Carl Ellis September 1928 - Diary

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Monday, 3 Sept 29; 11:00 AM; Laboratory.

A day of rest? No! A long workday, as the name implies, at least for me. I swore I would finish those sets of amulets by now, and I still have eight to go. About ten hours' work I expect. Sigh.

I sent Meagan her next installment on Saturday before Maddy arrived. Important letter -- though necessarily incomplete. I am eager to see what you say to that one, my little witch!

Tomorrow Adam and I shall begin the cat and plant feeders. The tanks and planks are all stacked up around the back, waiting. Before we go I must also make some modifications to the weapons here, so that I may come back and feed the cat or water the plants through the Portal when it is available. Simple enough to do.

It was nice to see Maddy again, although I fear all of my grim news rather put a damper on some of the pleasure. She is well; she is happy, more or less, thogh her exercises proceed only slowly. Maddy wants to be a healer. Well, we certainly could use a few just now!

Tuesday, 4 Sept 28; 8:30 PM;

Many letters today. Most worrisome is the one from Grimaldi. Tony! Are you all right, my friend? So worried, so upset ... and you do not yet even know the worst!

I shudder at his nightmare. Such a vivid disaster! And what a great loss it would be, to all of us.... yet, in some perverse way it gives me hope. Tomy is always so insular, so unwilling to share others except as a "statement" -- is this the first crack in the wall? Tony, we love you. Do not consign yourself to doom.,

Laszlo's note also disturbs me deeply. Eighty years! They have been doing their gate research at Eveling for eighty years! What on Earth or off of it can they be seeking for all that time with such single-minded fervor? And why have they not found it? Who was Rory's wife, Laurence's mother? What happened to her?

Adele Samistis. (!!!)

What sort of a name is that? Not English for certain, I don't care if that is where he found her. WHO? Another longlife? Katyana? Another? Or an innocent?

And that piece about Kinnerly. The thing that interests me most about this is the bit about the "Italian woman." Comtessa Berenicia della Bonannio -- who was a GOOD friend of Mr. and Mrs. K, and who conveniently died on the Titanic but who later turned up in connection with a Kinnerly scandal. Too pat? Lots of Italians showing up of late. Bonannio, Gundoni, Redmun's Italian lady friend. Connections?

There is something softly and deeply terrifying in this somewhere. I feel it in my bones.

Wednesday, 5 Sept 28; 6:30 PM;

Whew! A long day of letters, both sending and receiving. We hardly got started on the feeders at all. Thank goodness Adam works well without supervision; they may be sloppy but they will do the job.

Boy my hand aches. I hope it will all be useful: packages for nearly everyone, invitations to the Gathering; ad for the select few the notes about field discipline.

Tomorrow I go to see the ticket agent. Poor fellow, what I will give to him in one afternoon! (heh heh...) Complete itinerary, times and tickets.... then I shall cancel almost all of them and buy directly from the lines and rails themselves. Still, a couple of hundred dollars will surely not be regarded as an irritant.

Took the load down to post, and there was another note from Laszlo! Where does he find the time? So I whipped off a quick reply right then and there and added it to the outgoing ... and Tony caught me on the drive coming home with his mental call! Are we not social butterflies? But it certainly is good to hear from him! Also to know he is all right.

It seemed like a long talk, asd such things often do. He was all done with the frights, though still upset with the way things turned out down there. It sounds as if their group had fewer problems than ours, but ones of the same kind. I had not the heart to fill hiim in on all the awfulness we went through here -- but it did affect me in that I found it difficult to be as alarmed as he obviously was. Although I was worried for Tony and for Laszlo and Carl, the success of the mission seemed a fait accompli; I could not feel his worries.

