Roland Yeomans's Blog, page 22

THE END IS THE BEGINNING

 Who will mourn for the orphan, Richard Blaine? Will any speak words over his unmarked grave?

THE END IS THE BEGINNING

“One of the lessons of history isthat nothing is often a good thing to do and always a clever thing to say.”

– Mr. Morton

 

The walk to Mr. Morton’s diningroom was not a straight-ahead sort of endeavor.

The rows of books grew misty,nebulous with threats of unseen attacks, filled with low growls of hunger aboutto be appeased.

The landmarks by which Itraversed the carpeted aisles were forbidden tomes that even I was not foolenough to peruse.

The iron-bound King in Yellow;the cursed Kitab al-Azif; the Gospel of Abelard (its only copysupposedly burned in 1121); 

the Manichaean Texts; and finally, the SibyllineOracles erroneously thought to be still deep within the secured vaults ofthe Vatican.

By the time we reached the Doorthat was not a Door (don’t ask me to explain lest your sanity be frayed), 

thesun was smearing the sky with its bloody fingers as it sank into the grave ofthe black horizon.

A bit melodramatic I know butthis was Samhain’s eve and a foretold cursed one at that.

The roof above the librarytingled with the memories of spring rain and rustled with the echoes of softsnow falling from rare, crisp December nights. 

Silent as the rise of mercury ina thermometer, we slipped into the threatening darkness beyond the Door thatwas not a Door.

Up high from the far rightcorner, words danced from the shadows, “Has Horus fled from the battlefield sosoon?”

“Seems like,” I whispered back.

“Good,” came the light reply.“The Master grows bored.”

“There are worse fates,” Igrumbled, not meaning to be overheard.

“As you will soon find out,”laughed the soft reply as it faded into ever-receding echoes.

Miss Mayfair shot me a darkglance. “You take a girl to such nice parties.”

I shrugged. “You wanted to come,remember?”

“That was when I was young andfoolish.”

“That was only days ago!”

“I’ve aged since then.”

“As I have listening to thisdrivel,” snapped Sister Ameal.

The encroaching darkness slowlyebbed like low tide in Hell.

And appropriately at thatthought, one familiar figure stepped into view.

Marie Laveau.

I shivered.

There was a doom in the air,death on the chill wind, and no sure road to safety tonight.

Or just like every other night atSt. Marok’s. But this one felt even more so than usual.

Marie Laveau was wearing what I calleda “head-kerchief” just to irritate her. 

It was actually called a tignon.

A tignon is a series ofheadscarves or a large piece of material tied or 

wrapped around the head toform a kind of turban resembling a West African gélé.

She almost spit her words. “Leaveit to you come in the back door.”

I smiled to match the temperatureof her eyes. 

“Yes, the servants’ entrance. You’re familiar with it I hear.”

“I would curse you, but youalready curse yourself by coming here … for a wretched Grunch!”

Helen murmured, “Call no one wretchedfor whom Christ died.”

Marie hissed like an angry cat. Ialmost expected her to hump her back.

“Won’t they miss you at CongoSquare?”

She smiled wide. “I want to seewhat the Grey Man does to you tonight.”

As Miss Mayfair studied me with aworried look that almost carried weight, I said, “I’m rather curious myself.”

Marie Laveau turned to SisterAmeal. “Ain’t you got no words for me, nun?”

“Why waste words on someone sofoolish as to never listen to her life?”

Marie wheeled about in a swirl ofblack skirt and white clenched teeth.

I was about to start after her, whenthe world blurred about us.

Abruptly, we were standing beforethe long oval table of Mr. Morton.

I smiled, “Impatient, are we?”

Morton stood slowly and regally.Dressed like Lord Byron, frilly jabot and everything. His thick blond haircascaded to his wide shoulders.

The Mirror of Enigmas burned inmy inside jacket pocket. I saw It as the undead thing it was.

“I preferred the Lord Byron look,”I said to wipe that smug smile off its face.

It smiled exposing fine white,filed teeth.

“One of the lessons of history isthat nothing is often a good thing to do and always a clever thing to say.”

I shrugged. “No one has everaccused me of being clever.”

The man to Mr. Morton’s right laugheddeep. I recognized him. Jacques St. Germaine. 

How was a vampire able to sitwithout harm in the presence of Miss Mayfair?

He laughed deeper, “Dans cettemaison, tout est possible.”

Sister Ameal bored cold eyes intohim. 

“Not everything is possible in this house, Count. A sow’s ear will neverbe a silk purse in this accursed abode.”

The nun flicked a glacial look tothe finely dressed woman I recognized from a history book as Delphine MacartyLalaurie.

It stated that she had died inParis on December 7, 1849.

The elegantly dressed womansneered, “Les insultes des tueurs ne me dérangent pas.”

Sister Ameal sneered back, “ThoseI was paid to kill were not bound in chains, Madame.”

I noticed Dapper Dan ease intothe chamber as if he were not supposed to be here.

What was going on?

Mr. Morton shrugged. “Chained?Unchained? Slaves are still chattel to be used at the owner’s discretion.”

Dapper Dan’s face flinched as ifit had been slapped. “The freedom to fight back means a great deal to those deprivedof so much.”

Mr. Morton glared at Dapper Dan. “Sheepdo not have the right to growl like wolves.”

Things were about to go to Hell …literally.

Though not prone to prayer, I feltthat now was definitely the time for it.

‘Great Father of Us All, protect him!’

Morton hunched over as if stabbedand glowered at me. “You dare! Here, you pray! Here! You dare!”

Dan – I would no longer denigratehim with “Dapper” – stood tall.

“Yes, he dares. I have watchedhim all his life dare to stand between the weak and those you call wolves.”

