TheStarsAreRight:CarlJournal3

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Tuesday, 19 Sept 29; 8:00 PM; Montana

An extremely interesting visit. I wish it had been longer. Although I felt as if we had run out of things to discuss, my mind is now filled with scores of questions and answers that now will not be shared for some time, if ever.

He is a fascinating study of a man. Flamboyant, vehement, impeccably dressed with an Eton flair, frozen forever just short of graduation. Quietly uncaring about many aspects of the lives of himself and his family, he is slowly fading away, afraid or simply uninterested in taking the road back to health.

She is a beauty – tall, well-formed, dark-haired and very French. Polite, educated, mannerly…. And softly sad. She sees the lack, I think, in both their lives. But no one moves to make changes.

The child is uncanny. Solemnly AWARE at age three, and WHAT does he see? His motives are his own. A Child of Power indeed – and if I recall, was he not sired on Sandoo?

Hm. He likes to watch J. Hm.

There were several things about the man about which I was warned. Some of them he is aware of; others, I shall not mention. Did not. Even though it seemed crusl, the cruelty would have been greater had it come up. I think.

We talked about many things. An awful lot of them have already faded from memory – so I shall jot down what I do recall here.

Rachael will be trouble, he says. There have been other youngsters Avowed in the history of the Family, he told me; and almost always their transition to adolescence has been painful and strife-ridden; often ending in tragedy. Watch out, he says. In a year, two at most, perhaps sooner, it will begin.

Imagine the horrible frustration of being caught frozen in the first awkward throes of puberty! Forever. Yet the psyche grows, it matures even if the body does not; and what a blow to the self. Neither fish nor fowl – ever.

He imagines that the pairing between Adam and Rachael was deliberately arranged, engineered into both of them by the Man. The ultimate goal is unclear, though he thinks she was to be brought along into full flower and then sacrificed in some fashion that wrought fullest benefit from promise lost. Adam merely a tool to encourage her to mature.

And if that were not enough, I am told, the full flowering of her ponic self will gain expression during her change as well, fuelled by the strong new deep-seated needs into unfocused, often violent, effect. Lock up the good china, he warns. I begin to understand.

This is going to be troublesome!

Jonathan Riswold. A strong man, filled with personality, convictions, objections. Outspoken, blunt, often painfully so. An arguer, a counterpoint, the Devil’s Advocate – the slap in the face, the cold shower, the bridge burner. Yet, the pose was almost certainly partly assumed, for he was also listener, healer, confessor, debriefer, to all those needed him. And rumor chaser, cleanup man, as we already knew. He encountered the Group often, but worked separately. Never was caught up in the politics of personality. He was a very old friend and helpmeet of PF’s…. virtually ran the group for a long time after ’84. No one knows his talent(s); but he predates Harden.

His lovely wife Angelique – French – the sweet tempered colleague. Lovely and talented… and she had the misfortune to die in a skiing accident. Totally natural. How sad.

The “brother” he writes to in the Chicago letters is a fiction; though he may have had one once he was long gone by the letters’ writing. An oft-used ploy, I am told, in suspicious times.

’84: Dogs barking, people whispering, signs, portents, myriad secret messages passed among the Family. Outt was there, yes, but very junior; barely four years Across (?!!) and not entirely deemed ready. What he knows, he learned later.

Cyth. Was taken; perhaps Taken; tortured, died a long and horrible death in great pain. He could not help but feel it, each agony, each loss as shreds of humanity, Power, self, life were flayed from her – and from him.

The screaming. There was so much screaming. Agony, rage, helplessness – but there was NOTHING to be done and no escape. When she died, so did a part of him. Him & his world. There was nothing he could do. He was insensible, almost incapable in his grief for some time.

Then, later, when he could once again feel to suffer, she was taken. The little girl. Found, later, of the Thames. PF did something, some pact or bargain or sorcery that gave his daughter back to him. Or something like her, enough like that he could fool himself into believing.

After that, he was never the same. Something gone, some spark of life or joy that never returned. He was still there, still helpful, willing, able, but in some way lacking. More & more, Riswold became the axle for the Family, but he was not the same. He was simply not Pierre.