Poor Tony. We spoke at length, but not about Eveling. He is sending me a package of stuff, I suppose we shall speak again when it arrives. For the nonce we spoke about each other, and about Power and the Vow. I hope it helped him. He seemed excited about some of the things I said, though with Tony it is sometimes hard to tell. He is worried about Crossing for the wrong reasons; I forgot to tell him that, while one may take the Promise for any reason or none, one may not truly Cross Over unless one already knows the reason and the answer. Sleep tight, little Prince; do not move hastily.

8:30 PM, same day;

A strange thing just happened to me. I went out to the orchard to exercise at sunset and watch the dancers there; and of a sudden I was seized with the desire to try to enter the Dance alongside. I do not know if I was successful or not, but SOMETHING certainly happened!! Swept away by the current, yes .... but ALIEN! Bizarre! Washes of energy and screaming nonsense, weird burning noises in my mouth... totally insensible. I pulled -- no, JERKED -- away, and came in here.

There is obviously quite a bit left to learn.

Friday, 7 Sept 28; 8:00 PM;

Another breakthrough. At least I suppose it is... new to me, certainly! I tried again this afternoon to enter a lesser Circle -- the Circle of the small life -- and this time was successful. Too much so, really; first contact was so startling that I was slammed back down and had to wait for more than an hour before I could calm myself enough to try again.

Nothing.

It took me three more tries, two hours, before I got another nibble; rather like hunting for an elusive prey (or trout fishing!) but inside of myself, looking for the proper way out. And when I found it, prepared this time, lowered myself down into the flow....

It is difficult to describe my experience there. No screaming nonsense this time, THAT must have been my fault; but so FAST! so INTENSE! and URGENT mindless SELFless NOW NOW NOW as SNAPPP! the needs and hungers and lives blossom and SNAPPP! they are gone again! How many? How fast? Impossible to say. Too many, too fast, for me to notice or to count; and I with no I there, no awareness of my own, just part of the flow and no way back or even way to want to leave....

It ended, a long time later, sitting there beneath my tree, drained dry and tired. Amazed.

After a while of getting used to thinking again (how strange the body feels!) I began to mull over what I had seen. So many lives; and they grow and die so fast! Too fast actually; I know that the small ones that are part of that flow do not live such short lives.

What, then, was I seeing?

An amazing thought struck me. What if, having no self, no memory, the bugs have no continuous existence at all in the ponic sense, but are reborn anew with each fresh urgency that fills them? What if? What a strange and wondrous thing!

Then, memory is more than a key to intelligence; it is the very glue that makes identity possible! How strange! How beautiful! Then -- oh, it makes sense -- but bizarre! How NEW!

Like machines of flesh, with chemical pulleys and signals, automatic reactions without memory or self, and only the identity of the Dance to unite and perceive .... And what I see as lives when I am there are the lives of individual events!

Event-lives! Tiny power-selves that grow and travel and vanish in an instant into the Dance.

Event-lives? By God, they're RIPPLES! I have found Gravemaster's ripples! Oh, this is good! This is heady! And of course they are more than that, the implications run far deeper. Hints as to the nature of identity and memory. WOW! I cannot wait to try this elsewhere.

Saturday, 8 Sept 28; 10:15 AM;

A new letter from Miriam today. I am cowed... somehow... by the depth of her sorrow for Henry. Every man deserves such mourning, yes; but why him, and not her son? It is as though, in some unspecified way, his death at the Estate is a much greater loss than Peter's in Turkey. I suppose this is possible, but how and why? Something to do with the Lady & the House's barriers? Or is it merely that they already thought Peter long dead, and this is fresh?

"There is a lessening in all of us," she says. Henry would no doubt be pleased. Poor, sad tortured man.

I feel so guilty. Each touch between us brings nothing but further sorrow. How can I justify this contact? I cannot. Especially as I deny to her and to them the thing they dearly crave.

It is clear to me that I have burdened our mutual affection as much as I dare; as much as it is worth. Poor woman; she has her own crosses; I should not lade her with mine. The touch of friendship is, after all, the important thing. I shall apologize.