He pulled himself up even taller,and I could have sworn his white “Mark Twain” suit glowed.

“And with my death, I dare, too!”

I had never seen him watching me.

You never know who’s watching.You could be encouraging, inspiring, and motivating so many without evenknowing.

I wasn’t worth dying for.

Well, I would stand between theultimate wolf and a noble “man” though few would call him that … but me.

Mr. Morton sneered, “Blaine, doyou know what they will say over your unmarked grave?”

Dan said softly, “Well played.Any who knew him will say ‘Well played.’”

Helen Mayfair cried out, “Oh,dear, God!”

Everyone at the table leapt outof their chairs as their bodies smoldered as if about to burst into flames. Theyall fled the dining room.

Even Mr. Morton, whose body wasactually flickering in flames.

Sister Ameal rasped, “Turn around,Richard Blaine.”

With all the thrill of facing afiring squad, I turned around.

Dan was nowhere to be seen.

Only his glowing white suit,empty as if he had been ….

“Translated,” hoarsely spoke MissMayfair as she continued:

“By faith Enoch was translatedthat he should not see death.  And wasnot found, because God had translated him: for before his translation he hadthis testimony: he pleased God.”

I studied Dan’s empty suit forlong heartbeats and finally murmured, “Well played, Dan. Well played.”

 

“The real miracle is the love thatinspires it. In this sense everything that comes from love is a miracle.”

– Helen Mayfair

THE 7 ARCANE COLORS OF LIFE

 

The orphan, Richard Blaine, learns that d ining with evil never ends like you believe.

THE 7 ARCANE COLORS OF LIFE

“Dining with Evil endswith dessert being you.”

– Richard Blaine

 

“Being with your Enemy and notbeing with Him is the only way you have of measuring time, sir,” I smiled atMr. Morton.

It was a very forced smile. Telling Caligula he has bad taste is never done lightly.

Not only did everyone at thetable stop breathing, (the ones that still breathed that is) 

but the very walls of the candlelit chamber seemed to gasp.

What can I say?

I have an allergy to“condescending arrogance” commonly referred to as “smug.”

You know as in “as the prig isbent, so the snob’s inclined” sort of thing.

I tend to break out in suicidal,smart-mouth remarks. It’s another failing I have ... along with compassion.

Mr. Morton’s eyes changed colorsfrom pale, arctic blue to black, becoming holes into the nothingness that washis soul.

Mr. Morton spoke in a timbre thatOrson Welles would have envied, “There are very slow ways to die.”

“I know, sir. I’ve been livingone at St. Marok’s for a while now.”

It had started out a lousy dayand gone downhill from there, so I shouldn’t have been surprised that it hadcome to this.

With the blinking out of MarieLaveau, Night had flicked to Day like the turning on of a light switch.

I heard light pelting of sveltefeet on grass behind me before strong fingers seized my shoulders and spun mearound.

“Oh, Richard, I was so worried.”

Helen Mayfair’s face flinched asshe realized she’d called me by my first name. 

“Ah, we were so worried.Sister Ameal and I could find you nowhere on the grounds for two whole days!”

Sister Ameal padded up to me,seemingly disgusted at the world in general and me in particular. “How didMorton hide you from me?”

Not us. Me. 

I tucked that bitinto my spinning mind for further reflection … should I survive tonight’sfestivities.

“It lifted me from two nights agoand dumped me into today.”

Miss Mayfair frowned, “It?”

Sister Ameal snorted, “He meansMorton. And the boy ….”

“Young man,” sternly correctedMiss Mayfair, stressing the man.

I tucked that moment away in mymind for reflection, too. Things might be looking up … 

which meant that soonthey would take a nosedive.

My life was like that.

Sister Ameal smiled thatinfuriating, knowing smile of hers.

“The young man is correct.Morton is an Entity. One of enormous power that makes me shudder when Iconsider its utter lack of restraint combined with its own dark appetites.”

I said, “Then, let’s go to HeadmasterStearns’ quarters where I might pick up a weapon or two.”

Miss Mayfair frowned, “He keptweapons there?”

Sister Ameal kept smiling. “And alush velvet cushioned bed.”

Helen narrowed her eyes at me,and I hastily added, 

“And many, many arcane books. Knowledge is power. Besides,I’m too scared to percolate … especially in front of Sister Ameal.”

Miss Mayfair fought her ownsmile. “I believe that last.”

The students of St. Marok’s partedbefore us like waves of the Red Sea but with infinitely more trepidation than mere unfeeling water.

The glare of Sister Ameal and thememory of Miss Mayfair’s dainty revolver at the small of her back helped a good deal with thatI wagered.

We are what we repeatedly do. Evil,then, is not an act, but a habit.

Headmaster Stearns had been evil.

It lived on after him. 

The halls were deserted as weapproached Headmaster Stearns’ quarters. 

No surprise. 

Even in the daytime,strange growls, moans, and low screams sometimes could be heard beyond therune-carved door 

… 

when supposedly the quarters were empty.

We stopped in front of the door,and I slipped in the odd shaped metal key into the lock in the shape of a dragon’s snarling mouth.

Miss Mayfair asked low, “How canyou sleep in such a place?”

“I don’t. I doze … with acrucifix in one hand and the Mirror of Enigmas in the other ... the small handheld sister of it actually.”

Sister Ameal nodded. “Is the sister of that Mirror what you intend to bring to Morton’s tonight?”

“What is the Mirror of Enigmas?”asked Miss Mayfair.

“It reveals to whoever lookswithin it who that person truly is.”

“Have you ever ….”

“Yes. And all I saw was a mistyoutline of a body … nothing more.”

