Timothy H. Cook's Blog, page 12
March 23, 2013
Been busy...
The week which I mentioned in my last blog post has come and gone, and is rapidly fading into the distance of memory. And what have I been up to? Well, working my tail off. It seems that the week of "spring break" has become something of a hallowed tradition here in midwest America, and anyone with children in school (no matter what age) is intent on taking the week off, which leaves caring for the ill and injured up to those of us that are too old to notice. Except that the hospital shuts down floors, and runs on a very limited staff, with limited ability to care for the said ill and injured. And those of us left, end up working harder than ever. Hmmm... [Note to self: do not have elective surgery, or get ill on the week of spring break]
Anyway, I don't mean to sound crass, but I get tired.
Which then puts the fun stuff, like writing on my blog, or writing more of my sequel, on hold.
But something good did come of my time this past week. As I was getting ready to attend a book signing April 6th, I discovered the best coffee shop in the Oklahoma City area. And while I was at it, I got to meet (briefly) some fabulous people. Even if the book signing is a total bust (see prior post), this one promises to at the very least expand my horizons, if not to provide intellectual and spiritual growth.
Well, even tired old doctors like me can see the benefit. I think I'll have another cup.
Anyway, I don't mean to sound crass, but I get tired.
Which then puts the fun stuff, like writing on my blog, or writing more of my sequel, on hold.
But something good did come of my time this past week. As I was getting ready to attend a book signing April 6th, I discovered the best coffee shop in the Oklahoma City area. And while I was at it, I got to meet (briefly) some fabulous people. Even if the book signing is a total bust (see prior post), this one promises to at the very least expand my horizons, if not to provide intellectual and spiritual growth.
Well, even tired old doctors like me can see the benefit. I think I'll have another cup.
March 10, 2013
What a week it's going to be!
This is going to be a memorable week for me. The first thing is that this is the week that my third book, Turbulence and Restoration, gets released. Now those of you who have gotten hold of my third book have gotten it before is has become available to the masses. On Tuesday, March 12, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Hastings, etc. will be able to sell the third book on their internet sites. Now what this really means depends on many factors that I have no control over, and truly is up to all of you. This could be the beginning of something special, or could just be a big nothing. Now that the entire Drachma trilogy is available, and this is what I set out to bring you from the beginning, the stakes are higher. If you did enjoy the trilogy, then tell your friends and colleagues about the books, and where they may be obtained, then sit back and watch. And if there is enough noise, the local bookstores might even begin to stock the books upon their shelves. And from then, who knows...The second thing is that I'm going to start book signings in a big way. I'm starting small, and limited, with a book signing event at The Fountains at Canterbury on Tuesday. Then Hastings next month, and then others to follow. But I'll still need your help, with the publicity, and just getting the word out. And if you have any suggestions at all, no matter how trivial, I'll certainly take them seriously. Now, I'll have specials, and I'll still have my books for sale at the hospital gift shops, but these things cannot compare with the effects that your word of mouth can have.
And the third thing is a bit more trivial, but still significant for me. That would be my own dental work this week. I have to get a root canal and crown (whoopie!). And that means going off my Coumadin for several days, and it means I'll be out of commission for a day. Ah, well, maybe I can just concentrate on writing the sequel.
Take care this week!
March 3, 2013
It's that time again.
Well, I've been working on the sequel, and this chapter is out there for you to review - but beware, there is much more to come!
Book Four - Chapter Eight
Those dreams! They kept coming, every time she closed her eyes they were there. It was as if something or someone really didn’t want her to sleep. So, Marilyn quit fighting, and got up early, went downstairs, and put on a pot of coffee. The images from the night kept coming back to her through her hazy consciousness. She simply couldn’t get the images to stop. Images of ancient forests, and mountains, deep and dark rivers. And those voices! It was as if the forest itself was speaking to her.
She turned on the radio, but what came out of the radio was nothing she had ever heard before. There was a harp playing, not loudly at all, but nevertheless commanding – like the voices. But the beauty of the music – it was as if by its own sound it could penetrate all resistance. It was so unlike anything that she had ever heard, that she felt herself give way. She closed her eyes again, and felt herself drifting off. She was now walking along in the forest, as ancient as anything she had ever experienced. The harp could still be heard, but there seemed to be the music of the forest itself, as if a humming accompaniment to the playing of the harp. She could feel the warmth of the breeze, and the sun shining down through the leaves, dappling the path before her. She walked further down the path, toward the sound of running water.
And there, at the water’s edge stood a youth. His demeanor was quiet, and inviting. Marilyn came up to him. He held out his hand toward her, and he spoke to her, in a voice as powerful and ancient as the forest itself.
“Lady Marilyn, fear not. My name is Drachma, but I am called Tom. I bring you greetings from a land and a time far off.”
Marilyn tried to speak, but could not. But the youth continued.
“You have been chosen, and have chosen. Your guide shall be Falma, the wise. Heed what he tells, and follow well his counsel. For he has been here among us; and knows the dangers which you and the others shall face. But for now, m’lady, do as you must, and Falma shall be there for you. And your adventure has now begun!”