And yet.... She has answered me as best she may, between warnings. She knows of SG, but it seems, is forbidden to speak further. I hear familiar cadences in her evasions, and thank her for these as well.

And Marklin is ours, if we truly want him. How violent she is, how vehement indeed! "There is no man within him, merely an empty skin filled with crawling horror....!"

Bait him and trap him -- but let him not approach. She is afraid for me. For me. Thank you, Miriam; you gift me greatly. I do beware.

A couple of days ago I received a curious gift. An article from some unnamed newspaper about the death of Paul Kinnerley. But who sent it? It was mailed from Evansville, Ind. on the afternoon of the First, so I suppose any of the Madisonville people could have nipped out and sent it. But whoever did so, sent it to my box here, not in Emeryville... a box I have almost never used. I did not even think anyone still knew about the box! So who sent this? I have asked, but expect no quick replies.

It occurred to me last night that I have been conducting my voyages to the Circle of the small-life in a rather un-organized fashion, and that I have not discussed it much in these pages. I should like to remedy that lack, starting here.

A month or so ago, I discovered a trick of sorts, a way of "dropping out of suspension" from above the patterns of the Dance and sort of diving towards them. Unfortunately, one loses track of all of it during the move, and so I found myself floundering nowhere in particular, with nothing to do but go back.

It is curious. I had not expected to find such opacity here; expected, indeed, to find that things got more obvious when I approached them, not the reverse!

This is ... different. Have I gotten something wrong? No way to tell as yet. But:

Having become fascinated by this new change and wondering at the reasons for it, I repeated the move time and time again. I do not know how many hours I have spent probing the opacity with these fledgeling senses of mine, looking for some clue to structure.

The structure is there; but never yet have I had success in viewing it. I have found, however, that if one attempts nonetheless to blindly move toward one of the Circles (in my case, that of the small-life) there is a sensation of motion and change; and that, in some way I have not yet descried, there are some directions of motion that are favored over others!

How fascinating this all is! It is as though my own will and intention is itself a beacon to my motion, drawing me to the proper paths! I do not know whether there is anything special about the "place" where one begins, and this is certainly worthy of further study; but I do know that the "proper" direction in which to approach one circle is not that for another.

These directions are not simple straight-line things, either. I use the term because it seems apt -- but there seem to be "directions" for left and right, AND for large, small, fast, bright, dark and any number of other qualities. Directions for colors, somehow; for states of mind, and memories; oh, it is so wondrously, delightfully bewildering!

Again and again I have tried to follow these paths; for the longest time met with little success. I must become a ballet dancer of the mind, indeed! To hold frozen in my thoughts at once the place upon the path I occupy, AND the direction and attitude and state of mind I must attain to continue; and all the while the goal must remain, sterling clear beacon to light my way! All of this at once! And then to stop, when the path changes, and nudge about in all the multitudinous attitudes in search of a newly proper way; but carefully, yes! For the difference between path and wild is slight, and it is easy to lose one's place.

Then, of course, all of this must be remembered later, so as best to write it all down when one is done. It is like memorizing a script -- or, rather, memorizing a play in which one acts, in which all but oneself KNOW the parts, but I must find my proper lines and blocking within the gaps and glances of the other actors. Each new beginning brings me further; and each time I am more familiar with the places I have been before. And at the end -- at last! -- success. The entry of the Circle; the wild maelstrom of identity and understanding I have already described.

It took me days to do as much as touch the Circle for the first time. Yesterday, having studied my notes, it still took me four tries and several hours to touch it again. But each time I am quicker and surer, and it will be easier in the future.

And most importantly, I think, each time I have walked that path, success or fail, I have come away with an increased sense of familiarity with both the path and the Circle it approaches. It is as though the path is somehow a diagram of the essential nature of the Circle itself; a nature I must partake of if I am to merge with that level of the Dance.

That certainly makes sense, according to what I know of Power! Like the Vow -- but different.

Again and again; the same things in different places. Hmm.