Outt thinks that Riswold, or perhaps Riswold and Harden together, decided to counterattack. They went there, to the Black Prince’s lair, more than a dozen full-Trained in the height of their power. They met – and they were slaughtered. Torn apart. All of them gone, the brightest and best. The group never recovered. And the most damnable thing was that the Black Man was not even there.

Outt confirms that, without a Balance, the Avowed do become unstable & insane. It takes a long time, he says; years at least, more likely decades, he knew one self-sufficient woman who was still healthy after a century; but it does happen. He sees the signs of it in himself, but has no real interest in correcting the problem. Outt has a very deeply rooted fear of this; part of it, I suspect, springs from a reluctance to take any kind of ineluctable step, however he speaks otherwise; but part is surely his unwillingness – EVER – to expose himself to the risk of being helplessly hurt as the Old Man was. And so, he hurts himself, and possibly his wife as will. I feel for them both.

What is it that causes this … distortion? Ponic use? I used to think so, but Outt has not used his powers for much of anything in years, yet he worsens. The stress, merely, of being an immortal in a body and mind that is designed to age and die? The Unity being self-pruning, getting rid of ‘sterile’ buds? Something deeper? We NEED connection with the Unity, but the Balance relationship is different. Balance is the ponic equivalent of marriage…. Is sexuality a part of the issue? I suspect it must be, it is one of the fundamental drives of the human self! Surely the Balance is the creation, however evanescently, of the being that has access to both male and female principles?

We discussed Eveling and the Children. He was especially struck, as I have been, by the periodic wholesale losses of groups of Avowed Children. Foolishness by Eveling? Incompetency? Or some sort of necessary sacrifice or bargain struck? Something like the latter seems likely to me. I cannot imagine anyone doing ponic research, WITH Avowed folk, for an entire century without maing more progress than they have!

((Hm – Several thoughts just struck me. Not helpfully, mind you, rather the revers; but interesting.

Lazlo reports seven children, ages 8-15, missing in 1847; and two of these turning up again, dead, five (no, six) years later. He does not say which of the Children, but their apparent ages were close to when they were taken. We have always assumed the deaths to be monster action. But what if they were brought about by psychic puberty? Or, were they an Adam-and-Rachael?

He also said that, in ’20 or so, Jacob & a couple of local people came ill with what I took to be power poisoning. But it occurs to me that the symptoms are quite like thos I remember of my own bout with the Ponic Plague! It most likely was power poisoning, but the similarity is noteworthy.

Thirdly – it seems suddenly clear that one, at least, thrust of the Eveling work is specifically to perform the long interactive task of finding baubles that work for use during the Time! And that is indeed a task that would be lengthy.))

Names of the Dead. Audrey the Basque; Charles Brookshire; Jefferson T Washington. Harden.

Generals go in LAST. Always. They are the final resort, the finger in the dyke. A precious valuable, never to be squandered. The general only enters play when the soldiers are overpowered, ready to give up.

Unwritten discipline. What the commander says is law. His authority is absolute – and his responsibility is also.

Pierre was the one who always explained to the others why their friends had died. First. He never raised his voice, never accused, never laid blame. Confessor and healer, he always talked one step by step through the battle – and one found one’s own course.

I showed Outt the two letters (the Curious One of the Black Ma’s, and Pierre’s Angry Letter). He is frightened by Islie’s. Says it shows him to be far more intelligent and clever than anyone ever dreamed in the old days. He says he pities the One to whom it was written … says he’s doomed, for not knowing how deep is hole ahead of him, nor how sharp the claws.

Pierre’s only makes him sad. Such a desperate attempt to make someone understand; and such a scathing condemnation of Columbo’s Trained!

I am saddened and relieved that it never reached its intended hands.

A curious thing he said, reading the Black Man’s note. “Show me the man for whom this was written,” he said, “and I may be able to field you a few more Trained folk!”

I did not say anything. I could not. Yet.

Friday, 21 Sept 28; New Haven 9:15 AM

Days and days of rail, and I never truly tire of it, even though it gets weary and I long for long hot baths! This country is so HUGE, so full of different things! Rail is the best way to see it all, I think.

Lots of midnight thoughts in the lounge with the lights out, watching the world go by, so dark, so empty. Are we lost? Are we alone? Is this train, somehow, the repository of the last people on earth? And then, in the far distance, a single small house with one light burning in an upstairs window. Who are you, my dear lonely companion? What do you do there, under the wheeling sky? Are you alone? Surrounded by loved ones? Do you notice me as I pass in the night?