Sister Ameal cocked her head. “Didthat disturb you?”

“No. If you have to look into amirror for confirmation of who you are … then, you are no one.”

Miss Mayfair frowned, “Thesequarters seem to extend impossibly farther than my eyes can see.”

Sister Ameal murmured, “Purgatoryis like that.”

Miss Mayfair hushed, “We are inPurgatory?!”

I reached within my schooluniform jacket, withdrawing a crude map.

“Stearns drew a map that leadsfrom here to the dining room of Mr. Morton’s estate.”

Miss Mayfair’s frown deepened. 

“Then,why did not Mr. Morton enter here from there if he so wished the headmaster’s lostgospels?”

“Yeah, especially since there areno thresholds guarding an orphanage.”

Sister Ameal sighed, “And how doyou know this, young sir?”

“I’ve been reading Stearns’ books."

Miss Mayfair paled. "But they are cursed!"

"Only cursed if you read them to obtain power over others. I was just reading to stay alive."

Sister Ameal looked skeptical. "And that protects you?"

 "So far. The path to safety leads along some pretty steep cliffs."

I shivered. “But someof those books were … not light reading." 

I shook my head, 

"He was a man of narrow means, broad interests, and dark habits … ah, MissMayfair, I would suggest you’d not look too closely at the walls ….”

“Oh, my!”

Sister Ameal rolled her eyes. 

“Boy,you know little of women. If you had said nothing, she would not have lookedhalf as close.”

Miss Mayfair hushed, “What onearth is that to my right?”

“The icon of the golden carving forthe demoness of Morton’s first name.”

“It seems to almost be alive.”

“That is because it was paintedin the seven arcane colors of life.”

“Which are?”

“If I name them aloud thatdemoness becomes fully alive … and I imagine after all these millennia, shewill awaken ... hungry.”

Miss Mayfair paled. “Never mind. Itwas merely an idol question.”

Her nose wrinkled like a rabbit’s. “Did you catch the pun?”

Sister Ameal drawled, “No, we didnot, nor we will we catch it if you say it a second time.”

 

ILL-MET IN MOONLIGHT

 

Never meet a Voodoo Queen at Midnight

ILL-MET IN MOONLIGHT

“Life is like the oil in an oldhurricane lamp. How long it lasts depends on how long you burn and how high you flame.”

- Marie Leveau

 

Next midnight found me at myusual spot: sitting as far as possible from St. Marok’s at the fanged gate.

Of course, the world I saw atthat time of night in this stretch of the French Quarter was hardly uplifting. 

But I could imagine that just beyond the dilapidated buildings Icould see were homes …

Homes filled with … not saints … 

but just simple people who cared for one another, who watched out for eachother … 

who gave a damn if the other lived, died … or cried quietly alone inhis cot curled up like some stupid baby.

Sure, it was a fairy tale … butbetter than the Brothers Grim fairy tale I found myself living day after day.

I watched the thick fog cream andboil like a thought struggling to form at the edge of consciousness.

What formed wasn’t a thought buta nightmare.

Marie Laveau, dressed all inblack, looking ready to attend a funeral.

“Yours, boy. What kind of foolare you? Going to the Grey Man’s party to spare a Grunch?”

Obviously, news of the idiotvariety traveled fast. I guessed that happened when you could read minds. Ihoped she didn’t mind light reading.

I smiled sourly. “You tell me. You seem to knoweverything.”

“Ha! I knowed everything, Iwouldn’t have been cursed by the Grey Man.”

I noted her grammar slipped whenshe was upset. “How did that happen?”

“Unlike you, boy, I not a blabbermouth.”

I smiled wide. “But on the bright side, you’repretty.”

Her eyes became cruel. “But notas pretty as that spook librarian whose lips you will never kiss.”

It was obvious that she could notpass any open wound without scattering some salt into it. “Gee, tell mesomething I don’t know.”

“All right, since you asked sonice: 

the Grey Man done moved you up some days ahead in Time. He can do stufflike that. This be Monday … and he re-invited that even spookier nun and yourprecious heavenly librarian.”

Her smile widened, lost allsemblance of authenticity. “Maybe he want to kill her right in front of you tomorrow night …slow. Your very own trick for Halloween.”

“Feel free to leave any time,ma’am.”

She left, but she left behind faintechoes of mocking laughter.

 “For one human being to loveanother: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks… the work forwhich all other work is but preparation.”

- Rainer Maria Rilke

This is really a mystic, evocative tune:

TO INHERIT YOUR OWN PAST

 

Young Richard Blaine learns there are no safe visitors to St. Marok's.

TO INHERIT YOUR OWN PAST

“The Bible tells us to love our neighbors. Another place to love our enemies...convenient because here at St. Marok's they are usually the samepeople.”

– Richard Blaine

 

The next few days were odd … evenfor St. Marok.

Nothing went as usual. MissMayfair didn’t notice since she was taken from here when just a tiny infant.

Sister Ameal didn’t care since …well, because she was Sister Ameal.

There was a sudden influx ofstudents checking out books. Make that checking out Miss Mayfair. Even thegirls gave her sidelong glances.

I didn’t make judgements on themor why girls would pine for an exotic looking woman. Even with Stearns gone,dreams were few and far between at St. Marok’s.

I prayed they died before theirdreams did.

Life without dreams is like abird with a broken wing – the heart of it has been cut out.

A person without dreams is a personwithout hope . A person without hope is a boat without a rudder. A boat withouta rudder wanders endlessly without meaning.

Hold onto your dreams, for theyare what hold you together.

As I replaced books on a shelf, Iheard a yelp behind me.

I turned.

Bending over a table, MissMayfair had a student by the chin, forcing his head up. “Mr. Romulus, my eyesare six inches higher.”