Monday, 10 Sept 28; 5:00 PM;

It does get easier. The walking of the path, and the memory of the guidemarks. Clearer; firmer; faster. Yesterday I traversed the entire path, from Springboard to the Pungent Gate, in what seemed to me to be a few minutes only. Of course it must have been longer objectively, such things often are, but I was able to spend most of the day within the Circle, tasting the lives that make it up. Always, before, most of my efforts have gone into the getting there.

I am growing accustomed, too, to the feel of the Circle of the small-life. The pulse of the event-lives, the lack of memory, continuity, the all-encompassing single threads of supreme Experience seem more and more a natural thing. Not comfortable, really, but familiar. Expected.

One rather discomfiting side effect, and one that I had not anticipated, is the feel of alienness that my own body has upon my return! Heavy; huge, clumsy; and the senses seem distorted, muffled somehow. The sensation always passes, thank heavens!

Today I put aside the small-life for a time, and spent the day finding the Path to the Circle of the orchard itself. Not the House dance, but that of the plants in general.

This was the first Entry I found out of Springboard, nearly a month ago, but I never tried to map it before. I did not then perceive the things that I now do.

It has been an interesting day.

The Green Path is simple, compared to the other, "wide" and "flat", with few "turns." The guidemarks are clear, basic, distinct, and there are not many. I did not finish the path today, but there is a sense of impending completion. I believe I am very near. I would have finished, I think, but for Mr. Martin's call.

Byron is coming out to see us. He should be here Wednesday afternoon. It was good to talk to him. He seems eager enough to get involved, to learn, to take my offer of a job -- so he will join us for a few days, until we leave on our trip. What fun.

Now I think I will go back outside and finish what I started.

10:00 PM, same day;

Back. The children are abed and so should I be, soon... but the Path to the orchard is complete.

I fear the orchard itself is somewhat of a disappointment, after all the trouble I went to to get there. Pleasant, and peaceful, but rather dull. I am sure that there is much to learn there, but the Green Circle goes onto the shelf for now. Tomorrow I shall start looking for an Entry toward the Circle of the greater beasts.

Eah! So much to do! I have not the time!

Good night. My lady is waiting.

Tuesday, 11 Sept 28; 7:30 PM;

A troubled day. Spent most of it beating my metaphorical head against a metaphysical brick wall. Am I getting overly impatient? I could not find an Entry.

This is frustrating. Entries to Green and Small came easily, so I supposed I expected this one to be the same. But why should it? I tried the obvious clues (I thought they were obvious!) but none of them are Entries. WHAT WHAT WHAT? I now realize that I have no true points of reference whatsoever. I cannot afford to throw away entire days this way without result.

Then I return to the house. Insanity! Adam has cut his hand badly on a screwdriver and bled blueblack sticky all over the place; Rachael is collapsed into a corner with the quiet freaks over a big grass spider that has crawled onto her leg. Julian is trying to bandage Adam, who won't allow it because he is trying to reassure Rachael; and the stew is quietly boiling off in the kitchen.

Lord in Heaven! Bring on the Night Gaunts!

Eventually, however, things were quiet; dinner was tasty even though reminiscent of charcoal.

Adam is out on Perimiter Patrol. I am not feeling peaceful; all the frustrations of the day have not yet leached away. I think a long sunset walk would do me good, and Julian as well. Communing with Nature in the ordinary way. Yes.

She has not been happy either, of late. It seems sometimes as though we never talk about anything but work; and that is a crime. Are we growing apart?
I will not allow it.
Am I causing it?
Can I avoid it?

Every day I get itchier, ready to leave. To do something, together, again. Together with her. A change of scenery, a chance to break the patterns that are becoming so burdensome, will do both of us no end of good.
Yes.
And now, I think, I go to make my proposal.

Letter from Zigfried today. He confirms a few things we have already guessed... but how different it feels to have another voice say them, another set of eyes to see! It feels good; to hear it in another's words! A new clarity; information from a different source, new strange and fresh.