At such times I feel …l stretched, full; reaching out in some undefinable fashion to embrace it all, the trees, crops, grass, people, and the bowl of sky as well. Quiet, and satisfied. And the happiness grows and grows within me until I am filled to bursting, silent paean of “Here I am!”

Even the kids are enjoying this trip, I think. Adam, as I said, loves it, and Rachael has gotten enough accustomed to it all now that she likes to sit at the window and watch the world go by. But she still sleeps a lot, and the constant noise and movement must be troublesome.

Stopovers are the worst. Fortunately, they only happen once every couple of days. How I looked forward to getting here! Central Station in Minneapolis at midnight was spooky and very empty. Only a dozen or so of us in the place – dim echoey halls and black shuttered windows of boutiques and barber shops. The big arch of roof over the tracks was hidden in black, just a hint of a thousand crossbeams visible from below. Just echoes, and footsteps, and the sleepy murmurs of pigeons and sparrows above.

How different is Chicago!! Union Station at the hub of the world – three o’clock P.M.! Thousands of people of every description moving, bustling, shoving each other in their hurry. Touts, newsboys, shoeshine vendors, and cab drivers, businessmen, travelers … Oh! I love it! Humanity in all it raucous, slightly seedy glory! How could I not devote myself to you?

And now, here. We arrived last night in two taxis, one for us and one for the bags. He met me at the door. Straight. Interesting fellow! Not quite the paragon that Bent is purported to be … but quite unnervingly efficient in his own right. Does not often know what one needs; but always knows when something is desired. Fed us tea & cakes, then to bed.

So now the new day begins, & I can go explore.

4:30 PM, Same Day

Vacation. A busy day; not without its share of surprises! But I feel better, more at ease, than I have for a while, despite the potentially troublesome topics.



POSSIBLE REDACTION



Spiders. What is natural to an Outling? What do they do when they are not here – and why do they seek to come? ‘We must not hate what we merely do not understand.’ Still very true – but would a dose of understanding not help? How to get it??? Julian thinks there’re two types of Black Things: Outlings who merely act naturally, according to their natures, whatever they are; and the Others, the consciously, deliberately malevolent ones. She could be right. But how can we use this distinction? Can we? Dunno.

Reminded of GE’s letter. “You will put your worlds before the others.” A flaw?

How/Why?

Tonight we relax. Tomorrow we travel.

Saturday, 22 Sept 1928; Evansville Indiana

Bubble, bubble. Resumed? Or continued? Noticeable once more, in any case. I feel it, that nervous sensitivity behind the eyes. Excitement, anticipation, not unpleasant, yet not without its share of dread. Like a tiny voice inside me. Whispering, all the time. “Go, go,” it says. “Hurry…hurry….” And “You must, you must -!”

Must what? I do not know.

Tomorrow we see the Grand Old Man. Why am I going? I have forgotten. What will I say to him? I have forgotten that, too. Or the subjects I can think of seem silly or pretentious. No better than the others.

And yet, and yet….

I must -!

Of course I must. Whatever.

I did not shave this morning. It was not necessary; and that is unusual to me. Even now, I feel only a sort of five-o’clock stubble – but it is one that was two days in the growing.

Bubble, bubble…. Am I slowing down?

And how are the others? Dear Carl, where are you now? Andrew – where? Doing what? Be careful; England may not be safe for you just at present. Lazlo? What are you dreaming tonight?

Tony? What happened in Boston? What is happening in California? It must be going on even now. How are you, poor dear fellow? Are you well, are you happy? Oh, oh, do please be careful …. We cannot stand another China now.

What are you up to Maddy? You and Byron? And Clay, perhaps?

Perhaps I should write.

Bubble, bubble. The night is dark.

And yet -

It is nearing midnight. The streets I can see from our second-floor window are nearly empty. But the sky is black, and filled with crowding stars, only a sliver of moon low in the east. There is a lonely walker passing below, a solid fellow without a hat. He whistles as he walks, simple, barely tuneful; but the tune fills my ears, my hears, like a very large thing. Da-dum, dum, dee-da-dee; how it hurts, nearly!! A warm spike of humanness that pierces me. This happy, homely man…. I feel I know him. He is my brother, my best friend. I want to greet him, see him smile in return – and I feel I know how he would smile.

