Timothy H. Cook's Blog, page 10
April 1, 2014
Music, and ultimate reality
This post may seem a bit off-topic, but bear with me. It has occurred to me that music is one "force of nature" that still defies any explanation. It exists, as it were, in a realm all its own - where it needs no explanation to exist. Now I was given a book by my son, Ben, several years ago, called The Music Instinct, by Philip Ball, which was an excellent book, and attempted to do just that - to explain music. I enjoyed reading the book, and I must say that it did provide some fascinating insights into music, and how important it is to us, to the human race.
Now "music" is one of those things that has insidiously crept into our consciousness, and which most of us take for granted. It is used (typically against our wishes) in so many ways that we typically try to "tune it out" when confronted with it - for example, someone thought that it would be a great idea if, when put on hold, we would be subjected to whatever music someone else deemed pleasing to our ears. Now I am quite convinced that there was research done which showed just what type of music would be pleasing to persons kept on hold. Well, as one who was not a research subject, I take exception to this notion. In fact, I find that I usually react negatively to any type of "canned music", much as I do to laugh tracks on TV shows. But that is at the root of the dilemma, which is that music, when presented in such fashion tends not to be true music.
What then is real music?
Real music is something else entirely. It is the language of the ages. It is the difference between canned Muzack, and sitting down to listen to a performance of Beethoven's sixth symphony, with a live orchestra. Or it is the participatory music of worship, or the music of street musicians, regardless of how good or bad they may be.
If you can recall the first concert that you attended. Recall how the music made you feel. How the performers on their instruments, the singers and dancers made you feel as though you were now part of something greater, something more profound. And this I submit to you is what makes all the difference - it is the choice to participate, either as a performer, or as a listener, or observer. This is what true music is about.
And it is this type of music which really helps define us as a species. All persons, in all ages and all places on earth have music. It is as intrinsic as language. It has been a part of us as long as we've been a species. And, I must submit, that music is a gift to us from our creator. I cannot define it any other way.
But to what uses have we put music? We have used it to communicate that for which language alone will not do. It has come to define who and what we are, it has become a means of communicating some essence of ourselves to others (e.g patriotic music or military marches or the festive music of weddings), it can be the vehicle to reach outside ourselves, and across the chasm of time.
Fair or not, there are a few of us whose sense of music seems to go beyond ordinary mortals (Praetorius, Palestrina, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms, Dvorak, Chopin, Mahler, Barber, Morricone, Shore to name but a very few). And there are those of us who "can't carry a note with a bucket", but who nonetheless are touched by the grace of those musicians among us who can. And what a world it would be without music! What a sterile and lifeless existence.
And so, now I've come to my own novels, and the role that music plays in them. In my first book, Laminar Flow, I introduce music in the prologue, as well as the final chapter (not the epilogue). And it is music with a purpose all its own. In the second book, Coaptation, music seems to be missing (other than it is mentioned in Chapter One), but then it reemerges as a "character" in Chapter Sixteen and Eighteen. But in the third book, Turbulence and Restoration, the "character" of music does emerge, and is actually important to the story. Though not thought of as a real "character" music does play a role throughout. Just something to think about as you read.
Now "music" is one of those things that has insidiously crept into our consciousness, and which most of us take for granted. It is used (typically against our wishes) in so many ways that we typically try to "tune it out" when confronted with it - for example, someone thought that it would be a great idea if, when put on hold, we would be subjected to whatever music someone else deemed pleasing to our ears. Now I am quite convinced that there was research done which showed just what type of music would be pleasing to persons kept on hold. Well, as one who was not a research subject, I take exception to this notion. In fact, I find that I usually react negatively to any type of "canned music", much as I do to laugh tracks on TV shows. But that is at the root of the dilemma, which is that music, when presented in such fashion tends not to be true music.
What then is real music?
Real music is something else entirely. It is the language of the ages. It is the difference between canned Muzack, and sitting down to listen to a performance of Beethoven's sixth symphony, with a live orchestra. Or it is the participatory music of worship, or the music of street musicians, regardless of how good or bad they may be.
If you can recall the first concert that you attended. Recall how the music made you feel. How the performers on their instruments, the singers and dancers made you feel as though you were now part of something greater, something more profound. And this I submit to you is what makes all the difference - it is the choice to participate, either as a performer, or as a listener, or observer. This is what true music is about.
And it is this type of music which really helps define us as a species. All persons, in all ages and all places on earth have music. It is as intrinsic as language. It has been a part of us as long as we've been a species. And, I must submit, that music is a gift to us from our creator. I cannot define it any other way.
But to what uses have we put music? We have used it to communicate that for which language alone will not do. It has come to define who and what we are, it has become a means of communicating some essence of ourselves to others (e.g patriotic music or military marches or the festive music of weddings), it can be the vehicle to reach outside ourselves, and across the chasm of time.
Fair or not, there are a few of us whose sense of music seems to go beyond ordinary mortals (Praetorius, Palestrina, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms, Dvorak, Chopin, Mahler, Barber, Morricone, Shore to name but a very few). And there are those of us who "can't carry a note with a bucket", but who nonetheless are touched by the grace of those musicians among us who can. And what a world it would be without music! What a sterile and lifeless existence.
And so, now I've come to my own novels, and the role that music plays in them. In my first book, Laminar Flow, I introduce music in the prologue, as well as the final chapter (not the epilogue). And it is music with a purpose all its own. In the second book, Coaptation, music seems to be missing (other than it is mentioned in Chapter One), but then it reemerges as a "character" in Chapter Sixteen and Eighteen. But in the third book, Turbulence and Restoration, the "character" of music does emerge, and is actually important to the story. Though not thought of as a real "character" music does play a role throughout. Just something to think about as you read.
March 23, 2014
Now why do I write - isn't it enough that I've got a good job?
This is an update of an old post, which I had written some time ago, but which I really felt that I needed to republish, as it has now been a whole year since The Book of Drachma, as a trilogy, became a published reality. It has been quite a journey for me. But for now, at least, the journey seems to have stalled out. With our move, my new job, and all that that entails. But still, I do envision myself as a writer of sorts – not highly successful, but nevertheless, I am still at it – still working my way through the continuation of the Drachma story.Now to begin, I have to take you back a ways. Now I've always thought that I "had a book in me" that wanted to get out. Even thinking back to childhood, and those exercises in English class, which just seemed to whet my appetite for something more substantial. And even later, in college, what I remember most vividly was that instead of a term paper, our professor allowed us to write something fictional instead, and so came Professor Snubkin's Hamletpain. A one act play, which I wrote, we performed, and I directed, to the amusement of our college class. But then, as I had to make a career choice, I realized that medicine was where I was going, and I've not regretted it. It has been a rewarding thing to have pursued.
But one thing happened in college that really stuck with me, and that was the publication of Stephen Donaldson's best selling, and award-winning fantasy trilogy, The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant. Now this was particularly relevant to me, as I knew Steve Donaldson - he was my brother's age, and we attended the same boarding school in India. Now I do not pretend to have anywhere near the talent that Steve has, but that little bit of fertilizer and seed was planted in my own psyche. Then, to make matters even more compelling, someone in my own class in boarding school, Kai Bird, went ahead and wrote American Prometheus (the story of J. Robert Oppenheimer), and he got a Pulitzer prize for doing so.
Well, this was indeed the fertile soil from which grew my own literary efforts. And it happened at a medical conference in Cincinnati, late in 1988, when there were a bunch of us sitting around at lunch, bemoaning the state of the medical profession, as portrayed in the lay media. Not just about the inaccuracies of what they were portraying, but the feelings and motivations were all wrong! So, on my way back home, I envisioned this grand medical story – one in which I would get the facts right, but more importantly, get the feelings right.
As I now had a word processor at home, there seemed to be nothing in my way (except time), so I began to write what eventually became The Book of Drachma. It truly became an obsession with me, and a compulsion as well. I wrote the first part quite quickly, and I wrote a few more chapters into the second part. But then, I went through a divorce, moved, changed computer systems, and all the while my novel (which did not yet have a name) just sat in my office gathering dust. Then, late in 2009, one of the women in my office (Michelle Ogle), offered to transcribe my novel into a word-compatible format, and I decided to put it out on my blog, one chapter per week. But then it needed a name - so The Book of Drachma it became.
Now, what was my own motivation for all this writing? It certainly was not money. No, rather, by now the characters themselves were clamoring to be heard, and to have their stories told. It became harder to keep to the story line that I had envisioned, with all these characters, whom I loved, wanting to speak. But, by the time I was nearly done with Part Three, I realized that the characters themselves had told an even better tale than I could have envisioned for them. From then on, it was just a matter of finding a voice for these characters, and I stumbled onto Tate publishing.
So, you see, it's not for fame (or notoriety) that I write. It is more like some sort of perverse need to allow my characters, who still need to tell their tales, that I write. Hope you can get a copy of my book(s), available on Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, and similar online sources (and available in three formats - paperback, e-books and audio books) and let me know what you think.
January 28, 2014
The State of Health Care (from this old curmudgeon)
Now that it's January, and most of the country is sitting (shivering) under this polar ice cap, I thought that it was time that I render my own views of the state of the medical world (from the perspective of an old, and increasingly grumpy, old man of medicine).
And to do that, I'd like to harken back to some comments which I made in an earlier post on the condition of our own "health care system." If you are so inclined, you may read my post from June last year to get some idea of my perspectives on the state of our health care conglomerate, and where we (as physicians) sit in the great scheme of things. And perhaps more importantly where we (as society) see the role of physicians in our culture. What has happened to the physician-patient relationship? It seems to me that the once special relationship has ben swept under the wheels of progress in the name of "health care."
Let me assure you, that I know the realities of modern medicine, having lived through the last half of the previous century (and having become a physician for the last quarter of the last century). Besides that, I have what I have come to find out is a unique perspective, in that I am the seventh generation physician in our family, and so I carry with me that legacy, too. Let me say this right out: what has happened to the physician-patient relationship has become a fleeting memory, a mere warm spot in the hearts of those of us old enough to remember. And I fear it has been permanently replaced by something else, which I will later attempt to define.