Headmaster Stearns went through amythology phase for a time when naming babies dumped on the doorsteps.

I felt sorry for the Negro boy henamed Remus. His life was made miserable by Uncle Remus taunts … until Romulussmothered him with a pillow one night. He was fed up with the jokes about himbeing Remus’ brother.

I had been spending that night inthe library. The next night, I painted “Cain” on his forehead in red nailpolish while he slept.

It took ten days for the polishto wear off.

Were the police called? Of coursenot. This was during the tenure of Stearns. Besides, there was no body.Remember the ghouls?

Where life has no meaning, deathsometimes takes on a value all its own.

Yeah. It’s strange thinking of mebeing compassionate, right? It’s a character flaw. I’m working on it, but itstubbornly sticks around … like red nail polish.

The Voice in my head buzzed soloud that I could make out two words: ‘Behind you!”

Having learned the hard way notto ignore the Voice when I could make her out, I ducked and spun, grabbing theknife I kept hidden under every table.

The point of my blade justtouched the crotch of the wizened creature who stiffened at my speed.

I would have been mystified atthe sight of the strange mannish thing if not for Marie Laveau. She had pointedout a specimen of the being she called a Grunch. It was hiding in an alleywayjust beyond the fence that midnight as the Voodoo Queen tried to scare me withfright tales.

As if. I lived a fright tale.

Marie Laveau was not what Iexpected … but hardly anything or anyone was that.

She was tall. Her face was notwhite not black nor even the Indian which was part of her heritage. Her skinwas … golden … or at least it seemed so under the full moon’s caress.

Her eyes, whose color I could notmake out at midnight, were intelligent … but cold, appraising. She looked at meas if I were a piece of meat that was on the verge of turning bad.

Marie was dressed modestly asbefit a free woman of color in the early 1800’s … but without the towering headadornment which would have drawn unwanted attention in 1944.

Now, about the Grunch. It is adeadly beast (often compared to a Chupacabra) in some versions of the story.

However, in Marie’s version, theterm refers to a group of half-humans living outside New Orleans who haveresorted to cannibalism as a result of a deal they made with the Devil.

This was particular one was quitedapper, clad in an all-white suit similar to the one worn by Mark Twain.

I dug the point of my knife a bitinto his crotch and gave it my skull smile. “I really don’t think somethinglike you should procreate. Do you?”

Helen murmured low, “Why do youwork so hard to make yourself disliked? I should think you'd find it happensenough on its own without putting yourself to any extra trouble.”

There was nothing in that for me,so I kept quiet.

For once.

It had a reedy voice. “Actually,I would like to be able to attempt it should the opportunity arise.”

I rose slowly and ready. “Fairenough. What word do you bring from Mr. Morton?”

His jaw dropped. “How did youknow?”

“You smell of brimstone.”

As the students murmuredexcitedly among themselves, Miss Mayfair hushed them. They grew very quiet.

It might have had something to dowith the dainty revolver she held steady, aimed at Dapper Dan.

It’s believed that there was oncea real Grunch Road somewhere in the city of New Orleans. And that it was madeof shells, some from the Mississippi River, some from the Gulf of Mexico, anddirt from nowhere on this earth.

However, there’s been somedispute about where this legendary road was located. Plus, many believe that ithas since been paved over and renamed.

Marie Laveau offered to show methe exact street if only I jumped the fence and accompanied her. I saw how themoonlight struck fire from her filed teeth and politely declined.

In a small, dusty volume inStearn’s library, I read a passage in crimped handwriting that the creature wasactually the child of Marie Laveau and the rest of the tribe are itsdescendants. I cared little for others’ lineage.

I felt that every man was his ownancestor, and every man his own heir.

He devises his own future, and heinherits his own past.

But why wouldn’t I? I was anorphan.

“My master has rescinded hisinvitation to Miss Helen Mayfair and Sister Ameal because of their discourtesyto Madame President Abigail Adams.”

I snorted, “And he doesn’t wantto get sunburned in the presence of Miss Mayfair.”

“You may infer whateverconclusion you wish, The Blaine. You, however, are still invited … though thenight has been changed to next Tuesday.”

I shook my head. “Alone on Halloween,Three Spirit Night? I must respectfully, sanely refuse.”

Dapper Dan worriedly licked his lips.“H-He will grant you your heart’s desire.”

My eyes became Judas and flickedto Miss Mayfair. “Not within his power. Thank him for me … but I must politely,emphatically refuse.”

“But you must!”

I had seen fear often at St.Marok’s. Terror, too, but not as often.

This was terror.

He was terrified of facing Mr.Morton with my refusal.

Helen looked closely at my face.“You owe this one nothing.”

I shook my head.

“I have too good an imagination.I say ‘No’ now, and each night when I close my eyes, I will devise worseand worse fates for Dapper Dan here to unfold before my mind’s eye.”

The Grunch looked at me oddly. “Youare being compassionate … to me?”

“Strange I know. I was justchiding myself about that character flaw. I’ve tried shaking it, but it sticksto me like stubborn cellophane wrap.”

“You will go to face my Master …for me?”

“Of course, not. I am going forme. Selfish bugger, aren’t I?”

“No … no, you are not.”

One heartbeat he was there. Thenext, he was not.

Helen and the other orphanslooked at me like the idiot I felt.

They looked surprised. I thoughtthe fact of my idiocy had already been well established.

Goes to show you: nothing is everas obvious to others as it is to you.