How can the world be so large, so full? It hurts to feel it, like wanting to cry or taking too deep a breath.

And this afternoon, on the train, a flash of color over hills near sunset that filled my eyes and ran over into other parts of me. Nothing unusual to see, no – but of a sudden the scene was magnificent to me. So intense and gentle; but a scene that is made for music; color that creates the memory of a taste, a scent, an emotion. Do you see? Do you know?

How can the world be so large, and me so small, awestruck and overcome as I am?

Spirits of the air, indeed! All I need is the light. Or a song.

I am reminded of Julian’s dream.

Tuesday, 24 September 1928; Newhaven

Back again. Or is it Monday? I suppose it must be. Dear me, this night travel sometimes seems purposely to confuse.

I learned a lot yesterday. At least it seems that way to me now. But it is in myriad tiny fragments that do not stand alone. To make sense of them I must mull them over, stir and fit piece to piece in a hundred ways to find the patters. Even the so much of it means nothing without its context! It is no wonder that my memories of the previous visit faded like smoke over a day or two.

This trip was remarkable unlike the last. I think I know why; at least in part. He does not like to tell you things you do not know, though sometimes that point is stretched to confirm a suspicion or two. But then, of course, the more one does know, the freer the discourse! And he does have opinions, however circumspectly he airs them.

He liked the fruit, I think.

We cat-and-moused around Pierre and the Dark Man, though few specifics were aired. Perhaps I should have dug deeper. I did not, ah well. Pierre is a fascinating man. He continues to tach even after he is gone. Is he truly gone, then?

How can we make use of that? The name, the idea is powerful. Must he die to the world? No, I think not. Live again, Pierre! You are old, and have been ill – but such dreams can have power. Yes.

And the Island folk. He seems to feel that their goals and mine are ultimately incompatible. Well, he has better reason to know than I. I do not like that answer – it is too pat, too comfortable – but certainly I have not the means at hand to find my own! The Foundry is a very real threat, to me and to Julian, and she controls the Folk. As for the Lady, well…. Face it, Ellis old man, even if she’s not malevolent or hostile, would you really want the Lady running around the world, swaying the masses to her whims and mucking about with North Sea shipping? Not really. Perhaps as a last resort; but by then everything else will be different, anyway.

I fear that my gentle counsels with the Roth will have to be diminished. I am too soft-hearted and might otherwise come too close, and so upset the whole ballgame.

Not so Marklin. Even the Old Man maintains that he ought to be put down! There seems to be nothing good to say about the man. “A skin filled with crawling horror.” Hmm.

Nursery rhymes; prophecies; futures.

He say he has the power to wield Farquell’s Mirror!

Burdens. I can still put it down, he warns. It is not yet too late … not until they DEPEND upon me. Then there is nothing to be done.

Was there ever, though?

And, as a parting shot, this question: “Casting aside all questions of morality or duty, WHAT DO YOU WANT, MR. ELLIS?” I shall find, says he, much of what I must do within the answer.

But on which level must I apply this question? I am a complex person, not simple. There are several answers, never one, and they do not untangle from one another.

What do I want? Just for me, to make me happy?

I want joy. Laughter, music, unhurried growth and the opportunity for graceful change.

I want Julian in the fullness of her self, mature, aware, and free, to stand within me and by my side.

I want to BE and to BELONG; to have a unique and necessary place that is mine to hold and use with pride. To see and know that I am part of a continuum that both supports and contains me, and goes on beyond my furthest step. Community. Communion. Yes, it still comes down to that.

But there is more.

I want to SEE! To KNOW! To touch the holy, the art and mystery, the challenge of wonders that are greater and grander than I.

Exaltation. Love. Family.

I want to look upon the face of God.

I would not be where I am if it were not what I desired. I did not choose this road out of duty, it has grown to me of mystery. Be true to yourself, that is the rule. Not true? To seek; to grasp the edges of Wonder and sometimes briefly to SEE; To grow, and step beyond where I have been, where I could have been before the understanding came. And then to build, to turn, to show others the things I have learned! Lovely.

I am not a great leader of the masses. Neither am I a killer. They are right, SHE is right. I was born to create, not to destroy.