Yes. I only wish the news were good....

Wednesday, 12 Sept 28; 9:00 PM;

More. Always more. More to see, more to do, more to know ... is that not what he wants? Well, Byron is here, and he is getting just what he asked for ... but somehow I do not think he is happier. He has retreated to his room with a rather odd smile, to ponder all of this uncomfortable newness.
And so have I.

letter from Anrew to-day. Contains lots of stuff from England. The peons in the enemy ranks are being sacrificed callously ... and H-W (Jamison Hyde-White) has disappeared as well. Everything points to a new, more unpleasantly virulent form of the Ponic Plague -- but is it the Type Two they have sought? I doubt it; but cannot afford to assume.
The records claim that H-W died of the plague, but we (as KR) (Katyana Rasmul?) received a TWX (wireless telegram) from him a week after his supposed death. Hyp: is he too far up the ladder to be sacrificed?
Is there a close connection between this and Kinnerley's demise? I wonder. If so, then the article becomes even more important; as does the Redmun operation. I hope that PI reports soon.

I do not think the Children like Byron.
Short session today, looking for the Quick Path. It must be there! But aspect after aspect tried and discarded, and still no luck. Frustrating.

Thursday, 13 Sept 28; 9:30 PM;

Better, indeed. I wait impatiently to leave ... I am ready, yes ready ... and only a few more days.
Today was much nicer than yesterday.
First, a breeze from the north; it is always nicer with a bit of a wind! Then, another short session at Springboard, and I FOUND IT! Yes! The beginning of the Quick Road, I think. Small - precise - barely a dimple in the rough. And how funny! Obvious, I suppose, in retrospect, that such a basic need might be the answer to the beginning.

But it is a beginning only. The path is narrow, delicate, eyes-closed-balanced with a new turn every "step" or two. From the flaring need-rush upward, upward again in gentle curves toward a thin high needle of heat, upward again, straight this time, to ...what?
Next time perhaps I'll learn.
This surely takes an awful long time!

Most of the rest of the day was spent with Byron. He certainly has a lot of questions! I do not believe my answers are being all that helpful. He has a two-inch pile of letters and photographs in his rooms, and my early journals as well. It will be interesting to hear from him what he makes of it all.
But; and I say this with a soft smile and a secret, silent pride; today Rachael learned a spell.
I taught her the Healing spells - both of them - as Miss Crawford taught me. How nice to see her learn! To watch her realize her accomplishment, and to see her understand that at last she has a thing of value that is her own, that cannot be taken and cannot be used to harm.
The biggest obstacle was the Saying of the Words. Poor thing; she will mumble; and precision is SO necessary! The gestures came easily (she is a quick study) and the manipulation of the energies was not much harder, though she shies away from the sensation of it.
But I am happy. Like a proud father. A good deed.
Yes.

Friday, 14 Sept 28; 7:00 PM;

More letters. Carl. Meagan. And Radosta. (This is the PI that Carl hired earlier to research Redmun.)

Carl is lost in Vision, seeking guidance and direction. Meagan's letter is fascinating reading and illustrates a number of interesting differences in perspective. Also some good questions that need answers.
But Radosta's package leaves me cold. Redmun is well; Redmun is active, visited by KR and others, and a LOT of big packages from foreign ports -- and from Brinley in Boston!
The Disease is loose again. Now this. What do we do?
Do I cancel my trip? If I cannot find someone both competent and discreet to discharge this duty, I must not go. But who? Maddy? Tony? Both would be best, but Tony is out of touch.
Oh dear.