Then the youth turned, and walked down the path, into the ever deepening forest. Marilyn tried to follow, but her feet would not move. Next, the forest scene receded , as she opened her eyes, and shook her head clear. She noticed that the music had stopped, and the radio announcer was telling of the music, which came on a disc that had come to him just yesterday, and was apparently some Irish minstrel music from the fifteenth century.
She then got back up, and poured herself a cup of coffee. Next, she picked up the phone and dialed it.
“Charlie, I’m so sorry to waken you… You were? Anyway I couldn’t sleep, and I just had the weirdest dream, if you can call it that… In any event, I just didn’t want to be alone right now… no, nothing like that… You will?... And I told detective Lewinsky that I’d come down to the station this morning. But I think that I’d really like to talk to the earl before I do that… You will?... Well, give me a half hour to get showered and dressed.
“And now, Charlie, you can’t do a story on this. At least you’ve got to wait until all the pieces are in place… Charlie, please… just promise me that you’ll put aside your infernal reporter’s instincts for a while… OK, it’s a deal.
“And Charlie, thanks… No, nothing like that. Well, I’ll see you in about a half hour. Bye.”
As he ascended the stairs to her door, Charlie still didn’t know what kind of mood Marilyn would be in. That phone conversation did not tell him really what he would find. Only, he knew this was something very disconcerting, for she had never before called before eight.
Before he could ring the bell, Marilyn opened the door, and smiled cautiously as she let him in.
“Thanks for coming over, Charlie. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Her hair was still damp from the shower, and hung about her face in casual disarray. She smelled faintly of wildflowers, and she was dressed in jeans and a floral top. All of this made Charlie vaguely uncomfortable in some way that he could not define.
“Thanks. Yeah, I’d like some.”
“Well, sit down here, and I’ll bring you a cup.”
Charlie sat down in the living room, as Marilyn went into the kitchen, and came back with two cups of coffee. She set his down next his chair, and then sat down herself on the living room floor, at his feet. Charlie’s sense of unease abruptly increased.
“Now, Charlie, we’ve got some talking to do, before we go over to Shepperton’s. I know that this is something powerful, as well as something significant that I’m stepping into, so bear with me.” She casually and intimately laid a hand on his leg, as he sat and sipped his coffee. Then she told him of Falma’s visit, her own reactions to what the old man had told her. Next she told him of the dreams, and of her daydream in the kitchen.
“Now, wait just a minute. Let me think this through. All this talk of dreams and meeting mysterious men in the woods takes me back a few years, as you may well imagine. Back to the time when our own earl was a patient in the ICU…”
“Exactly.”
“As well as the disappearance of your husband, and Judy Morrison. And also of our friend Carlo Vincente.” Charlie then stopped and thought for a moment. Then he said, “and it was Carlo who gave you that box with the drachma in it, which is now missing. And I suppose that this makes you all the more wary…”
“As it should. And it is also what has me convinced that something powerful is going to be happening. And that is why I need to speak with the earl – you did call him, right?”
“Yeah. And you know what’s weird? He wasn’t the least bit surprised by my call. It was as if he was expecting it.”
“Hmm, after these years, and all we’ve been through with him, there are still things about him which defy logic and certainly defy convention. Do you remember who it was, though, that talked you out of doing that TV piece you had your heart set on doing about him, as he was getting better, and going to leave the hospital?”
“Yes, I do – it was Carol.”
“And you know how that all went down? Well, let me tell you what really happened. This is the first I’ve told anyone about this.”
Charlie’s eyebrows arched, and involuntarily he found his old TV reporter’s instincts kicking in. He put down his cup of coffee, and gave Marilyn his full, undivided attention.
“Well, here is how the whole thing developed, and also, how it was that Carol and the earl got so close. Now, you know that I would go and sit with the earl, as he was gradually getting better, and eventually, moved out of ICU. And let me tell you that the staff of Memorial was extraordinarily helpful in keeping the media away. Anyway, at first it was mostly me explaining to the earl how it was in our century, how he was being cared for, and what the IV and antibiotics were for, and why it was necessary to do all those painful tests on him. At first, Carol was just there to fill in the gaps of my own knowledge. But it eventually got to be much more than that. As you know Carol and the earl were finding that their own relationship was becoming much more than that of patient and nurse.
“Eventually, the earl himself began talking to us about his own past circumstances. And he talked of Carlo Vincente, of Drachma, of Falma, but also of Bob and Judy Morrison. But when asked if he wanted this information made public, he was uncertain. He said that the fewer people knew of his circumstances, the better. And I could see his point. But it was really Carol who flat out told him that he should not agree to be “made a spectacle,” as she put it. And it was obvious to me why she wanted this, for in that brief time, she had fallen in love with the earl. And while it was you and me that arranged for him to have a place to be, and to live and to eat, it was really Carol who made his life complete.
“And just think about it. Who has been there each time you’ve been there to question him with your investigator’s hat on? It was Carol, and you know why? It’s because she really loves him, and she feels an obligation to protect him from even well-meaning reporters such as yourself.”