How, then do I answer?

………

And now we are here again, reunited with the kinder. I laugh; Adam looked truly surprised to see us walk in! As if we planned abandonment. I wonder why he thought so?

Rachael, on the other hand, is doing wonderfully. Scarcely notice our arrival; Straight has shown her how to feed the birds from the garden steps, and now she sits enraptured amidst a shimmering cloud of wings. Wonderful. I am so happy that she has at last found something to wholeheartedly enjoy!

It will be no burden for her to remain here another week. Not so Adam! Here, again, he has nothing to Do. And before, always he was the Defender, the only good think in Rachael’s young new life. Now that is no longer true. She is finding joy without him; and how can that fail to hurt?

Still, they have their time here alone together, and that is surely something to be treasured.

Wednesday, 26 Sept 1928, 3 PM

Riding on a railroad across the Illinois/Wisconsin border. Three days, I have. Three days to think things over. Colbert; then Cavendish; then (with a nod to my mother’s birthplace) here again. Here to face the music, and carry what I have begun.

Once you start, you know, you cannot stop. If you will carry the ball, you must run far and fast or you will be swallowed.

Summer is ending – and the lazy days are gone forever. I think SG was trying to warn me. Did he see this coming? It was well meant; but of course some warnings mean nothing until they are too late. Events conspire to push me forward – to force motion and growth, even when it is uncomfortable.

So – I have begun. Begun to change the rules. To make a new game plan … and hope that He does not notice for a long time. To the rest of them it must always seem my idea, whatever the truth is. It is possible that they will accept from me, some of them, what they would deny or mistrust from another source.

Which means the burden is mine. I must be right.

We need not be alone. There is another group. Larger than ours, more diffuse and poorly organized perhaps, but very well entrenched and skilled in the arts of perception and of moving unseen. There is a new power within their ranks, one that is aware and afraid enough of the Time to want to join the Fight at last. That faction is surfaced, now; and they wish a pact with us. An alliance. If we lose the Fight, they are doomed as surely as we.

Yet such an alliance will be no easy thing. There are ancient fears and hatreds that must be put aside, on both sides of the treaty. For some, a pledge of help and protection will be impossible. Even for me, it is a strain to speak easily of it.

The others are not human.

They are not the Dark, yet we have preyed on each other for centuries.

The others are vampires.

Think of it! Think of what they could do for us! And us for them – each has abilities the other surely lacks.

BUT. Yes, I know. How can I think of it? They are the ancient enemy! They prey upon mankind! Surely they are worse than those we fight – for those at least, are still human!

I disagree. They are the infected, they did not choose their fate; they were born and lived as men, and have still the memories and passions. As we are not Gods, neither are they devils. Different does not mean evil – there is evil and good both in them. As in us. They are beyond the edge of mystery – fine! Let us be their anchor to the world of day!

Am I blinding myself? Falling prey to this thing, a plot by darkling evils to secure a haven among us? I do not think so. I have spoken to their leader – and he WANTS this thing! He is not proud of being what he is! He does not wish dominion; but I have seen the fear in him and the need. Need for a touch, a reminder of what he once was? Need for the road away from the darkness and passions of an ancient and tyrannical culture of lonely predators? Need for logic and planning, for intelligence and organization.

And he has been at least partly honest with me. He does not believe that either of our groups has a chance alone.

So; the treaty. Nothing onerous, in the main. Mutual protection promised between the signatories. Aid and support in the fight: Intelligence, cooperation, even battlefield help if necessary. But before any of this can happen, there must be a beginning. The treaty will be more than a contract, for them; there will be a binding to the terms of the agreement; and many of the others do not believe that we are capable of honoring our promises, particularly if we are not likewise bound.

So, they wish – they demand – an exchange of emissaries. Hostages, if you will. For two months, or until the treaty is complete. From November first to the New Year. One of theirs will come to us. One of ours will live with them. Each will return unchanged and unharmed.

And here is where things get difficult. Because they will allow the choice of any of them for their part (they are that interested in this treaty!) but they have chosen already who they wish from our ranks.

A woman.

One who is not truly one of us, though she knows us.

One who has faced a lot of sorrow, quite recently.

Hannelore Rhyner Williams.