All this came to a crisis of the mind just yesterday. I had just finished working a week of nights (7PM - 7AM), and was looking forward to two days of recuperation, before starting back to working days (7AM - 7PM) again, when I got an email from my "boss" (why do I get a disturbing image of that pointy-haired person from the Dilbert comic strip?). In that email I was informed that "we" had an agreement with the ER that we (as in the hospitalists) would come down to the ER within twenty minutes, and that we would then render a decision, WITHIN 5 MINUTES, as to whether said patient was to be admitted to an acute-care bed or placed in observation. The justification for all this had to do with the hospital getting more money (and, I think, paying for the billboard on the highway) and the speed of moving patients through the ER. Nowhere in all this was anything said or implied as to the patient's rights, and what was the appropriate thing to do for him or her.
Now, I am a hospitalist (and I understand the needs of office physicians, as I have been one for years), and it seems to me that, because I could concentrate on the sicker, hospitalized patients under my care, that I could offer something to my patients which was special, and perhaps different from, that which my harried colleagues in the office could offer. Well, I'm here to tell you that is wrong! In the collective mind of the hospitals for which we work (not the patients, mind you), we are nothing more than some cogs in the wheels of "health care." I'm sorry to sound so cynical, but this is becoming truer and truer. And the hospitals are just becoming another factor in this conglomerate, who are all fighting other hospitals for their own "market share" in the world of ever-tightening budgets (hence the billboard).
So, then, what has become of the doctor-patient relationship? It would seem to this old codger that it is now permanently gone, to be replaced by the producer-consumer relationship, in which you purchase your own particular "health care," and know that Mount Saint Elsewhere will look after your needs, and the needs of your family, after all, that's what they're in business for. And know that, if you're in a coma, in some ICU, that MSE will have, at its disposal, attorneys who will see to it that they will carry out the judge's order.
So, what is the good news? Well, let me just say that if you can still find some old guy, who might even look like a doctor, out roaming the halls of medicine, and you just happen to be one of those people who, by the powers of chance, just appeared on his list of "patients," that you still stand the chance that he might just sit down with you, examine you, discuss what he makes of your miseries, and see to it that you get the care that you deserve. And fie on those 5 minutes!
And to do that, I'd like to harken back to some comments which I made in an earlier post on the condition of our own "health care system." If you are so inclined, you may read my post from June last year to get some idea of my perspectives on the state of our health care conglomerate, and where we (as physicians) sit in the great scheme of things. And perhaps more importantly where we (as society) see the role of physicians in our culture. What has happened to the physician-patient relationship? It seems to me that the once special relationship has ben swept under the wheels of progress in the name of "health care."
Let me assure you, that I know the realities of modern medicine, having lived through the last half of the previous century (and having become a physician for the last quarter of the last century). Besides that, I have what I have come to find out is a unique perspective, in that I am the seventh generation physician in our family, and so I carry with me that legacy, too. Let me say this right out: what has happened to the physician-patient relationship has become a fleeting memory, a mere warm spot in the hearts of those of us old enough to remember. And I fear it has been permanently replaced by something else, which I will later attempt to define.
All this came to a crisis of the mind just yesterday. I had just finished working a week of nights (7PM - 7AM), and was looking forward to two days of recuperation, before starting back to working days (7AM - 7PM) again, when I got an email from my "boss" (why do I get a disturbing image of that pointy-haired person from the Dilbert comic strip?). In that email I was informed that "we" had an agreement with the ER that we (as in the hospitalists) would come down to the ER within twenty minutes, and that we would then render a decision, WITHIN 5 MINUTES, as to whether said patient was to be admitted to an acute-care bed or placed in observation. The justification for all this had to do with the hospital getting more money (and, I think, paying for the billboard on the highway) and the speed of moving patients through the ER. Nowhere in all this was anything said or implied as to the patient's rights, and what was the appropriate thing to do for him or her.
Now, I am a hospitalist (and I understand the needs of office physicians, as I have been one for years), and it seems to me that, because I could concentrate on the sicker, hospitalized patients under my care, that I could offer something to my patients which was special, and perhaps different from, that which my harried colleagues in the office could offer. Well, I'm here to tell you that is wrong! In the collective mind of the hospitals for which we work (not the patients, mind you), we are nothing more than some cogs in the wheels of "health care." I'm sorry to sound so cynical, but this is becoming truer and truer. And the hospitals are just becoming another factor in this conglomerate, who are all fighting other hospitals for their own "market share" in the world of ever-tightening budgets (hence the billboard).
So, then, what has become of the doctor-patient relationship? It would seem to this old codger that it is now permanently gone, to be replaced by the producer-consumer relationship, in which you purchase your own particular "health care," and know that Mount Saint Elsewhere will look after your needs, and the needs of your family, after all, that's what they're in business for. And know that, if you're in a coma, in some ICU, that MSE will have, at its disposal, attorneys who will see to it that they will carry out the judge's order.
So, what is the good news? Well, let me just say that if you can still find some old guy, who might even look like a doctor, out roaming the halls of medicine, and you just happen to be one of those people who, by the powers of chance, just appeared on his list of "patients," that you still stand the chance that he might just sit down with you, examine you, discuss what he makes of your miseries, and see to it that you get the care that you deserve. And fie on those 5 minutes!
December 22, 2013
Christmas, 2013
As I stare out my office window at the cold winter scene, the flock of starlings in the snow-dusted grass reminds me just what a fascinating, yet devisive year it's been. I see them take off in flight, then they all turn, and come down, not having moved fifty yards. And what is it that makes them do that? For there appears to be no leader, no one speaking for them.
As this year began, I was just going about my own business, and much like the starlings outside, just "going with the flow." My job seemed to be secure, and I was about to get my third book in the Drachma Trilogy published. Well, then, about the time of the publication of Turbulence and Restoration, I could feel the ground beneath my feet start to shift. At first it was just a faint motion to which I paid little attention. Oddly, one of the clues was that got me thinking was when I was asked by our hospital CEO if I would relinquish my spot on the Board of Trustees, so that she could place one of her own favorites on the board. Well, not liking the obligations of the board, and its own way of just turning over, and playing the role of floor mat, I rather readily agreed.
Next, it came time to discuss my contract renewal. And it became very obvious that they were looking for a way to cut my salary. And I could hear the far-off sounds of Obamacare making threats of across-the-board cuts to hospitals. I could tell, rather quickly, where I stood in all this - and it was nowhere near the top. So, rather that compromise, and end up with a contract that I had no control over, and which was going to be ever changing (and not in any favorable direction), I spoke with my wife, and we decided to move closer to family, to the area where four of our six grandchildren lived - in Northwest Arkansas.
As it turned out, the move was a very good one. For me, for my wife, for our kids and grandkids. Our house has become a place of refuge and a place for fun. And I look forward to coming home as I've not done quite this way before.
But now, with this season coming upon us, there are tremors I can again feel.
Let me begin with my own life. It would appear that my publisher has all but forgotten about my third book, and promoting it, leaving it entirely up to me. Now this would be OK if I were a natural salesman. But I am not. Pushing myself and my own efforts toward people I know not just grinds at me. I have already paid the price for them to publish hardcover editions, and to make them available through Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, as well as other distribution centers. That was six months ago, and so far nothing. I was afraid that my own efforts in creating the audible version of Turbulence and Restoration was going to meet with a similar fate - but in this they came through, just this week. But as to sales of The Book of Drachma, it has not gone very well at all.
As to my day job, it is secure, and I am well-received. But here, too, there are some undercurrents of tension, which I can feel. The latest is that we have lost one of our doctors (it seems that "she didn't sign her contract extension"), and so we are going to be working extra shifts in order to make up for her absence. And when one gets a communication from one's "boss" with the words in the communique "effective immediately," it does give one pause.
In the meantime, there are things happening in the world at large which threaten to make all our hearts beat just a bit faster. For one thing there is our president, who, it turns out, is reverting back to his style of politics of Chicago, in which if you lie to the people, and produce an inferior product (and more expensive), as long as you get the product out there, you are doing your job. And just hang all that talk of "bipartisan efforts" in getting anything done. It would seem to me that a government by the people, for the people is just talk. Add to that, the polarizing effects of talk about homosexuality - you've got yourselves a powderkeg, with a (so far) unlit fuse. And all this just as we hunker down to celebrate Christmas.
Now, if you can just put down your shopping bags, and consider for a moment what we are celebrating, and why, maybe, just maybe we can reach into that part of us that reacts. And tell our hearts to "fear not, for I bring you good news of great joy which shall be for all people."
So, despite all the viscicitudes of this last year, know that I wish you peace. But I tell you that I'm not one of those starlings anymore.
Drachma
As this year began, I was just going about my own business, and much like the starlings outside, just "going with the flow." My job seemed to be secure, and I was about to get my third book in the Drachma Trilogy published. Well, then, about the time of the publication of Turbulence and Restoration, I could feel the ground beneath my feet start to shift. At first it was just a faint motion to which I paid little attention. Oddly, one of the clues was that got me thinking was when I was asked by our hospital CEO if I would relinquish my spot on the Board of Trustees, so that she could place one of her own favorites on the board. Well, not liking the obligations of the board, and its own way of just turning over, and playing the role of floor mat, I rather readily agreed.
Next, it came time to discuss my contract renewal. And it became very obvious that they were looking for a way to cut my salary. And I could hear the far-off sounds of Obamacare making threats of across-the-board cuts to hospitals. I could tell, rather quickly, where I stood in all this - and it was nowhere near the top. So, rather that compromise, and end up with a contract that I had no control over, and which was going to be ever changing (and not in any favorable direction), I spoke with my wife, and we decided to move closer to family, to the area where four of our six grandchildren lived - in Northwest Arkansas.
As it turned out, the move was a very good one. For me, for my wife, for our kids and grandkids. Our house has become a place of refuge and a place for fun. And I look forward to coming home as I've not done quite this way before.
But now, with this season coming upon us, there are tremors I can again feel.
Let me begin with my own life. It would appear that my publisher has all but forgotten about my third book, and promoting it, leaving it entirely up to me. Now this would be OK if I were a natural salesman. But I am not. Pushing myself and my own efforts toward people I know not just grinds at me. I have already paid the price for them to publish hardcover editions, and to make them available through Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, as well as other distribution centers. That was six months ago, and so far nothing. I was afraid that my own efforts in creating the audible version of Turbulence and Restoration was going to meet with a similar fate - but in this they came through, just this week. But as to sales of The Book of Drachma, it has not gone very well at all.
As to my day job, it is secure, and I am well-received. But here, too, there are some undercurrents of tension, which I can feel. The latest is that we have lost one of our doctors (it seems that "she didn't sign her contract extension"), and so we are going to be working extra shifts in order to make up for her absence. And when one gets a communication from one's "boss" with the words in the communique "effective immediately," it does give one pause.
