the Purser when we get there. What fuss.

Tuesday, 30 October 1928; At sea

Changes. New things. Old things reborn! I am instilled with an excitement, a sense that there is a chance, that we shall succeed:

Amazing things. Even now, I find it hard to believe! We are here, we are here, sailing the High Sea on eyes that see far ...! Wonderful.

At the docks, half-lit gloom at 8:30 in the morning. Picture it: The cold grey day, everything damp from fog; the assistant Purser at his podium, and me there with him. Julian and the others a few feet away, with the luggage piled up nearby. Other passengers arriving intermittently; the odd dockworker here and there, and the redcaps and stevedores.

No Sir, says he; I do not have you on my passenger list. Yes, I see your tickets, they are French tickets. Even though they are endorsed, I have no record of it here. Yes, your two friends may go, their tickets are in order, but yourself and your daughter, sir, (shrug) I am sorry, can you wait for the Purser?

Imagine it: Me, worn out from arguing, in a melancholy mood; and then the rush, the stir, and a passel of huge burly swarthy men walk up and begin to carry all our bags away!

Look there, down the dock: Zigfried, grinning, and behind him that sleek black shape, masts high in the sky, the Eyes of Horus on her brow.

Amun. Back, at last. Amun!

They are here for us. They want us to go with them. Amun! Back from years of vanishment, come at last to meet Zigfried. No one could think it was coincidence -- no one who knows the House.

Zigfried speaks to the Captain. Come aboard! Tell us where you need to go!

Elation! A sense of growing wonder, thankfulness, renewal. Spring is here! Spring, for our people; time to grow again, to move out of the shadow where all is past and memory, and walk proud in sunlight once again!

Oh yes! I want to ride this creature of wonder! But there is a problem.

We need to be in New York in six days.

Six days! In a sailing ship? Impossible! Tell the Captain! ...but the Captain says, It shall be done.

The Age of Miracles is not dead.

On board, surprises. What a ship! How clean, how proud! Sleek black lacquer -- gleaming brass and polished ivory -- white silk sails with edges of gold -- and never a nail, never an iron bolt. Of course. Lay your hand on the taffrail, and feel it! The thrum of power, that secret thrill of LIFE! Like the House! Amun is alive, she sings to me.

Surprise! We are told the vessel is not here for Zigfried, but for ME! For the Master, he says. So it begins.

I can feel the ripples spreading.... Be not proud, Mister Carl; but how heady it is to be a part of something so large!

So it all burst out. I could stand it no longer. In one great, silly, heady rush of exultation and freedom, I told them. My friends, my dear friends, rejoice! My golden girl and I are MARRIED! Be happy with us!!

And rejoice we did -- and then we flew into the light of morning to watch the ship set sail!

How she sails! Fast! I can believe, now, that we shall arrive on time. What a lady! With a skip, a shiver, she runs! Dances! Plays upon the surface of the sea!

The wind is in our faces, clean and fresh; it is good to be alive!