I have no right to ask this of a woman, let alone a recent widow who has even more recently lost her only child! No right at all, and I feel like a swine for even considering it. Yet ask her I shall, and Carl Emerson as well, for he is her best friend and protector. I can do; I must do no less … and there is no penalty if she refuses. The others will merely make a new choice.

Ah, Carl! You poor man, you can have no idea of what I am bringing to you. You may come to hate me. I may lose your trust, and your friendship. But I feel I am doing the right thing. For better, for worse, here I start. A new beginning. New rules. A thing not seen before. My own mark upon the face of the Fight. How the ripples will begin to spread!

It is time to master my fate; to guide it, and no longer merely to drift along in backwater.

This is my cause to champion. I shall.

I would not have believed I was talking to Meagan, if I had not seen it myself! She has gotten all squealy and girlish. Frankly, it looks good on her – but MEAGAN? Incredible. We have met Mister Perfect as well – and that is precisely as he seems. He is handsome, he is charismatic, statesmanlike, attentive, everything a Presidential candidate should be.

He dotes on her – treats her with the utmost affection and care.

Just like his favorite, most beloved puppy.

I do not know what to think. He seems to be a nice fellow, I found him pleasant – but I have grave misgivings about their future together.

Also, King thinks he may be involved in the murder of his parents, even though there is no proof.

And…. It’s just TOO perfect. I suppose I am getting paranoid.

Fooey.

We talked about the wedding plans, especially with regard to the Fighters, the Dark, and Julian’s being splashed all over the society pages. Result: New names for us, some clever makeup for her, and a private reception for all of us.

Then she goes and ruins it all by filling her beau in on all the details, including both sets of our names, when we were introduced!! Rrrrrr! If there is any Dankle in him at all, Miss C has just invalidated the whole operation!!!

Oo, I was mad! But what could I do? Ruin everything for her, without proof? Smile, Carl. Be nice. And hope everything is fine.

Here comes Kenosha. This will be fascinating.

“Poltergeist Cases Revealed”

“Frauds in Spiritualism”

“Life Among the Arabs”

“Forgotten Cults”

Eleven o’clock, same evening

Waiting in the station for my midnight train. Poor man. Truly, he deserves his rest. God give him peace.

We spoke a lot about Captainship and fighting. Funny; I found him to be much less grim and depressing than I had expected, after hearing Lazlo’s comments. I wonder what he thought of me? What must his opinion be, of all these latter-day gnats buzzing around him?

Silence suits him now. He is content.

I do not think anyone will be repeating the feat that released him from City’s power. Most of those who knew how are gone; and so is the device, I think, that made it possible; and part of the bargain concerned “civic improvements” that have been done, and need not be done again. Alas.

“Leave her be,” he implies. “She is safe from it; it does not want her.” Sigh.

Why did he not stay with her?

I do not understand; and cannot ask.

We talked about Guardian cults. Arc’s letter comes from one such. He says they are oft-found, not unusual in and of themselves.

And he knows something of Scott’s “Cold People”. I shall have to tell Scott. He even has a small vocabulary worked out, and a primitive grammar. Gave me an enormous book to read with this stuff in the appendices. It looks complicated. Perhaps I shall fool with it a bit on the train – but perhaps not. At any rate, Scott ought to know.

My train is due in a few minutes. I wonder what my girl is up to? I shall call to her, once we are in motion.

Do you miss me, sweet darling?

Friday, 28 Sept 1928; 8 PM

Alone in an empty train station once again. Yawn. An interesting day, but not as productive as I had hoped.

The Wintershaven site is empty and gloomy under grey skies. A lake, a waterfilled hollow, some nice trees and lawn, a few scattered walls, and rubble. A testament to our transience – great hopes and a great house hone to dust and ashes. So sad, the loss; a bitter taste in the mouth, the air think in the throat; how can they do it? I dream a dream, like Newhaven but happy, filled with life -

Gone. To witness the deaths of these dreams is to die, a little. To destroy is to kill. I wanted to shout! To push back the tide with the sheer force of my scream! To say a word so vital, so potent with creation that by itself it might drive back the destroyers, BUILD ANEW, in this place of loss!!

I returned to my car and drove on.

Saw the Temple only from afar, since I had no right to intrude and no message or word from Zigfried. Quite large; but more compact than I expected, somehow. I did not see very many people about, either.