In the meantime, there are things happening in the world at large which threaten to make all our hearts beat just a bit faster. For one thing there is our president, who, it turns out, is reverting back to his style of politics of Chicago, in which if you lie to the people, and produce an inferior product (and more expensive), as long as you get the product out there, you are doing your job. And just hang all that talk of "bipartisan efforts" in getting anything done. It would seem to me that a government by the people, for the people is just talk. Add to that, the polarizing effects of talk about homosexuality - you've got yourselves a powderkeg, with a (so far) unlit fuse. And all this just as we hunker down to celebrate Christmas.
Now, if you can just put down your shopping bags, and consider for a moment what we are celebrating, and why, maybe, just maybe we can reach into that part of us that reacts. And tell our hearts to "fear not, for I bring you good news of great joy which shall be for all people."
So, despite all the viscicitudes of this last year, know that I wish you peace. But I tell you that I'm not one of those starlings anymore.
Drachma
November 4, 2013
The Next Chapter
Well, after some (more or less necessary) delays, here is the next chapter in book four. If you thought that we were through with the fantasy elements of the story, think again. Here, the old silver coin makes its appearance, and we have dreams, and mysterious occurrences........
Chapter Eleven
Marilyn was uncharacteristically quiet. As Charlie drove the streets, and made the turn onto the highway, she kept thinking about everything that had happened to her this week. She played it over and over in her mind, but she found herself unable to talk about her anxieties to her friend, who was obviously concerned. Her decisions were just too personal, and they involved her relationship with Bob, now off in this other world, with which she was given a chance to somehow interact. But what was the nature of this interaction? And this fellow named Falma had been somewhat evasive, or so it seemed to her.
Finally, after they had been on the highway for what felt like an hour, but was really no more than ten minutes, Charlie turned to Marilyn, and asked, “now, I don’t mean to be rude, or to put my foot where it doesn’t belong, but Marilyn, after all this time, I believe I’ve gotten to know your moods. And you’ve got to tell me - something’s really bugging you, isn’t it? And don’t give me that stuff about it being too private.”
“All right, Charlie,” she responded. “I guess by now you’ve become important enough to me that you do deserve some truth. And don’t get me wrong, when I say this stuff, it’s unprocessed, unrefined … like it’s fresh from the tree. I just haven’t had time to think things through – and here I’m supposed to make rational decisions in a world that does not make sense.”
“Uh, Okay. And you asked me along for what…?”
“Because I needed you to… to be here…”
Suddenly, Marilyn was overcome with a flood of tears, and found herself unable to speak. Charlie reached into his jacket pocket and produced a handkerchief. Then he turned off on the 35th Street exit, where he found another side street, and then turned right into a park by the river. He waited patiently for Marilyn to regain her composure, which she did, after five minutes.
“You know, Charlie,” she said, “you’ve become a real friend to me, and I do think that I love you. But Bob is still in the picture, so to speak, and that’s just too complicated. And now, I’ve been given a chance to interact with him – at least indirectly. And I’ve told this Falma person that I was willing – whatever that means – to be someone important to his survival (at least that’s the way I understand it). And it would appear to be something that’s going to happen soon.”
And she continued, “So now, I’ve really got to rely on you. You just have to stay, and keep finding out in that investigative reporter’s way of yours, just what is happening here. You’ve got to keep in touch with the earl, and with Carol, and see what you can find out about Janie and Earl Crabtree. For I tell you that I’m convinced that they will have some important things to say and do before this whole thing gets settled. And don’t worry about me. I know that I’ll be fine.”
Saying that she got out of the car, and walked over toward the bench by the river, where there was an old man sitting. Charlie fumbled with his seat belt, but cursed as he found it wouldn’t budge. He yanked furiously at it, tried pulling this way and that, but it stubbornly refused to give way.
Marilyn, meanwhile, could be seen walking along with the old man toward the trees. Charlie quickly rolled down the window, and he poked his head out the door and yelled, “Marilyn! Wait, Marilyn…!”
He tried the seat belt once more, and this time it released, as if nothing had happened. He quickly got out of the car and ran to where he had seen the two enter the trees. There was no sign of them. But there upon the low-lying branch of a pine tree was his handkerchief. He picked it up and as he was getting ready to put it in his pocket, he noticed there was something inside it. There, in the folds of cloth was a silver coin. He really didn’t have to look to know, but he did anyway – at this ancient Greek coin, still shiny.
Oh, God! thought Charlie, now you’ve really done it! Now you’ve got me involved, for sure.
He searched through the woods for the next few minutes, realizing it was futile. The handkerchief, with its coin, was safely in his pants pocket. Eventually giving up his useless search, he headed back to his old, blue Nissan wagon.
As he automatically drove the familiar streets toward the police station (without fastening his seat belt), his thoughts were wordless. He was in the ancient forest, with its hardwoods and large conifers, its moist and moss-covered paths. He could hear the stream off in the distance, and he could smell the earth. He found himself longing for the release of the forest, for its promise of fulfillment, for its quiet strength. Even as he drove toward the police station and parked, he was still in the deep green forest. It was not until his hand reached for the heavy door that he realized where he was, and began to panic. He thought of what he was doing here, and whom he was coming to see, and whom he was supposed to be with. His head began swimming, and he felt a sudden need to lie down.
“Why, Charlie Stephens, it’s been a while!”
That voice brought him sharply back to reality.
“Detective Lewinsky!” he gasped. “I was just coming to see you…”
“You know, I thought I’d find you here… Well, just come on in with me. You see, there’s someone in here who’s been most eager to see you, too.”
She led him down the dark gray hallway, and then turned into a small, cluttered office. In the office sat, of all people, Janie Crabtree. It had been four years, and the time had taken a toll on Janie. She looked thinner, almost cachectic, and her hair, which had formerly been a shade of brown, now hung limp and gray, framing her still intense face.
Janie smiled wanly, then said, “well, Mr. Stephens, it’s been, what, four years now, hasn’t it?” Then, as if to answer his puzzled look, went on, “I know the years have been cruel. I’ve been battling this cancer, and I’m afraid that now it’s gotten the better of me…”
“Oh, Janie, please… I’m so sorry, and I’ve been busy. I didn’t know.”
“No, how could you? It’s been just another thing. Ever since we lost Josh, Earl and I sort of retreated into ourselves, and then over the last six months, this cancer got diagnosed, and I’ve been going through surgery, radiation and chemotherapy – though I don’t even know why. But something told me that I should reach out to you and Marilyn. And as odd as it may sound, Detective Lewinsky seemed to be the first one I should reach out to, especially after the dream…”
“The dream?” Charlie’s mind was racing at Janie’s rush of words. He sat down in a chair opposite Janie, and he reached out and touched her hands. “Maybe, just maybe, we should start with those dreams. For it seems that there may be more to tell. Can you tell me about your dream?”
Janie paused for a few seconds, as she looked down at her feet, and looking back up, she smiled at Charlie’s eyes. “OK, Mr. Ace reporter, here’s something for your notebook. During my last session of chemo, after the vomiting stopped, I drifted off to sleep. And in my dream, which was so incredibly real, more real, in fact, than this cancer or the chemotherapy, I was walking in the woods. These were the deep, dark woods of your fairy tales – sort of primeval, ancient and forbidding. And as I was walking along this path, I was joined by another – a young man who was the absolute image of my Josh, even talked with his voice, but who said his name was Tom, and he knew me. And he knew “Master Gilsen” and the lady, Judy. Anyway, as we were walking along in this forest, Tom explained to me that Dr. Gilsen and Judy were about to embark upon a journey across this place called Shepperton, and that they were in some sort of danger, as there were forces about that sought to do them harm. I tried to ask just what kind of danger, but all I got out of him was that all of Shepperton, and all the world had been put in some sort of jeopardy by one he called LeGace.”
“Now, wait just a minute,” said Charlie, as he fished in his jacket, and pulled out his small notebook, “you’re going to have to let me make some notes here. For it would seem that we’re getting back into some deep stuff here. And I want to make certain I get all this right.”
“And me too,” interjected Detective Lewinsky. “Just let me get this tape recorder going, if that’s Okay with you, Janie…”
She set up a small cassette recorder, with Janie’s approval, and had Janie start over with her narrative.
Janie went on to explain how Tom had asked her to be the go-between, or the contact between their two worlds, as it would appear that Marilyn had been called away by someone named Falma.
At the mention of Marilyn and Falma, Charlie grew visibly pale, and stammered, “Now… now, Janie, just a minute…You mentioned Marilyn… and Falma… How could you have known…?”
At that, Janie reached into her purse, and pulled out a small box, the size of an ordinary matchbox, and handed it to Charlie, and said, “Well, Mr. Stephens, before he left, Tom handed me this, and told me that you would know its significance, and would have in your possession, the other piece of the puzzle…”
As Chris Lewinsky stared, slack-jawed, Charlie opened the tiny box, and then took from his own pocket, the handkerchief, with its silver coin, and reverently placed the drachma in its place on the blue velvet. Next, he handed the box to Chris, who took it gingerly, staring at the little coin, which appeared to have a mind of its own.
“Well,” Charlie began, “I guess it’s now time for me to begin to tell you, Detective, of yet another missing person report.”
And for the next twenty minutes, Charlie told of his recent experiences and interactions with Marilyn Gilsen, with the earl and Carol, and with Marilyn’s strange disappearance.
“And I must say, Mr. Stephens,” added Detective Lewinsky, as she pulled a paper out of her drawer, “you have just succeeded in making my job as a detective so much more complicated than it was, at least since the last time that we were involved together. I should have known – these past four years had seemed too straightforward.”
“As you say, Detective… and might I suggest that we should pay a visit to my friend, the earl of Shepperton?”
“A wise suggestion, indeed. And so much better than watching a seasoned detective cry all over her paperwork.”
As Marilyn stepped through the narrow space between the tree and the rock, she found herself staring at a world she could only have seen in photographs from the National Geographic magazines that she knew as a young girl. Beyond her was a vast expanse of mountains and forest, which gave way to the far off sea. She inhaled sharply as the cool, clean air about her seemed to invigorate her senses. She stopped to just take it all in, as she waited for her elderly companion to make the climb. It interested her to note that he had told her to go on ahead, as they made the last aching climb, up from the ancient forest. It was as if he had wanted her to experience this spectacular view for herself. And so she did. She could see that the path (if it might generously be called that) ended in the meadow, which opened below her feet. Off to the right was a magnificent, still snow-capped peak, and below that a series of lesser mountains, which formed a ridge, and there, at the base of the meadow was a lake of deepest blue. A large eagle soared in the sky above her. All was still, but so very alive.