PEACE IN A WORLD WITHOUT IT

 

"If you want peace, stop fighting.  If you want peace of mind, stop fighting with your thoughts."
 -Elu

"Nothing can bring you peace of mind but yourself."
 - Ralph Waldo Emerson

"The punishment of every disordered mind is its own disorder." 
- St. Augustine


As I sat down at my laptop, mulling over what to write for today's post,

Anything I could write seemed trivial against a backdrop of  

death, hate, and the madness resulting from becoming ensnared in Middle Eastern blood-feuds.
All I heard were chants praising the death of infants.

I heard one word murmur within my mind: "Peace."

I wasn't thinking of inner peace.  

I was thinking of what my writing friends might be interested in.

Perhaps the Great Mystery answered my question for me.

Don't expect any great wisdom here though.  

I am not the Great Mystery.  I don't have the job qualifications.

But I know that, like happiness, you cannot find peace by looking for it.  

Like happiness, peace of mind is a by-product of living not its goal.


Be true to you:

When we practice congruency, we behave similarly to the way we feel and think. 

When the way we see ourselves and the way the world sees us is the same, we are practicing congruency. 

Problems arise when we see ourselves one way 

(for example, as a loving mother) 

but behave in ways that are at odds with how we would like to see ourselves 

(for example, neglect our children because we are too busy). 

Finding ways to keep our inner ideals and the way we behave similar is one of the keys to peace of mind.


Peace on the battlefield:

It is easier to be at peace when we listen to beautiful music, play with our pets, 

walk through undisturbed nature, and step away from the world.

But Life is a harsh  mistress.  

She draws you back into the chaos of conflicts with bosses, spouses, children, bills, ill health ... 

the number of enemy troops you face sometimes appear endless.

Each battlefield we find ourselves on contains a lesson that will keep us from worse ones 

if we but learn it correctly.


Look for that lesson.  

Perhaps it is only to take ourselves not so seriously, to learn to laugh at ourselves 

(we will never run out of material!), 

to learn that some battles are not worth the collateral damage, 

or to find we should not fail to plan unless we plan to fail.

 Failure has negative connotations, but actually, everyone fails. 

 How can you improve or learn anything if you never fail? 

A healthy attitude towards failure encourages bravery. 

It’s not you that is the failure, instead it is what you tried that failed. There is a big difference.


Listen to the Wake-Up Call of Loss

 To lose something we had taken blithely for granted is jarring.  

It should alert us to look for all the other blessings in our lives that really are so precious.


Forgive:

Those who hurt us have taken enough of our time.  Why invite them along in your thoughts for the rest of the day?  

They have to live in the world they make for themselves with their thoughtless natures.  

Forgive them, release them from the obligation they owe you, and you will find you have released yourself.  

Hate is like drinking rat poison, hoping the rat will die of it.


Think Outside of Yourself

Each person you pass or meet is fighting a battle no one knows anything about.  

Be kinder than you might be inclined to be for that reason.


Learn the Power of a Smile

 Whenever you are laughing or smiling, something interesting happens.

 Not only does something happen on a chemical level to make you feel better, 

but it also stops all stress and negativity from entering your psyche. 

 A simple smile can make such a difference.


  ‘Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.’
 ~Victor Frankl

WRITING in a SEASON OF UNCERTAINTY

 

 We live in an age of uncertainty.

A fatal amount of Covid-19could have justlodged in the membranesof our eyes.
(Yes, we can catch it that way)


Or we become a victim ofviolenceby uttering amicro-aggressionorsupport of a hated groupof which we were unaware.


When did we get sothin-skinned anyway?
I feel many of ourgreat grandparentswho survivedthe depression

would tell us it waspast time togrow up.
I got a scathing email recently from a reader who scorned me for 

even suggesting that a white male Caesar could speak for and to all humanity.


The ghost of Mark Twain whispered in my ear, and I wrote back

that I would try to "man up" to these changing times.


But back to writing in these uncertain times.

I am not a Titan of Literature, but I have read and listened to many of them.


Take Harlan Ellison whose ghost visited my blog long ago:

 https://rolandyeomans.blogspot.com/2019/12/art-isnt-supposed-to-be-easyiwsg.html 

He would say that the very uncertainty, the very danger of our times

provides grist for the mill of our minds.


The above image should spark a dozen story ideas to us.

Yes, we are scared by the Hamas killings, the plague killing our children now, and by the economic ruin hovering over the horizon.


Michelangelo didn't let the ache in his arms, the spasms in his back

keep him from crafting the masterpiece, the Pietà.  


Samuel Pepys lived through the London Fire, the Plague, and restive political unrest that could have resulted in his execution.

But he kept writing the journal that is studied by students to this day. 




We can take the idiocies of conflicting demands being ignored 

and make of them a riveting story or novel born of what we see and feel.

WHAT DO YOU THINK? 

A FRIEND'S QUESTION ANSWERED

 

Have you ever run your heart out, racing for the finish line of your novel ...

And it seems you are running around in circles?

I have a loyal friend in the UK who has unknowingly kept my flagging spirits up in my SAME AS IT NEVER WAS serial

I'm in the home stretch of my novel -- perhaps 5 more chapters to go --

Thanks to Misky's faithful comments and support.

https://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html

She asked me this question on my latest post: 

https://rolandyeomans.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-most-important-question.html

MiskyOctober 12, 2023 at 4:52 PM

Roland, some weeks ago, you posted an article which drew a lot of other writers to comment. Do they not read or comment on your Same As It Never Was series? And what is their connection with you, Roland

So, I thought to answer it here, not only for her, but for others who might have been wondering the same thing.

Hurricane Laura destroyed my apartment complex. And Hurricane Delta two weeks later pretty much destroyed all the available places to rent!