So out of place, here in the rolling forests of Minnesota!

My visit with Lucius was both fascinating and frustrating in the extreme. His island sits out there in the middle of the lake, lushly overgrown like a green beacon amidst the woodlands. No way across, I had to row; and no real path to the house, either. The whole place has the feel of a garden, lovingly cared for and nurtured. Not surprising, if one knows the man.

Cavendish himself is unexceptional. Pleasant, intelligent and well-spoken, but distracted. I could not help but feel that my presence was a burden; and, as it turned out, I was correct.

I had a long list of things to take up with him. Many of them concerned the Chinese Goddesses. Thse, however, are personal issues – he would say nothing, except that he would ask of his ‘sources’ and let me know what he learned at a later time.

On general philosophy we found more fertile ground. Cavendish has not given much study to the ponic forces (what he calls the “Earth Force”); rather, he deals as a priest of Nature with the forces of Life. Wouldn’t Emerson love to speak to him! He expounded at some length upon the patterns of interaction between lives; and the things he said about the forms and structures of life force are curiously familiar; they mirror very closely the things I have seen in the ponic realm! Patterns and patterns – circles and circles – and are they all the same thing, merely seen from a different angle?

What, precisely, DO I see?

At any rate, the question quickly became moot, because at roughly this point in our talk I was abruptly asked to leave by Mr. Cavendish. Seems his resident House Spirit (??) is a jealous sort, does not like others, strangers, in its territory. No real explanations, merely “please, you must go. I am sorry. I will walk you to the gate.”

I feel as though Cavendish is walking a delicate emotional tightrope in that house. His wife, his child, his Goddess, the Fox Lady, this house spirit, all have claims on him. Claims I do not understand, left unstated in my presence, but whose very real weight hangs heavily around.

I left. I hope he writes me. There is so much to learn!

Saturday,29 Sept 28, just before Midnight

Back in Chicago, again! Back in, ladahdadadee…. I am beginning to have my doubts about the alliance. No, they are more worries than doubts; but I have begun to have the facts rubbed in my face.

This thing is not going to be easy. There will be anger. There will be fury. I may be throwing people into civil war.

First and foremost, Julian. Her views are simple. Rational. The nightsiders are Black Things, pure and simple. We ought to be killing them – and that is that. She is willing to keep her peace for my sake. ONLY for my sake! But it changes nothing of her desires – and I hope (oh, how I hope!) that this huge and fundamental difference in our desires does not cause a rift between us. That I could not bear!

Impressions of the …. What? Darklings? No, bad term, if we are to be allies. Nightsiders – their term. So: impressions of the nightsiders.

Malcolm. The poet. Very Wilde-ish. Quiet, slow/languid, moody, contemplative. He is his own art form in word and deed! And I am told that, given sufficient encouragement, he actually writes poetry – though rarely. He is, it seems, shy. K says he would not have lasted long without the protection of his group. Submissive, unexceptional, he blends in everywhere. A good watcher.

Diana. Young, pert, vivacious, outspoken, and personally charismatic. Trouble. The best schooled, or the most at ease, with us; but speaks her mind all too clearly and is prone to opinions that, I think, are extreme for both us and them.

Lydia. Husky/sultry. A temptress. Very sensually aggressive …. Old-school, I think. Her mannerisms among us are refined but limited. Rusty. I think she is the eldest. A loner, or the most accustomed to being alone. Think of her as the most typical of Nightsider society – but do not underestimate her.

And, of course, the King himself. Here is no comfortable seat, but a mass of contradictions. Sometimes he is simple, bluff, professional. Others he is aggressive out of loneliness, caustic from relief, deadpan from ridicule. I could like this man, if he were nothing more. The perfect bridge; he longs to put his humanity before his other-hood, even though it hurts him.

Tomorrow morning, Meagan. Then back to the kids, and east.

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 – 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 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.



POSSIBLE REDACTION



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. 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 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. Poor woman. I am very disheartened. The place she is kept is nice enough … for a hospital. That is to say, the staff is not 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: Carl & Lazlo are 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.



POSSIBLE REDACTION



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 was not home but would return shortly, and would we care to wait? But this, and a slight tendency to be a bit timelost, 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 her scarf, from Paris.