All along their walk into the trees, and through the long tunnel, and then into the deep woods, Falma had told her the story of how Master Robert and the lady, Judy, had transformed the island of Shepperton. He told her of how they had come those years ago, with their knowledge of healing. And then how they had built something they called a clinic, and how Master Robert had begun teaching at their newly formed institute; and how this had transformed their once quiet island, turning it into someplace with a reputation for excellence. He had not said, nor had she asked, where he was taking her. But indicated, as the way was getting steep that she should go on, and that he would follow. He did not seem to be growing tired, but did tell her to just follow the path up the slope toward that point of light ahead. And she did just that, and was panting as she had stepped out into this incredible new world.
She heard a rustling sound behind her, and assumed it to be her companion, but when she turned, it was not the old man. Rather, it was the youth from her dream, who stepped from the woodland behind her.
“Good morrow, Lady Marilyn…”
“Uh, hello. Tom, isn’t it?”
“Oh, aye. It is I again. And I do welcome you to Shepperton. Now, you may have wondered how you were brought here, and perhaps also why. Well, I am able to explain some of your queries, but not all, for only time shall be able to answer that which I am unable to. But, for now, come with me, and I shall explain what I am able, and to equip you with the knowledge that you shall need.”
Marilyn felt a rush of emotion, which she was not able to define, as if she were accepting some responsibility too great and terrible for words. She swallowed, and answered Tom’s unspoken question.
“All right, now that I’ve made it this far, I might just as well see things through. So, please, go ahead and explain things to me. I am now so obviously far from anything that I’m familiar with, and I have no notion of where we are, or what I’m supposed to do.”
“Fair enough, Lady Marilyn. What you see before you is the isle of Shepperton, and we are on a ridge called Firebarrow Ridge. Now, if you look toward the East, that way, you can just make out, I believe, what is the great castle of Shepperton.”
Marilyn looked, the way he was pointing, and thought she could see what he indicated, a small, gray shape by the ocean, but from these many miles away, could not be sure. Nonetheless, she nodded, and said, “well, if you say so, but it could just be a speck in the distance.”
“Now, m’lady, it would seem that Master Robert and the lady, Judy, along with a retinue of others, have just left the castle, and are coming this way. Now their aim is to arrive at the woodland home of Drachma, which is over yonder.” He gestured with his arm, pointing toward the forest, as it arose from one of the more northerly portions of the great valley. Then he put his hand to his mouth, and let out a shrill whistle. And from seemingly nowhere, a horse came trotting up. “Come, m’lady. I shall escort thee to where you may be of the greatest use to the travelers.”
Marilyn got on the great horse, and Tom got on behind her, they turned, and the horse headed off toward the forest, but not in the direction that Tom had pointed out, but toward the southwest. Marilyn was about to ask, but Tom answered her unspoken query, saying, “now, it may seem, m’lady, that we are going in another direction, altogether. While that is true, I must tell thee that it is for thine own safety that I bring thee this way. For, you see, there be powers that would interfere with our plans, and it would be better if they were not alerted to your own presence among us.”
Hmm, thought Marilyn, it seems that I’ve once again become a pawn in this game, which I don’t understand.
As the horse lurched forward and headed down the path, back into the forest, she felt once more the odd sensation which had initially impelled her on this journey - something like a warm, soft blanket around her soul, which implied a sense of rightness, of peace, yet still there was danger. She could feel its presence, hear its whispered threats.
“May I ask you, Tom, will I see Mr. Falma again?”
“Ah, m’lady, of that I am unable to speak, for I know not. But this I know – you shall feel his presence where we are going.”
Chapter Eleven
Marilyn was uncharacteristically quiet. As Charlie drove the streets, and made the turn onto the highway, she kept thinking about everything that had happened to her this week. She played it over and over in her mind, but she found herself unable to talk about her anxieties to her friend, who was obviously concerned. Her decisions were just too personal, and they involved her relationship with Bob, now off in this other world, with which she was given a chance to somehow interact. But what was the nature of this interaction? And this fellow named Falma had been somewhat evasive, or so it seemed to her.
Finally, after they had been on the highway for what felt like an hour, but was really no more than ten minutes, Charlie turned to Marilyn, and asked, “now, I don’t mean to be rude, or to put my foot where it doesn’t belong, but Marilyn, after all this time, I believe I’ve gotten to know your moods. And you’ve got to tell me - something’s really bugging you, isn’t it? And don’t give me that stuff about it being too private.”
“All right, Charlie,” she responded. “I guess by now you’ve become important enough to me that you do deserve some truth. And don’t get me wrong, when I say this stuff, it’s unprocessed, unrefined … like it’s fresh from the tree. I just haven’t had time to think things through – and here I’m supposed to make rational decisions in a world that does not make sense.”
“Uh, Okay. And you asked me along for what…?”
“Because I needed you to… to be here…”
Suddenly, Marilyn was overcome with a flood of tears, and found herself unable to speak. Charlie reached into his jacket pocket and produced a handkerchief. Then he turned off on the 35th Street exit, where he found another side street, and then turned right into a park by the river. He waited patiently for Marilyn to regain her composure, which she did, after five minutes.
“You know, Charlie,” she said, “you’ve become a real friend to me, and I do think that I love you. But Bob is still in the picture, so to speak, and that’s just too complicated. And now, I’ve been given a chance to interact with him – at least indirectly. And I’ve told this Falma person that I was willing – whatever that means – to be someone important to his survival (at least that’s the way I understand it). And it would appear to be something that’s going to happen soon.”
And she continued, “So now, I’ve really got to rely on you. You just have to stay, and keep finding out in that investigative reporter’s way of yours, just what is happening here. You’ve got to keep in touch with the earl, and with Carol, and see what you can find out about Janie and Earl Crabtree. For I tell you that I’m convinced that they will have some important things to say and do before this whole thing gets settled. And don’t worry about me. I know that I’ll be fine.”
Saying that she got out of the car, and walked over toward the bench by the river, where there was an old man sitting. Charlie fumbled with his seat belt, but cursed as he found it wouldn’t budge. He yanked furiously at it, tried pulling this way and that, but it stubbornly refused to give way.
Marilyn, meanwhile, could be seen walking along with the old man toward the trees. Charlie quickly rolled down the window, and he poked his head out the door and yelled, “Marilyn! Wait, Marilyn…!”
He tried the seat belt once more, and this time it released, as if nothing had happened. He quickly got out of the car and ran to where he had seen the two enter the trees. There was no sign of them. But there upon the low-lying branch of a pine tree was his handkerchief. He picked it up and as he was getting ready to put it in his pocket, he noticed there was something inside it. There, in the folds of cloth was a silver coin. He really didn’t have to look to know, but he did anyway – at this ancient Greek coin, still shiny.
Oh, God! thought Charlie, now you’ve really done it! Now you’ve got me involved, for sure.
He searched through the woods for the next few minutes, realizing it was futile. The handkerchief, with its coin, was safely in his pants pocket. Eventually giving up his useless search, he headed back to his old, blue Nissan wagon.
As he automatically drove the familiar streets toward the police station (without fastening his seat belt), his thoughts were wordless. He was in the ancient forest, with its hardwoods and large conifers, its moist and moss-covered paths. He could hear the stream off in the distance, and he could smell the earth. He found himself longing for the release of the forest, for its promise of fulfillment, for its quiet strength. Even as he drove toward the police station and parked, he was still in the deep green forest. It was not until his hand reached for the heavy door that he realized where he was, and began to panic. He thought of what he was doing here, and whom he was coming to see, and whom he was supposed to be with. His head began swimming, and he felt a sudden need to lie down.
“Why, Charlie Stephens, it’s been a while!”
That voice brought him sharply back to reality.
“Detective Lewinsky!” he gasped. “I was just coming to see you…”
“You know, I thought I’d find you here… Well, just come on in with me. You see, there’s someone in here who’s been most eager to see you, too.”
She led him down the dark gray hallway, and then turned into a small, cluttered office. In the office sat, of all people, Janie Crabtree. It had been four years, and the time had taken a toll on Janie. She looked thinner, almost cachectic, and her hair, which had formerly been a shade of brown, now hung limp and gray, framing her still intense face.
Janie smiled wanly, then said, “well, Mr. Stephens, it’s been, what, four years now, hasn’t it?” Then, as if to answer his puzzled look, went on, “I know the years have been cruel. I’ve been battling this cancer, and I’m afraid that now it’s gotten the better of me…”
“Oh, Janie, please… I’m so sorry, and I’ve been busy. I didn’t know.”
“No, how could you? It’s been just another thing. Ever since we lost Josh, Earl and I sort of retreated into ourselves, and then over the last six months, this cancer got diagnosed, and I’ve been going through surgery, radiation and chemotherapy – though I don’t even know why. But something told me that I should reach out to you and Marilyn. And as odd as it may sound, Detective Lewinsky seemed to be the first one I should reach out to, especially after the dream…”
“The dream?” Charlie’s mind was racing at Janie’s rush of words. He sat down in a chair opposite Janie, and he reached out and touched her hands. “Maybe, just maybe, we should start with those dreams. For it seems that there may be more to tell. Can you tell me about your dream?”
Janie paused for a few seconds, as she looked down at her feet, and looking back up, she smiled at Charlie’s eyes. “OK, Mr. Ace reporter, here’s something for your notebook. During my last session of chemo, after the vomiting stopped, I drifted off to sleep. And in my dream, which was so incredibly real, more real, in fact, than this cancer or the chemotherapy, I was walking in the woods. These were the deep, dark woods of your fairy tales – sort of primeval, ancient and forbidding. And as I was walking along this path, I was joined by another – a young man who was the absolute image of my Josh, even talked with his voice, but who said his name was Tom, and he knew me. And he knew “Master Gilsen” and the lady, Judy. Anyway, as we were walking along in this forest, Tom explained to me that Dr. Gilsen and Judy were about to embark upon a journey across this place called Shepperton, and that they were in some sort of danger, as there were forces about that sought to do them harm. I tried to ask just what kind of danger, but all I got out of him was that all of Shepperton, and all the world had been put in some sort of jeopardy by one he called LeGace.”
“Now, wait just a minute,” said Charlie, as he fished in his jacket, and pulled out his small notebook, “you’re going to have to let me make some notes here. For it would seem that we’re getting back into some deep stuff here. And I want to make certain I get all this right.”