Covid knocked me for a loop before the hurricanes -- thankfully --

Else Lifeshare would not have allowed me to sleep under the racks of T-shirts in the storeroom for the 7 months it took Lake Charles to rebuild.

https://rolandyeomans.blogspot.com/2020/10/if-you-were-wondering.html

My blog friends send money to my PayPal account to help me financially and keep Midnight in Vet Prison for 7 months.

Then, last Halloween, I had a massive heart attack! Ouch!!

So I have to work to pay $1200 for heart and diabetes medicines. Double ouch!!

I have been trying to finish my Magnum opus (101K so far) which may be my last novel -- to make it my best.

A combo of GREAT EXPECTATIONS, FRINGE, and BAND OF BROTHERS. 

Anyway, my friends, that is why I haven't been visiting you.

And if you don't visit, you can't very well expect visitors, right?

Say a prayer for Misky, will you, for being such a good friend?

Oh, and visit her blog too:

https://misky.uk/

She is a fine poet and great AI artist. Visit. You'll see.

THE MOST IMPORTANT QUESTION

 All alone with an angry vampire next to two bleeding corpses, young Richard Blaine 

finds that a library can be a very dangerous place to ask the wrong question.

THE MOST IMPORTANT QUESTION

“The question that keeps youalive at St. Marok’s is: ‘What am I missing?’”

– Richard Blaine

 

I studied the limp bodies of Iceand Easy. So vital and deadly just moments ago.

Now, just vacant houses of flesh.

The two birds have flown. In whatstrange tree do they now sing?

I smiled bitterly at myself.

My task for today was a six-hourself-accusatory depression.

Did Marcello miss them already orwere they to him just useful tools?

No matter.

He was the less for their dyingregardless of what he told himself about their deaths.

Whenever someone who knows you dies,you lose one version of yourself. Yourself as you were seen, as you were judgedto be.

Lover or enemy, mother or friend,those who know us construct us, and their several judgements slant thedifferent facets of our characters like diamond-cutter's tools.

Each such loss is a step leadingto the grave, where all versions blend and end.

Abigail Adams studied me in turn.

“Why so sad? Do you really thinkthat those two would have mourned you in the least?”

I shrugged. “What's real andwhat's true aren't necessarily the same.”

I smiled sadly and twisted the wordsof Dorothy Parker,

“What fresh hell have you broughtto my doorstep, Mrs. Adams? You want that invitation to Mr. Morton’s mansion,too?”

“Oh, dear heavens, no! I wantnothing to do with that thing no matter what designation it gives itself.”

She held up her slender righthand. “Bide. My ghouls are here to attend to their dietary needs.”

“Not right here!”

“Oh, do be sensible, Mr. Blaine.They will not break their fast here. They will take the bodies out the hiddenpassageway to the alleyway behind this orphanage.”

“This place has a hiddenpassageway?” I asked and immediately regretted sounding like a loon.

Of course, this building hadsecrets. It was nearly as old as the city itself.

As it turned out, the two ghouls,smelling of mildew and unwashed flesh, came out of a cavernous pit in the floorwhich slid open as if it had been recently oiled.

My shivers got goosebumps.

The way they moved. Jerkily, almostspider like … as if their muscles had forgotten how humans used their bodies.

I forced myself to look themstraight on. I would grant them personhood if only by recognizing theirexistence.

Only by the wildest stretch oflanguage could you call what they wore clothes. 

Tattered ruins of eveningclothes … or burial ones … clung to them, looking as if they would fall off atany moment.

“Oh, do not bother trying to bepolite to these caricatures of their former incarnations.”

Her thin lips curled.

“There is only one ghoul in allof New Orleans who retains her personality. As long as she stays in her crypt,I will stay my hand.”

“You’re a real sweetheart,ma’am.”

“I am a revenant, whelp, and theempress of all the American revenants. What gave you the fanciful notion that Iwas good?”

I made a face, “Sooner or later,I am bound to meet someone with power that is decent.”

“Look elsewhere, Mr. Blaine. I amnot that person.”

I was tired of her games. “Whyare you here?”

“Curiosity. I heard that theentity which now calls itself Morton was interested in you. I wanted to seewhy.”

“That’s easy, Mrs. Adams. TheLost Gospels of Henry the Lion.”

“No. Though that volume is indeedcursed, there are more intriguing volumes in that cretin Stearns’ collection ofarcane lore.”

She sighed, which impressed me asshe did not breathe.

“They invoke mysteries hinting ofknowledge ancient, extraterrestrial, even possibly divine: the VoynichManuscript, the Rohonc Codex, the Smithfield Decretals, andthe Book of Soyga.”

She pointed a long forefinger atme.

“No, Mr. Blaine. There issomething about you, yourself, that unsettles that Entity …  and that unsettles me.”

The ghouls had gone, carrying thecorpses of the killers with them.

I jumped as the blindingly whitehabit of Sister Ameal popped up from the still open passageway in the floor.

“I cannot trust you to stay outof trouble long enough for me to teach Miss Mayfair one simple self-defenselesson, can I?”

Mrs. Adams snapped, “You! I heardyou were still a paid assassin in Portugal.”

Sister Ameal shrugged.

“I grew bored. I joined theconvent to become a nun and enter the intrigues of the Vatican. I should havestayed an assassin. It was a more honest profession.”

“That is not the reason.”

“No, but I do not owe such as youthe truth. Now, clamor down into the sewers where you belong.”

“I will not! Unlike most of mysubjects, I can walk in the daylight.”

“But not in the Son-Light. Helen,my dear, you can enter the library now.”

“No!” screamed Abigail Adams, andwith a rustle and sweep of satin gown, leapt down into the dark passageway,brushing roughly past the chuckling nun.

Helen, with mussed hair, pouredinto men’s jeans and white shirt, stormed into the library.