Saturday, 15 Sept 28; 9:15 AM;

I did not want to rise. Late night with Byron, and Redmun and the realities of war. Uneasy sleep, filled with alarums and fragments of ungentle dreaming. The Plague. The Italian. Katyana and the Black Man. And that Hellish twinned spiral of the Dance, the Dance!
Tony called. Four in the morning, I make it, or thereabouts. Yanked up from slumber: "CARL!"
Funny. He got my note about the Kinnerley article. All upset. True, I was too, at first. But consider: what then? Nothing has happened, yet; but Grimaldi's code of Isilie-ism for its own sake does not ring true either.
He and R are going to come here for a few days, to take over the Redmun thing along with Maddy and, I suppose, Byron. I have told him how to come.
I am free to leave. We are. Yes.
But still, I must face the oban.

I have thought, and I have thought, and I have thought. Was Julian right? She was, I think.
One cannot be both creator and destroyer.
I cannot. I must not.
If the truth be known, I have not the soul of a destroyer. I may have the tactical understanding, but it is not RIGHT. If necessary; but I shall die, myself, with each death.

No, another. Who?
One who is hard. Hard enough.
One who is Avowed.
One who is Across the Veil?
One who has the Knowledge and the will.
There is no such person yet.

But consider. Am I right? That the will is necessary is obvious. That the strength be there equally so; and that means someone hard and ready. That there be knowledge enough to command successfully is a necessity of the job.
But why Avowed? Because they need to know that side of things as well. The Avowed have needs and restrictions and perceptions not shared by the others. The one who commands the troops must know those; it were best if this knowledge were from experience. Best; not mandatory.
And: Across the Veil? To start with, my reasoning is similar. But can someone who is truly Across shoulder that burden? Perhaps not. I am willing to be persuaded out of this.

Same day, 9:30 PM; Northbound.

Gifted with Grace, huh? Bother it all. I am getting tired of folks looking at me and nodding sagely, as if to confirm some privately granted opinion or perception! Rightly or wrongly does not matter, but what the Devil do they see that is so obvious -- and how did they all get to be able to see it?

Ye Gods and Little Fishes! As my grandfather was wont to say.

The Temple is all but closed. There is only one junior priest left (the one with the "ahah") and he said he was expecting me. All the others have left to do something else, somewhere else. He waited for me. Perhaps he too is gone by now.

They have their goals and methods (which we do not know) and, someday, we will meet again.

I wonder what it all means, & whose side they are on.

Sunday, 16 Sept 28; 5:00 PM; Oregon or Idaho

I like trains. Trains are fun. There is no end to the fun one can have on a train.

Monday, 17 Sept 28; 4:00 PM; Montana

Another hour or two and we arrive. I find myself edgy, nervous. What will he be like? What will they? What about the scandalous child?

Outt is the only one left, I think. The last of the true Old Guard, the only one who might be able to tell me what they were like from the inside: how things worked during the "Golden Age" before the Great War. How old is he? Did he know Riswold? Harden? Was he there in '84, and does he know what really happened to PF's family -- or how Harden died?

How can I have the gall to approach this man? What right have I to disturb him? I have no power to wave the Farquellian banner before him. His tenure is at least of twenty years, and I am a child of three.

What do I want from him, besides everything? Permission to proceed? Knowledge of why he stopped? Yes, and more. But I have as yet done nothing to earn his help.

It should be interesting.

Tuesday, 18 Sept 28; 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 cruel, 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. (note - Cytherea Farquell) 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 (note - Pierre Farquell) 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, Indiana 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.

SOlved a mystery this morning: the Secret of Bent. Straight was very helpful -- very illuminating.

The Great Houses are aware, of course; they see, and they feel, in their own way. But what do they see?

Now I know. They see the shape of things to come. They see -- and they let the Butler know. Amazing.

Should we use this place? It is a shame to let such a marvellous resource go to waste.

Talk to Alex C about it. Soon.

Tried Walking to the House. Distracted; it was much too nice to be Still. Another time perhaps.

Spiders. What is natural to an Outling? (note - Outsider) 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 are 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 teach 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 (note - Steven Gravemaster) 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 (note - Edward Chandler) 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.