“And me too,” interjected Detective Lewinsky. “Just let me get this tape recorder going, if that’s Okay with you, Janie…”
She set up a small cassette recorder, with Janie’s approval, and had Janie start over with her narrative.
Janie went on to explain how Tom had asked her to be the go-between, or the contact between their two worlds, as it would appear that Marilyn had been called away by someone named Falma.
At the mention of Marilyn and Falma, Charlie grew visibly pale, and stammered, “Now… now, Janie, just a minute…You mentioned Marilyn… and Falma… How could you have known…?”
At that, Janie reached into her purse, and pulled out a small box, the size of an ordinary matchbox, and handed it to Charlie, and said, “Well, Mr. Stephens, before he left, Tom handed me this, and told me that you would know its significance, and would have in your possession, the other piece of the puzzle…”
As Chris Lewinsky stared, slack-jawed, Charlie opened the tiny box, and then took from his own pocket, the handkerchief, with its silver coin, and reverently placed the drachma in its place on the blue velvet. Next, he handed the box to Chris, who took it gingerly, staring at the little coin, which appeared to have a mind of its own.
“Well,” Charlie began, “I guess it’s now time for me to begin to tell you, Detective, of yet another missing person report.”
And for the next twenty minutes, Charlie told of his recent experiences and interactions with Marilyn Gilsen, with the earl and Carol, and with Marilyn’s strange disappearance.
“And I must say, Mr. Stephens,” added Detective Lewinsky, as she pulled a paper out of her drawer, “you have just succeeded in making my job as a detective so much more complicated than it was, at least since the last time that we were involved together. I should have known – these past four years had seemed too straightforward.”
“As you say, Detective… and might I suggest that we should pay a visit to my friend, the earl of Shepperton?”
“A wise suggestion, indeed. And so much better than watching a seasoned detective cry all over her paperwork.”
As Marilyn stepped through the narrow space between the tree and the rock, she found herself staring at a world she could only have seen in photographs from the National Geographic magazines that she knew as a young girl. Beyond her was a vast expanse of mountains and forest, which gave way to the far off sea. She inhaled sharply as the cool, clean air about her seemed to invigorate her senses. She stopped to just take it all in, as she waited for her elderly companion to make the climb. It interested her to note that he had told her to go on ahead, as they made the last aching climb, up from the ancient forest. It was as if he had wanted her to experience this spectacular view for herself. And so she did. She could see that the path (if it might generously be called that) ended in the meadow, which opened below her feet. Off to the right was a magnificent, still snow-capped peak, and below that a series of lesser mountains, which formed a ridge, and there, at the base of the meadow was a lake of deepest blue. A large eagle soared in the sky above her. All was still, but so very alive.
All along their walk into the trees, and through the long tunnel, and then into the deep woods, Falma had told her the story of how Master Robert and the lady, Judy, had transformed the island of Shepperton. He told her of how they had come those years ago, with their knowledge of healing. And then how they had built something they called a clinic, and how Master Robert had begun teaching at their newly formed institute; and how this had transformed their once quiet island, turning it into someplace with a reputation for excellence. He had not said, nor had she asked, where he was taking her. But indicated, as the way was getting steep that she should go on, and that he would follow. He did not seem to be growing tired, but did tell her to just follow the path up the slope toward that point of light ahead. And she did just that, and was panting as she had stepped out into this incredible new world.
She heard a rustling sound behind her, and assumed it to be her companion, but when she turned, it was not the old man. Rather, it was the youth from her dream, who stepped from the woodland behind her.
“Good morrow, Lady Marilyn…”
“Uh, hello. Tom, isn’t it?”
“Oh, aye. It is I again. And I do welcome you to Shepperton. Now, you may have wondered how you were brought here, and perhaps also why. Well, I am able to explain some of your queries, but not all, for only time shall be able to answer that which I am unable to. But, for now, come with me, and I shall explain what I am able, and to equip you with the knowledge that you shall need.”
Marilyn felt a rush of emotion, which she was not able to define, as if she were accepting some responsibility too great and terrible for words. She swallowed, and answered Tom’s unspoken question.
“All right, now that I’ve made it this far, I might just as well see things through. So, please, go ahead and explain things to me. I am now so obviously far from anything that I’m familiar with, and I have no notion of where we are, or what I’m supposed to do.”
“Fair enough, Lady Marilyn. What you see before you is the isle of Shepperton, and we are on a ridge called Firebarrow Ridge. Now, if you look toward the East, that way, you can just make out, I believe, what is the great castle of Shepperton.”
Marilyn looked, the way he was pointing, and thought she could see what he indicated, a small, gray shape by the ocean, but from these many miles away, could not be sure. Nonetheless, she nodded, and said, “well, if you say so, but it could just be a speck in the distance.”
“Now, m’lady, it would seem that Master Robert and the lady, Judy, along with a retinue of others, have just left the castle, and are coming this way. Now their aim is to arrive at the woodland home of Drachma, which is over yonder.” He gestured with his arm, pointing toward the forest, as it arose from one of the more northerly portions of the great valley. Then he put his hand to his mouth, and let out a shrill whistle. And from seemingly nowhere, a horse came trotting up. “Come, m’lady. I shall escort thee to where you may be of the greatest use to the travelers.”
Marilyn got on the great horse, and Tom got on behind her, they turned, and the horse headed off toward the forest, but not in the direction that Tom had pointed out, but toward the southwest. Marilyn was about to ask, but Tom answered her unspoken query, saying, “now, it may seem, m’lady, that we are going in another direction, altogether. While that is true, I must tell thee that it is for thine own safety that I bring thee this way. For, you see, there be powers that would interfere with our plans, and it would be better if they were not alerted to your own presence among us.”
Hmm, thought Marilyn, it seems that I’ve once again become a pawn in this game, which I don’t understand.
As the horse lurched forward and headed down the path, back into the forest, she felt once more the odd sensation which had initially impelled her on this journey - something like a warm, soft blanket around her soul, which implied a sense of rightness, of peace, yet still there was danger. She could feel its presence, hear its whispered threats.
“May I ask you, Tom, will I see Mr. Falma again?”
“Ah, m’lady, of that I am unable to speak, for I know not. But this I know – you shall feel his presence where we are going.”
October 14, 2013
When you're dealt a large dose of reality...
Of late, I haven't been posting too much on my blog. Which is not to say that I haven't been working - perhaps its that I've been working just a bit too much. There's something about doing twelve hour days that just leaves me a bit dry, and when I get home, I find it easier to not sit down and write.
But The Book of Drachma has not been forgotten. I've completed the narration, and now I've been listening to it - do you realize just how weird it is to listen to yourself narrating your own book? Anyway, it's almost done, and then I can give the publisher my official Okay, and it will become available on Amazon, etc.
And what of the sequel? Well, I've been working on that as well - and another chapter is just around the proverbial corner. This is a chapter which presents a major plot-thickening event, and it also brings back into play the old drachma - that coin with a mind of its own. So, now we've got at least four plot lines that I'm juggling, but nowhere near resolution in any of them. It makes me wonder why I do this. But to tell you the truth, I really do it for myself. It truly is therapeutic for me.
And so now, as I see it's getting quite late, and I've got another early day tomorrow, I'll leave you once more, but with promises that you will get the next chapter... soon.
But The Book of Drachma has not been forgotten. I've completed the narration, and now I've been listening to it - do you realize just how weird it is to listen to yourself narrating your own book? Anyway, it's almost done, and then I can give the publisher my official Okay, and it will become available on Amazon, etc.
And what of the sequel? Well, I've been working on that as well - and another chapter is just around the proverbial corner. This is a chapter which presents a major plot-thickening event, and it also brings back into play the old drachma - that coin with a mind of its own. So, now we've got at least four plot lines that I'm juggling, but nowhere near resolution in any of them. It makes me wonder why I do this. But to tell you the truth, I really do it for myself. It truly is therapeutic for me.
And so now, as I see it's getting quite late, and I've got another early day tomorrow, I'll leave you once more, but with promises that you will get the next chapter... soon.
September 18, 2013
Well, what have I been up to of late?
It seems that this last month and a half has been full of extraordinary things, both personally and professionally. Now as I told you in my last blog post, we have moved, and that has gone very well, and for that I am grateful in the extreme. But then - what else?
One of the things I have done is start my new job(s). Now this has been a real contrast for me, for my position at Deaconess Hospital I had come to consider as an old, well-worn pair of shoes - comfortable, predictable, yet faded with age. And it seems that, due to financial difficulties facing the institution I worked for, that my position, as I had gotten to know it, was going to be altered to fit their perceived needs. And so, needing more stability in my life, now that I had grandkids whom I rarely got to see and to interact with, I chose to move closer to them. Well, we did that, and it has been wonderful being closer to them and their doings.
But what of my job(s)? Starting over at my seasoned age could really be something of a challenge. Now, let me tell you that the two positions of work have been contrasts as much as anything. The first position, in the small community of Grove, OK has been the less taxing, less strenuous of the two. It was just getting used to being the only hospitalist in the hospital for a week, and away from my new home did get on my nerves, especially as the only eating places in the town of Grove did not seem to have much to offer, especially compared to what I get at home. But the two weeks in Grove really did go by rather quickly - especially as they were spaced apart. But what a contrast to my other position! Now, I came over to the Bentonville area with the idea that I would be working in the hospital in Bentonville. But it would seem that "fate" had other things in mind. For, as it turned out, the other hospital (in Springdale) suddenly found itself very short of hospitalists - so I was assigned to work in Springdale, and work I did. Even with three hospitalists working during the day (12 hours, seven days straight), I put out the work, seeing as many as twelve new patients in my 12 hours, which wouldn't be too bad if they came in all during the shift, but rather, they seemed to come in mostly between the hours of 2:30 - 6:30 in great clumps of humanity. And interspersed among the folks with chest pain, CHF and pneumonia were the "suicidal ideations", the drug addicts and the alcoholics, not to mention the orthopedic consults. Now I don't really mind working hard, but... Well, you get the picture.
And then I've done a couple of additional things, which were much more fun. The first was that my wife and I had already planned a great vacation, going out west to see the Grand Canyon, Monument Valley, Bryce and Zion Canyons. And let me tell you that, between my two jobs, that was one great (and needed) vacation. Incidentally, you may see more of my vacation on my other blog (photosbydrachma.blogspot.com).