“Sister Ameal, you are too freewith my secret!”

The nun easily climbed out theopening in the floor like a gymnast.

“Be of good cheer, Miss Mayfair.Mr. Blaine is too smitten with you to logically assess what just transpired.”

I glared at her. “And thanks forkeeping my secret, too, Sister.”

Both giving me knowing Mona Lisasmiles, Miss Mayfair and Sister Ameal spoke as one. “What secret?”

 

“There's nowhere you can be thatisn't where you're meant to be...”

― John Lennon

Don't let the title below mislead you, the music is fitting for a conversation with a vampire next to bleeding corpses.

HUNTSMAN, WHAT QUARRY?

 

In which, for one of the very few times in his orphan life, Richard Blaine gets into trouble by minding his own business.

HUNTSMAN, WHAT QUARRY?

“But she was not made for anyman, and she will never be all mine.”

– Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

When Calogero Minacore – that’sCarlos Marcello to Mafia aficionados everywhere – walked into the library atSt. Marok’s, I was reading the Bible.

Don’t jump to any conclusions. I waslooking for a loophole. At least that was what I called it.

Honest.

The Voice had been murmuring atme incessantly all day.

I could tell she was literallyscreaming at me but at such a low volume it was like someone had left a radio programon in the next room.

Also, I felt disconnected from myself… as if someone were trying to take control of my body as when Not-I had killed“Bent” Murcham.

I would just have to ride thebucking horse that was my unique form of insanity as best I could.

Only a few years from becomingthe Godfather of New Orleans, Marcello was perhaps the most dangerous man in allthe Crescent City.

He was currently the lieutenantof  Sam “Silver Dollar” Carolla. But thedon’s ongoing legal problems made Carlos pretty much the boss of everything dark,dangerous, and lethal.

So, the million-dollar questionwas:

What was such a pivotal figure inthe Mafia doing here in this very well stocked library in an otherwise obscureorphanage?

 

He was short, stocky, with abullet head. Though he was woefully uneducated, he was an excellent reader ofcharacter which made him the master of intimidation and swimmer through theshark-infested waters of New Orleans’ politics.

So, again, what was such animportant man doing here?

He had foresworn his beloved polka-dotbowtie for a garish long tie … but not his two deadly bodyguards: Ice and Easy.

The platinum blonde and redhead walkedon either side of him as if they were spring-loaded. The blonde preferred theice pick as a weapon.  

The willowy redheadkilled very easily … at the drop of Carlos’ right hand … hence, her name.

Ice pulled out the chair oppositeme to which Carlos thumped as if he had walked forty miles in this air you could wear ofNew Orleans.

“I ain’t got time to chit-chat,punk.”

“And I had such hopes.”

"You got a death-wish, boy?"

“Every day I awaken here at St.Marok’s comes as a surprise to me. I live in the moment, sir, for I might nothave another.”

A cultured woman’s voice with aslight British accent spoke from the open doorway:

“And so, he could be said to bethe most fully alive individual in this room, for all of us are playing thelong game as it were, focused on the future which well may never come.”

I looked at the slender, shortwoman in the silk gown some centuries out of date and forced a smile,

“Or at least not in the way wehope, Mrs. Adams.”

Her cold eyes narrowed, and I triedto ignore the way winter visited my blood.

 “I have read every book in this library.Some of them were on American history.”

I turned to Carlos. “You’d likesome of them, sir. The ones with pictures.”

He went red in the face. “Ice ….”

“Dead, the boy will not be ableto give you that invitation to Morton’s that you so lust after,” murmured Mrs.Adams.

Her head whipped around to me. “Boy,why are you goading him to kill you?”

I shrugged. “”To cut to thechase. Even if I had the invitation ….”

Marcello snorted, “Which you don’t.The librarian broad has it. But you could convince her to give it to me.”

I sighed, “If I hated you, I woulddo that. Mr. La ….”

Mrs. Adams snapped, “Do not callthat … thing by that false name.”

“It’s phony?”

“Both first and last. But if youmust designate him by some utterance, call him Morton.”

As I slipped my fingers into theBible at the recessed page at which I had been digging, I said to Mr. Marcello.“Mr. Morton would have you as the main course, sir.”

He snorted, “I’d have Ice andEasy with me.”

“Oh, please,” groaned Mrs. Adams.“They are not up to Mr. Blaine here, much less that one.”

Mr. Marcello raised his righthand. A gentleman would have waited for it to drop. I didn’t survive St. Marok’sby being a gentleman.

A chill shroud swept over my mind. 

Not-I took over.

Snatching the knife from the hole I had cut into the book of Job, Not-I sprang up, 

and Mrs. Adams criedout, “Use the hilt!”

Yeah, right.

Not-I drove the silver blade up tothe hilt in Easy’s heart, In the same movement, my left hand seized thebutt of her Police Special at her hip.

Not-I spun and shot Ice between herdead eyes. 

The ice pick clattered to the tiles. 

Her head rocked back. Her bodyreeled forward to sprawl on the floor alongside what I heard had been herlover.

I sighed. I didn't like killing. Especially, when Not-I killed. It always caused ... complications.

Once more fully me, I kneeled over Easy, closing her eyes and murmured,

 “She is happy where she lies

With the glaze of death upon her eyes.”

Carlos Marcello stiffened as Not-I aimedbetween his own wide eyes.

Mrs. Adams said coldly, “I said ‘usethe hilt.’”

I smiled crooked. “I thought yousaid: ‘up to the hilt.’ Silly me.”

As Marcello swallowed hard, she asked,“Why are you hesitating? Finish the job. Kill the kine and be done with it.”

Kine.

Kine was what Jacques St. Germainetold me that midnight beyond the gate vampires called their humanvictims.

I was still alive because I hadwon that dumb game of Scissors, Paper, Rock. It amused him that I had shown nofear of losing.

At. St. Marok’s, death wasnothing to fear. Living was the true horror.

Marcello gasped, “What are you,Lady?”

“Look at her shadow, sir.”

“Ya 'iilahi! She ain’t got noshadow!”

“That’s right, Mr. Marcello. I amwhat you kine call a vampire. I was turned in the gardens of Versailles.”

“The what?”

“Sir, she was the First Lady tothe second President of the United States.”

“That ain’t possible!”

Mrs. Adams turned irritated tome. “Why is he still alive?”

I locked eyes with the terrified,confused man. 

Killing him would be too much like shooting a deer blinded by acar’s headlights.

“Mr. Marcello, would you like tobuy your life?”

“Yeah, anything! I can make you arich orphan.”

“Don’t want money. Give me yourword of honor that you will leave me and mine alone.”

“What do you consider yours?”

“Think wide there, sir. Think wide.”

“What about the bodies?”

Mrs. Adams said, “My ghouls willtake care of them.”

“Gh-Ghouls?”

She exposed her very sharp teethand snapped them twice.

“Oh Dio!”

Mr. Marcello sprang up from hischair so fast that it toppled over. 

He ran so quickly out of the library that Iexpected to see after-images left behind by his body.

Mrs. Adams sighed, “Are you so naïve thatyou believe he will keep his word?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

She studied me with her pale blue eyes.“You kill very easily.”

“I learned from those who died that dawdledat it.”

Mrs. Adams snapped exasperated, “Whereis your librarian?”

“Miss Mayfair is not mine,” I said,trying to keep all emotion from my voice.

I still gave myself away as Mrs.Adams shook her head.

 “There will be no conjoining with her, Mr. Blaine. Her natureforbids it.”

I forced a smile. “Conjoining?You sure take all the romance out of a dream, ma’am.”

Her nature? What did she mean bythat? 

Were my hopes destined to die?

That would teach me to dream in a place like St. Marok's.

“No one but Night, with tears onher dark face, watches beside me in this lonely place.”

― Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

THE LOST GOSPELS OF HENRY THE LION

 Return to New Orleans and young orphan, Richard Blaine, as he meets the enigmatic Mr. Morton for the first time ...

and the mysterious librarian, Helen Mayfair, for the second time.

THE LOSTGOSPELS OF HENRY THE LION

“Somelost things should stay that way.”

– AllanQuartermain

 

If a girl touches your heart, shewill stay with you, haunting the places in your mind that you rarely ever visit… or can never leave.

One of the two … depending on howyour relationship went … well or tragically.

And you only think you know whichconsummation effects the number of mental visits.

It may help to understand what Ijust said to realize that most of the great triumphs and tragedies of the heartare caused, 

not by people being fundamentally good or being fundamentally bad,but by people just being fundamentally people.

I had to get bruised a lot tolearn that.

I was happier ignorant … and morehopeful.

That all changed that morning whenSister Ameal escorted me to the cursed library of St. Marok’s.

The nun squeezed my ear as wewalked into the sweeping, cavernous library. I fought a wince … and lost.

“You're always you, and that doesn'tchange, young sir, and you're always changing, and there's nothing you can doabout that either.”

She glanced to where I waslooking: at the breathtakingly beautiful Helen Mayfair.

“And every lingering kiss andevery caress of soft skin is another shard of heart you will never see again.”

“Ah, I just want to be close toher, to hear that strange voice of hers.”

“That’s how it starts, young sir.That’s how it starts.”

“What starts, Sister?”

“The Trojan War, Mister Blaine …and trust me, it ended badly with worse poetry.”

She changed from my ear tosqueezing my nose. “It will be the same for you unless you are smarter than youlook.”

“Then, my goose is pretty wellcooked.”

“I am afraid so, young sir.”

And it was.

I do not miss St. Marok’sorphanage, mind you.

But I miss the way I tookpleasure in small things there, even as greater things in the world crumbled.

I could not control the world, orthe war sweeping across it, could not walk away from things or people ormoments in the orphanage that hurt, 

But I took joy in the things there thatmade me happy … few though they were.

Miss Mayfair spotted me withSister Ameal. 

“Oh, Mr. Blaine! Good news! We are invited for dinner a week hence atthe fabled mansion of Mr. Lamashtu Morton!”

Sister Ameal muttered, “Youngsir, that is not good news. It is terrible news.”

I nodded. “With a first name likeLamashtu, how could it not be?”

“Do not mock that one’s name!”

“I’m not. Lamashtu is aMesopotamian demon lord and the goddess of monsters.”

I made a face. “Never sit down todinner with a gender-confused host. It never ends well.”

Sister Ameal frowned at me. Ishrugged again. “I read a lot, Sister.”

Miss Mayfair almost skipped tome. “His is a mansion to which only a select few are ever invited to dinner.”

“As the main course?” I asked.

She slapped my upper left arm. Ionly later learned why “left” was important to her ... and to me: 

it was the side closest tothe heart.

“Silly. No, the price ofadmission is merely the volume in your new rooms, the former quarters of the late, unlamented Headmaster Stearns:

 The Lost Gospels of Henry the Lion.”

As Sister Ameal stiffened, Isighed,

 “Of course, it is."

I shook my head. 

TheGospels of Henry the Lion were intended by Henry the Lion, Duke of Saxony, forthe altar of the Virgin Mary in the church of St. Blaise's Abbey

I sighed, "A cursed gold-bound book worth millions. Who could turndown a free meal at that price?”