And the last thing that I did was to go over to Mustang, OK, to the headquarters of Tate Publishing, from which I just got back. What I was doing there was acting as narrator for my third book, Turbulence and Restoration. For two and a half days, I was stuck in a soundproof booth, with nothing but my novel in front of me. Now, you might assume that authors should be able to do this without turning a hair, but not so. With your own words there on the screen, and all your own beloved characters coming alive with the telling of the story, it really drains you. After all, it is your own blood, sweat and tears that make up the novel, isn't it?
Let me tell you, that I am looking forward to the rest of this week - we've got some ball games to go to.
One of the things I have done is start my new job(s). Now this has been a real contrast for me, for my position at Deaconess Hospital I had come to consider as an old, well-worn pair of shoes - comfortable, predictable, yet faded with age. And it seems that, due to financial difficulties facing the institution I worked for, that my position, as I had gotten to know it, was going to be altered to fit their perceived needs. And so, needing more stability in my life, now that I had grandkids whom I rarely got to see and to interact with, I chose to move closer to them. Well, we did that, and it has been wonderful being closer to them and their doings.
But what of my job(s)? Starting over at my seasoned age could really be something of a challenge. Now, let me tell you that the two positions of work have been contrasts as much as anything. The first position, in the small community of Grove, OK has been the less taxing, less strenuous of the two. It was just getting used to being the only hospitalist in the hospital for a week, and away from my new home did get on my nerves, especially as the only eating places in the town of Grove did not seem to have much to offer, especially compared to what I get at home. But the two weeks in Grove really did go by rather quickly - especially as they were spaced apart. But what a contrast to my other position! Now, I came over to the Bentonville area with the idea that I would be working in the hospital in Bentonville. But it would seem that "fate" had other things in mind. For, as it turned out, the other hospital (in Springdale) suddenly found itself very short of hospitalists - so I was assigned to work in Springdale, and work I did. Even with three hospitalists working during the day (12 hours, seven days straight), I put out the work, seeing as many as twelve new patients in my 12 hours, which wouldn't be too bad if they came in all during the shift, but rather, they seemed to come in mostly between the hours of 2:30 - 6:30 in great clumps of humanity. And interspersed among the folks with chest pain, CHF and pneumonia were the "suicidal ideations", the drug addicts and the alcoholics, not to mention the orthopedic consults. Now I don't really mind working hard, but... Well, you get the picture.
And then I've done a couple of additional things, which were much more fun. The first was that my wife and I had already planned a great vacation, going out west to see the Grand Canyon, Monument Valley, Bryce and Zion Canyons. And let me tell you that, between my two jobs, that was one great (and needed) vacation. Incidentally, you may see more of my vacation on my other blog (photosbydrachma.blogspot.com).
And the last thing that I did was to go over to Mustang, OK, to the headquarters of Tate Publishing, from which I just got back. What I was doing there was acting as narrator for my third book, Turbulence and Restoration. For two and a half days, I was stuck in a soundproof booth, with nothing but my novel in front of me. Now, you might assume that authors should be able to do this without turning a hair, but not so. With your own words there on the screen, and all your own beloved characters coming alive with the telling of the story, it really drains you. After all, it is your own blood, sweat and tears that make up the novel, isn't it?
Let me tell you, that I am looking forward to the rest of this week - we've got some ball games to go to.
August 19, 2013
The word.
It seems to me that moving can certainly be, at the very least, intensely stressful. And this is especially true if one of the people involved has to go to work right away, before even getting his bearings in his new environment. This is even true if one is moving for all the right reasons.
As I indicated in prior posts, I would be moving to the neighboring state of Arkansas, and moving mostly because four of our six grandchildren live there. Now, this has happened, and we are happily entrenched in Centerton, Arkansas (just immediately west of Bentonville). But I did have to work in Grove, Oklahoma very shortly after we moved, and so most of the early transition occurred without my being there, and I was just kept informed by phone of the goings on. And, yes, this was very stressful, both for me and my lovely wife.
But then, I got to experience one of those moments in which I knew with absolute certainty, that we had done the right thing. By fortuitous circumstance, my wife had previously arranged to take care of our two grandchildren from Iowa, and I got home from Grove the day before their parents arrived, for a long weekend. So, we had all six grandkids, and all six of their parents at our house (albeit not quite "put together"). And as we all sat around outside after consuming some fabulous ribs, potato salad, fresh corn on the cob, fresh cucumber salad; and drinking the celebratory wine, beer and other wet potions; with the cool of the evening requiring a fire in our outdoor fireplace, and the wondrous squeal of grandkids playing in the yard, it enveloped me. This was why we moved. This was the reason that all the stress of the early transition became worth it.
And so, now, as I am coping with my new life in Arkansas, with all its uncertainties, I have been given the word that it is all right, it is blessed.
Also, now I may resume my writing, which has been on hold.
As I indicated in prior posts, I would be moving to the neighboring state of Arkansas, and moving mostly because four of our six grandchildren live there. Now, this has happened, and we are happily entrenched in Centerton, Arkansas (just immediately west of Bentonville). But I did have to work in Grove, Oklahoma very shortly after we moved, and so most of the early transition occurred without my being there, and I was just kept informed by phone of the goings on. And, yes, this was very stressful, both for me and my lovely wife.
But then, I got to experience one of those moments in which I knew with absolute certainty, that we had done the right thing. By fortuitous circumstance, my wife had previously arranged to take care of our two grandchildren from Iowa, and I got home from Grove the day before their parents arrived, for a long weekend. So, we had all six grandkids, and all six of their parents at our house (albeit not quite "put together"). And as we all sat around outside after consuming some fabulous ribs, potato salad, fresh corn on the cob, fresh cucumber salad; and drinking the celebratory wine, beer and other wet potions; with the cool of the evening requiring a fire in our outdoor fireplace, and the wondrous squeal of grandkids playing in the yard, it enveloped me. This was why we moved. This was the reason that all the stress of the early transition became worth it.
And so, now, as I am coping with my new life in Arkansas, with all its uncertainties, I have been given the word that it is all right, it is blessed.
Also, now I may resume my writing, which has been on hold.
July 19, 2013
Just to keep you all guessing.
Now here is the next chapter in my ongoing tale of Shepperton, if anyone is keeping up. This is Chapter Ten of book four, tentatively titled Heir of Drachma.
Chapter Ten
Alexandra looked about her in amazement. Never had she seen anything like this place. She missed her mother, but she knew that her mother was home, and that she understood where her daughter was. Where Alex found herself was inside the castle, in rooms set apart for royalty, with enormous feather beds, and tall windows that looked down at the doings of the market. It was turning dark outside, but there were torches about which lit up the streets. Inside, though, it was bright, with the many torches and lamps. She began exploring the rooms, looking in all those hidden places, which she knew instinctively were where the children of the palace played. But what really captured her attention was the marble bust of some nobleman, in the middle of the room, whose expression was of distaste. She went up to the bust, and, with her little hand, felt the man’s facial expression, felt his brow, and his rigid lips.
“Alexandra, do you know who that man is?” Craycroft’s voice echoed softly across the room.
“Nay, sir, I know not. But look, he’s not too pleased wi’ somethin’.”
“Craycroft chuckled. “Nay, m’lass, I would agree with you there. He does not appear too pleased. Now, this bust is of none other than William, who was the first Earl of Shepperton. He was a man who was never jolly, never. And if I might be so bold, I would say that he was not well-liked either.”
“Well, sir, then what is he doin’ here?”
Craycroft found her question amusing, and smiled down at the lass. “If you must know, it is his castle.”
“His castle? Where is he then?”
“Oh, he is not here. He died many years ago. But it was he who had this castle built, and it was his son, and his grandson who have since been lords of Shepperton.”
“But, you are lord of Shepperton. Are you not?”
“Aye, that I be. But let me tell you something of how I got to where I am.” He took her little hand, and led her to one of the stuffed chairs, where he sat, and Alex sat in his lap. He began telling her, “Now, many years ago, I was once a child of the village, much like you are now. It was through what some would call good luck, though to me it would appear to have been the hand of God that brought me to the castle. It was here that I first became a page to the ruling house. And it was as a young page that I became fascinated with one named Cartho, who was a most extraordinary man, a healer as we have never seen on Shepperton, and a most wonderful teacher as well. It was my privilege to become his apprentice. I learned the arts of healing from that great man, and after he died, I became physician to the earl and his court. And that is where I was, when fate struck me yet again, and I became lord of this castle, and of Shepperton.
“Now, I must tell you of something most special. Your own father, Simeon, who works in my service, as a forest guard, is but a grandson to Master Cartho. Now I know not if your mother or father have talked to you about their own kin…”
“Nay, Papa never talked of his own, but me Mama has told me somethin’ of her own kin. Said she was orphaned, and that she growed up in Champour, and she and Aunt Clarice, and Aunt Sheila learned to cook and sew… and they caught their men (all but Clarice) in the nets what they sewed!”
Craycroft laughed at this, a deep, rumbling laugh that came from deep in his belly. How this young lass, who looked so small and fragile, could think such things, and could know such things!
“Let me tell you, my dear child,” he continued, “Someday, you shall have to let me tell you the story of Maggie ‘o’ Killiburn. For I do believe that you are kin to her, indeed.
“But for now, know that you are precious to me, as one descended from the great Master Cartho. And that some day, you shall become as great and wise as he. And, when you may, I shall arrange for you to get your own education here, within the castle.”
Alex looked up at the face of Craycroft, noticed the smell of him, the feel of him. It was as if here was the grandfather that she had been missing, without knowing it. She took one of her little girl hands, and she placed it on his chest, where she could feel his heartbeat. Its slow, regular rhythm was calling her to somewhere warm, where the breezes off the sea gently shook the leaves above her head.
“And now,” she said suddenly, “we must go to my man from the sea. Make sure he is comf’table. Fo’ I know that upon the morning light we must go.”
She took Craycroft’s hand, and the two of them walked down the hall. Craycroft realizing once again that the call of fate was at his side, and that he had just found the most magical gift. If either of them had looked back, they might have seen that furrowed brow and those dour lips on William’s bust seem to relax just a little.
The man crept carefully toward the eastern side, by the servants’ entrance, so as not to be seen. What he saw through the windows told him that the old mansion again appeared to have some life. He recognized the people from the village of Armaugh, near Castle Kearney. And he knew the man and his wife as the keepers of the inn from the village, which had burned down last winter. And the girl, he assumed was their daughter. As he stared in the window, he could see that they had started the process of cleaning up the place. He knew the new owner, and knew him to be a man not to be trifled with.
“Well enough, then,” he said quietly, as if speaking to someone, “I shall have to see if ye’ll have success, then. Or if, like the last time, ye’ll but have t’ leave this isle. My wager would be the latter, as he has young and sturdy friends now t’ guard him.”
Pleased with what he saw, Gilbert then stepped back from the window, and he carefully headed back to the path, and out toward the village. His thoughts came back to his encounter in Champour, with the children of Simeon. And now, it seems that they were planning an excursion on the morrow, with the young girl and the mysterious sailor – thinking that would be safer than staying in the castle. Little did they know that it was into a trap that they would be walking, one that he himself would be instrumental in springing. Pleased with himself, he wandered on down the road, and turned away from the castle, and towards the village.
He then made the turn toward the blacksmith’s shop, and as he came up to the shop, he saw Jeremy and Rowan leaving the shop. His heart skipped a beat. But now it was too late for evasion, so he just nonchalantly strode on past the door.
“Evenin’, Master Gilbert,” said Rowan cheerfully.
“Good evening, Rowan,” answered Gilbert, his voice crackling. But he kept walking past, and then turned into another alley, where he hid. After several minutes of letting his heartbeat slow down, he very quietly looked out into the street, and in the gloom of night, was reassured that no one was the wiser, and he turned back toward the smithy.
But the darkness had also covered the actions of the two youths, who looked out from their own hiding place, and noticed the man, who slipped into the blacksmith’s shop, believing that he was unnoticed.
Without a word, they turned back toward the castle, and said nothing until they turned into the castle gates.
“D’ye feel it, too?” asked Jeremy. “Somethin’ tells me we have to hurry, and tell Kerlin what we’ve seen.”
“Oh, Aye. Now, we know Gilbert. And you and I know that scoundrel is up to somethin’ – somethin’ truly bad. And Kerlin’s the one we should tell, or Cayman at least.”
They arrived at the constabulary, and Rowan asked breathlessly if they could speak to either Kerlin or Cayman. As it happened, they were both in, and had been discussing the plan to move Robert, and the new people on the morrow. Seeing the eager look on the faces of the two youths, Kerlin asked them in.
“Well, lads, I truly did not expect you two back so soon. Come in, have a seat, and pray, tell what it is you’ve seen.”
And so, they sat down, and began telling Kerlin and Cayman of their day’s adventures. How they had gone to the blacksmith’s shop early in the day, and inquired of the man, LeGace. They were told that such a man had come to the smithy the prior evening. And he had asked, or rather, had insisted on the production of some knives. Not just the usual hunting knives, but ones designed to be concealed within a man’s cloak. And he insisted that they be made by today, and that they would be picked up this evening by his man. And he had paid handsomely for the knives, which the blacksmith then showed Jeremy and Rowan, with scarcely contained pride.
“And we think that we know who that man of his is,” said Jeremy. “It would appear to be Master Gilbert.”
“Gilbert, eh,” said Kerlin. His face darkened, as he closed his eyes. After a moment’s silence, he continued, “Now, that man is one that I could envision being involved with our Master LeGace. It would seem that his conscience, if he has one, is severely crippled by his ill-spent youth.”
“Maybe, this time he has finally declared his intentions,” added Cayman.
“Oh, aye, Cayman. You have been keeping an eye open to his doings for some years now.”
“Aye, that I have. Now, when was this encounter which you witnessed?”
“Oh, we just now came back from seeing him enter the blacksmith’s,” put in Rowan.
“Then we must send a man to try to tail him,” Kerlin said, then he turned toward the door. “Ho, Dowdell, can you come here a moment?”
“Aye, sir?” the faithful guardsman appeared at the door.
“Now, do we have a pair of guardsmen who can do swift work?”
“Oh, most certainly, sir. I’ll just call in Stoneheft and Martin. I shall be back anon.”
“Ah, aye, they’ll do just fine.”
“But what about us?” asked Jeremy. “We’ll do anything fer ye.”
“Exactly, m’lad,” said Kerlin. “But I’ve got something very special for you two to do for us all. Now, Cayman here has some plans for you lads, do you not?”
“Absolutely. Now, if ye’ll just pay attention…”
Back in the keep, in one of the upper rooms, sat Diego, with Alex at his side, on the bed. Craycroft had been studying the man, trying to decide if the man’s muteness had anything to do with his traumatic arrival on the isle. He, too, noticed the very subtle weakness with which he moved his right arm. And his face looked not quite right.
“My good sir,” he asked, “can you but tell me your name?”
At his question, the man’s face suddenly seemed to register a look of understanding.
“D… Dieg…Dieg…” he said, though the words had trouble forming, and did not come out of his mouth with ease.
“Diego?” queried Craycroft.
The man nodded.
“Diego!” cried Alex, and next she hugged him.
He smiled crookedly at her.
“Diego Monteverde?” asked Craycroft. “My friend, the Earl of Derrymoor has spoken of you. Are you truly he?”
Diego nodded again.
“Then we must take the most excellent care of you. For it seems that we here on Shepperton Isle have much we can learn from you…”
“She… Shep… Shepper…ton?” Diego stumbled over the word. But it was clear that the name meant something to the sailor.
Craycroft’s eyes were closed for a moment, then he spoke. “Now, I must tell Eustace, who is the Earl of Derrymoor’s true son. He will be with you on your journey on the morrow. He must know of your importance. But, for now, Alexandra shall stay with you.”
This made Alex smile. Diego could sense the eager caring in her. But of the words that Craycroft spoke, he could discern only the word ‘Derrymoor’. The rest were just babbling, and meaningless syllables. He shook his head. What had happened to him? Why were things so fuzzy? And his right arm still felt unreal, as if belonging to someone else. As Craycroft got up to leave, he just let himself be soothed again by the ministrations of this little angel who sat next to him, and who again began singing in that little girl voice, as if she alone could truly understand him.
Chapter Ten
Alexandra looked about her in amazement. Never had she seen anything like this place. She missed her mother, but she knew that her mother was home, and that she understood where her daughter was. Where Alex found herself was inside the castle, in rooms set apart for royalty, with enormous feather beds, and tall windows that looked down at the doings of the market. It was turning dark outside, but there were torches about which lit up the streets. Inside, though, it was bright, with the many torches and lamps. She began exploring the rooms, looking in all those hidden places, which she knew instinctively were where the children of the palace played. But what really captured her attention was the marble bust of some nobleman, in the middle of the room, whose expression was of distaste. She went up to the bust, and, with her little hand, felt the man’s facial expression, felt his brow, and his rigid lips.
“Alexandra, do you know who that man is?” Craycroft’s voice echoed softly across the room.
“Nay, sir, I know not. But look, he’s not too pleased wi’ somethin’.”
“Craycroft chuckled. “Nay, m’lass, I would agree with you there. He does not appear too pleased. Now, this bust is of none other than William, who was the first Earl of Shepperton. He was a man who was never jolly, never. And if I might be so bold, I would say that he was not well-liked either.”
“Well, sir, then what is he doin’ here?”
Craycroft found her question amusing, and smiled down at the lass. “If you must know, it is his castle.”
“His castle? Where is he then?”
“Oh, he is not here. He died many years ago. But it was he who had this castle built, and it was his son, and his grandson who have since been lords of Shepperton.”
“But, you are lord of Shepperton. Are you not?”
“Aye, that I be. But let me tell you something of how I got to where I am.” He took her little hand, and led her to one of the stuffed chairs, where he sat, and Alex sat in his lap. He began telling her, “Now, many years ago, I was once a child of the village, much like you are now. It was through what some would call good luck, though to me it would appear to have been the hand of God that brought me to the castle. It was here that I first became a page to the ruling house. And it was as a young page that I became fascinated with one named Cartho, who was a most extraordinary man, a healer as we have never seen on Shepperton, and a most wonderful teacher as well. It was my privilege to become his apprentice. I learned the arts of healing from that great man, and after he died, I became physician to the earl and his court. And that is where I was, when fate struck me yet again, and I became lord of this castle, and of Shepperton.
“Now, I must tell you of something most special. Your own father, Simeon, who works in my service, as a forest guard, is but a grandson to Master Cartho. Now I know not if your mother or father have talked to you about their own kin…”
“Nay, Papa never talked of his own, but me Mama has told me somethin’ of her own kin. Said she was orphaned, and that she growed up in Champour, and she and Aunt Clarice, and Aunt Sheila learned to cook and sew… and they caught their men (all but Clarice) in the nets what they sewed!”
Craycroft laughed at this, a deep, rumbling laugh that came from deep in his belly. How this young lass, who looked so small and fragile, could think such things, and could know such things!
“Let me tell you, my dear child,” he continued, “Someday, you shall have to let me tell you the story of Maggie ‘o’ Killiburn. For I do believe that you are kin to her, indeed.
“But for now, know that you are precious to me, as one descended from the great Master Cartho. And that some day, you shall become as great and wise as he. And, when you may, I shall arrange for you to get your own education here, within the castle.”
Alex looked up at the face of Craycroft, noticed the smell of him, the feel of him. It was as if here was the grandfather that she had been missing, without knowing it. She took one of her little girl hands, and she placed it on his chest, where she could feel his heartbeat. Its slow, regular rhythm was calling her to somewhere warm, where the breezes off the sea gently shook the leaves above her head.
“And now,” she said suddenly, “we must go to my man from the sea. Make sure he is comf’table. Fo’ I know that upon the morning light we must go.”
She took Craycroft’s hand, and the two of them walked down the hall. Craycroft realizing once again that the call of fate was at his side, and that he had just found the most magical gift. If either of them had looked back, they might have seen that furrowed brow and those dour lips on William’s bust seem to relax just a little.
The man crept carefully toward the eastern side, by the servants’ entrance, so as not to be seen. What he saw through the windows told him that the old mansion again appeared to have some life. He recognized the people from the village of Armaugh, near Castle Kearney. And he knew the man and his wife as the keepers of the inn from the village, which had burned down last winter. And the girl, he assumed was their daughter. As he stared in the window, he could see that they had started the process of cleaning up the place. He knew the new owner, and knew him to be a man not to be trifled with.
“Well enough, then,” he said quietly, as if speaking to someone, “I shall have to see if ye’ll have success, then. Or if, like the last time, ye’ll but have t’ leave this isle. My wager would be the latter, as he has young and sturdy friends now t’ guard him.”
Pleased with what he saw, Gilbert then stepped back from the window, and he carefully headed back to the path, and out toward the village. His thoughts came back to his encounter in Champour, with the children of Simeon. And now, it seems that they were planning an excursion on the morrow, with the young girl and the mysterious sailor – thinking that would be safer than staying in the castle. Little did they know that it was into a trap that they would be walking, one that he himself would be instrumental in springing. Pleased with himself, he wandered on down the road, and turned away from the castle, and towards the village.
He then made the turn toward the blacksmith’s shop, and as he came up to the shop, he saw Jeremy and Rowan leaving the shop. His heart skipped a beat. But now it was too late for evasion, so he just nonchalantly strode on past the door.
“Evenin’, Master Gilbert,” said Rowan cheerfully.
“Good evening, Rowan,” answered Gilbert, his voice crackling. But he kept walking past, and then turned into another alley, where he hid. After several minutes of letting his heartbeat slow down, he very quietly looked out into the street, and in the gloom of night, was reassured that no one was the wiser, and he turned back toward the smithy.
But the darkness had also covered the actions of the two youths, who looked out from their own hiding place, and noticed the man, who slipped into the blacksmith’s shop, believing that he was unnoticed.
Without a word, they turned back toward the castle, and said nothing until they turned into the castle gates.
“D’ye feel it, too?” asked Jeremy. “Somethin’ tells me we have to hurry, and tell Kerlin what we’ve seen.”
“Oh, Aye. Now, we know Gilbert. And you and I know that scoundrel is up to somethin’ – somethin’ truly bad. And Kerlin’s the one we should tell, or Cayman at least.”
They arrived at the constabulary, and Rowan asked breathlessly if they could speak to either Kerlin or Cayman. As it happened, they were both in, and had been discussing the plan to move Robert, and the new people on the morrow. Seeing the eager look on the faces of the two youths, Kerlin asked them in.
“Well, lads, I truly did not expect you two back so soon. Come in, have a seat, and pray, tell what it is you’ve seen.”
And so, they sat down, and began telling Kerlin and Cayman of their day’s adventures. How they had gone to the blacksmith’s shop early in the day, and inquired of the man, LeGace. They were told that such a man had come to the smithy the prior evening. And he had asked, or rather, had insisted on the production of some knives. Not just the usual hunting knives, but ones designed to be concealed within a man’s cloak. And he insisted that they be made by today, and that they would be picked up this evening by his man. And he had paid handsomely for the knives, which the blacksmith then showed Jeremy and Rowan, with scarcely contained pride.
“And we think that we know who that man of his is,” said Jeremy. “It would appear to be Master Gilbert.”
“Gilbert, eh,” said Kerlin. His face darkened, as he closed his eyes. After a moment’s silence, he continued, “Now, that man is one that I could envision being involved with our Master LeGace. It would seem that his conscience, if he has one, is severely crippled by his ill-spent youth.”
“Maybe, this time he has finally declared his intentions,” added Cayman.
“Oh, aye, Cayman. You have been keeping an eye open to his doings for some years now.”
“Aye, that I have. Now, when was this encounter which you witnessed?”
“Oh, we just now came back from seeing him enter the blacksmith’s,” put in Rowan.
“Then we must send a man to try to tail him,” Kerlin said, then he turned toward the door. “Ho, Dowdell, can you come here a moment?”
“Aye, sir?” the faithful guardsman appeared at the door.
“Now, do we have a pair of guardsmen who can do swift work?”
“Oh, most certainly, sir. I’ll just call in Stoneheft and Martin. I shall be back anon.”
“Ah, aye, they’ll do just fine.”
“But what about us?” asked Jeremy. “We’ll do anything fer ye.”
“Exactly, m’lad,” said Kerlin. “But I’ve got something very special for you two to do for us all. Now, Cayman here has some plans for you lads, do you not?”
“Absolutely. Now, if ye’ll just pay attention…”
Back in the keep, in one of the upper rooms, sat Diego, with Alex at his side, on the bed. Craycroft had been studying the man, trying to decide if the man’s muteness had anything to do with his traumatic arrival on the isle. He, too, noticed the very subtle weakness with which he moved his right arm. And his face looked not quite right.
“My good sir,” he asked, “can you but tell me your name?”
At his question, the man’s face suddenly seemed to register a look of understanding.
“D… Dieg…Dieg…” he said, though the words had trouble forming, and did not come out of his mouth with ease.
“Diego?” queried Craycroft.
The man nodded.
“Diego!” cried Alex, and next she hugged him.
He smiled crookedly at her.
“Diego Monteverde?” asked Craycroft. “My friend, the Earl of Derrymoor has spoken of you. Are you truly he?”
Diego nodded again.
“Then we must take the most excellent care of you. For it seems that we here on Shepperton Isle have much we can learn from you…”
“She… Shep… Shepper…ton?” Diego stumbled over the word. But it was clear that the name meant something to the sailor.
Craycroft’s eyes were closed for a moment, then he spoke. “Now, I must tell Eustace, who is the Earl of Derrymoor’s true son. He will be with you on your journey on the morrow. He must know of your importance. But, for now, Alexandra shall stay with you.”
This made Alex smile. Diego could sense the eager caring in her. But of the words that Craycroft spoke, he could discern only the word ‘Derrymoor’. The rest were just babbling, and meaningless syllables. He shook his head. What had happened to him? Why were things so fuzzy? And his right arm still felt unreal, as if belonging to someone else. As Craycroft got up to leave, he just let himself be soothed again by the ministrations of this little angel who sat next to him, and who again began singing in that little girl voice, as if she alone could truly understand him.
July 17, 2013
It means so very much.
This has really been stressful. But most of the stress has been on my wonderful wife, Sara.
About three months ago, we decided that moving again was the right thing to do, and so, this past April, I decided to let myself again become potential prey for the "head hunters" out there. By this I mean that I let it be known that I was looking to move - to Northwest Arkansas, if I could find a suitable position. Well, let me tell you, the offers started coming my way (you see, hospitalists are an extremely sought-after commodity - especially those who speak English, and have some real world experience). The money is generally good, and the work is usually satisfying.
A few of you may recall, how I was talking of professional dissatisfaction on my blog several months back, and how this contrasted with having four of my six grandchildren living in Northwest Arkansas. And how it seemed that we were all getting a bit older, and we seemed to be missing out on some very important things, such as baseball tournaments, school plays, dance recitals and the like. But what really tore at my heart strings was our youngest granddaughter, Millie. Now, for those of you fortunate enough to have a three year old grandchild, I really don't need to explain. But for the rest of you - when you become important in the life of such a wondrous creation - well, it just melts this old heart of mine.
And so, it seemed just the right thing to do, to move closer. And I did find suitable employment (or rather, I had to choose between several outstanding opportunities).
But then came the hard part. Moving requires pulling up roots. Selling our home here, and purchasing a new home in Arkansas seemed to suddenly become urgent needs, and based upon our prior experiences, we were not looking forward to that at all. But here, I ask your indulgence, as I explain my own perspective on what happened. We put our house on the market - we did all the requisite things, such as finding a realtor, getting the house "staged," having it professionally photographed, and professionally "priced to sell." And then the big day came, when our house hit the market. And let me tell you, we had no expectations that it might sell so quickly - but we did not have it on the market even for one whole day - it sold that same day! And this was so incredibly unexpected, it took our breath away. It was going to become a reality after all. And I don't expect you to understand how it seemed to us like divine intervention, but that is truly how we see it.
Well, we came back to earth rather quickly, as we now had to find someplace in Arkansas to live. We have had to pack our things here, and be ready to move there - all in a matter of weeks. We did find a beautiful home, which was about the same size as our existing home (and comparable in price), which will be ready in time for us to move. So, we close here on Aug 2nd, and close there on Aug 5th - wheww! And all this time, I still have had my job to do here in Oklahoma City, where everyone tells me that I will be missed.
This is really the first time in which a move has meant this much to us. To leave our lovely home, with its wonderful neighbors, our church family, our friends (professional and otherwise) - and to go forth to another state, to be with our actual family means so very much to us. And I thank you for your indulgence again, as I pick up the pieces of my old life, and try to put things together again in our newest adventure.
About three months ago, we decided that moving again was the right thing to do, and so, this past April, I decided to let myself again become potential prey for the "head hunters" out there. By this I mean that I let it be known that I was looking to move - to Northwest Arkansas, if I could find a suitable position. Well, let me tell you, the offers started coming my way (you see, hospitalists are an extremely sought-after commodity - especially those who speak English, and have some real world experience). The money is generally good, and the work is usually satisfying.
A few of you may recall, how I was talking of professional dissatisfaction on my blog several months back, and how this contrasted with having four of my six grandchildren living in Northwest Arkansas. And how it seemed that we were all getting a bit older, and we seemed to be missing out on some very important things, such as baseball tournaments, school plays, dance recitals and the like. But what really tore at my heart strings was our youngest granddaughter, Millie. Now, for those of you fortunate enough to have a three year old grandchild, I really don't need to explain. But for the rest of you - when you become important in the life of such a wondrous creation - well, it just melts this old heart of mine.
And so, it seemed just the right thing to do, to move closer. And I did find suitable employment (or rather, I had to choose between several outstanding opportunities).
But then came the hard part. Moving requires pulling up roots. Selling our home here, and purchasing a new home in Arkansas seemed to suddenly become urgent needs, and based upon our prior experiences, we were not looking forward to that at all. But here, I ask your indulgence, as I explain my own perspective on what happened. We put our house on the market - we did all the requisite things, such as finding a realtor, getting the house "staged," having it professionally photographed, and professionally "priced to sell." And then the big day came, when our house hit the market. And let me tell you, we had no expectations that it might sell so quickly - but we did not have it on the market even for one whole day - it sold that same day! And this was so incredibly unexpected, it took our breath away. It was going to become a reality after all. And I don't expect you to understand how it seemed to us like divine intervention, but that is truly how we see it.
Well, we came back to earth rather quickly, as we now had to find someplace in Arkansas to live. We have had to pack our things here, and be ready to move there - all in a matter of weeks. We did find a beautiful home, which was about the same size as our existing home (and comparable in price), which will be ready in time for us to move. So, we close here on Aug 2nd, and close there on Aug 5th - wheww! And all this time, I still have had my job to do here in Oklahoma City, where everyone tells me that I will be missed.
This is really the first time in which a move has meant this much to us. To leave our lovely home, with its wonderful neighbors, our church family, our friends (professional and otherwise) - and to go forth to another state, to be with our actual family means so very much to us. And I thank you for your indulgence again, as I pick up the pieces of my old life, and try to put things together again in our newest adventure.