Charlie thought again for a moment, then responded. “And now, with this newest barrage of weird stuff from the fifteenth century, you want to seek his advice. And apparently you want me to go along…”
“Yeah, that’s right. I want you to go along. And I’ll tell you why. There was something that this Mr. Falma told me. He said, or at least he implied that I was putting myself in some kind of danger. And it’s you that I want to tell the story if this should be true. For I really don’t know what kind of danger, or if it means that this is permanent.”
“And what do you mean you’re putting yourself in danger? What sort of danger?”
Marilyn paused, and then continued. “You know I really have no idea, except that it involves Bob, in that time of his, and that I need to listen to Tom (whom I “met” in my dream), someone named Diego, and also some girl named Alex.”
“Now, do you mind if I write these names down?”
“No, go ahead, but it would seem to me that you probably don’t need to.”
“No…? Well, I’ll write them down anyway, just in case.” And he took out his small notebook from his pocket, and jotted down the names. “Now it would seem to me that Shepperton might be able to shed some light on who these people are.”
“Maybe, maybe not… In any event, I do believe that I’m ready now to discuss matters with the earl.”
Charlie then rose, and helped Marilyn up, with the words, “as you wish, m’lady.”
Marilyn smiled at him, and kissed his cheek. She took the coffee cups back into her kitchen. Next, she came over to Charlie, grasped his arm, and the two of them headed out the door, toward Charlie’s car. On the way out, Marilyn turned to Charlie and asked, “now would you also be so kind as to accompany me to the police station after we see the earl? It seems that detective Lewinsky may not be finished with me just yet.”
Charlie smiled as he said, “but of course.” But inside, his own investigative hairs were acting like little antennae.
Back now at Elliott Avenue, Charlie and Marilyn arrived at the ornate door of the earl of Shepperton’s home. It was Carol again who let them in. She hugged them both, and led them back into the earl’s study.
“Welcome, my friends!” said the earl, with all the warmth of a large bear hug. “And I take it, m’lady, that you have questions and concerns, which I may or may not be able to answer. Now, please take a seat, here…”
He guided Judy to one of the stuffed chairs. Charlie sat in one of the others, while Carol went to the kitchen to prepare some tea. The earl then sat back down, in his chair behind the great desk. Even though he was dressed in late twentieth century casual attire, his regal bearing was obvious. It was then that Marilyn noticed that the earl’s suit of clothes, with which he had come among them four years ago, hung on a set of hangers, behind him.
How odd, she thought, that he would still have his set of ancient clothes, apparently as a memento.
“Now, Earl,” said Marilyn, “if you don’t mind me asking… that set of your own clothing, from your time. Why…?”
“Ah, my good lady, will you not come this way, and I shall show you the reason that I do keep my old set of clothes in here, with me, as a reminder…”
Marilyn and Charlie both got up and walked over to where the earl’s clothes hung.
“Now, notice, if you will, that my clothing has been rent, apparently after I arrived in your hospital.” He showed them the long split down the front, of both the shirt and the trousers. “Come, feel this cloth. It is nothing like I have upon me now. This is silk from the south of France, with which I was garbed. It is of some significance to me. For this material is exceedingly rare, and was only worn by those of royalty. Now, I shall not wear this again, here, in your time. But it is ever here to remind me of whence I came, for I had nothing else.”
Marilyn hesitantly felt the cloth, from so many centuries ago. She noticed the warp and woof of the cloth, and the deep purple color. She noticed that it had been sewn, very carefully around the sleeve, with black silk thread. And she noticed the garish cut made by the scissors in the ER. And as she was handling the cloth, she noticed the room around her began to fade, as she looked about her, noticing the stream, in the dense forest, and there he stood, by the edge of the stream, smiling at her…
She shook her head, and her vision faded.
“M’lady,” it was the earl, “you did see something, did you not?”
He helped her back into the chair. Carol then entered with her tray, and noticed Marilyn’s pallor.
“Here, have some tea. How do you take it?”
As Marilyn returned to the present, she thanked Carol, and took her cup of tea, with milk and a bit of sugar. Charlie was watching all this with a sense of déjà vu. It was all too familiar, this feeling, as well as Marilyn’s reaction. But he said nothing, and stoically took his cup of tea, just black, and continued his intense observation.
Then, as Marilyn seemed to regain her hold on reality, the earl said kindly, “now, my good lady, it is with much anticipation that I should ask you to expound on what is obviously a frightening experience for you. And be assured, good lady that all here hold you in highest esteem, and we do offer what we may of comfort.”
“Thanks, Earl. And, believe me, I do know that.” And so she began her narrative. First she told of her encounter with Falma in her own living room, and how she had agreed to help her husband, though she certainly did not know what she could do for him. And she told them of how Falma had been set up to be her guide, and would be seeing her again shortly. Then she went on and told of her dreams, and her intensely vivid daydream with someone named Tom.
“Did you say Tom, m’lady?”
“Oh, yes, but he said that his actual name was Drachma…”
“That is certainly interesting, Lady.” And the earl went on to explain how this same youth, named Tom, or Drachma, the younger, figured most heavily in the affairs in Shepperton. He also told of Tom’s past, and how he came to Craycroft, who through means only known to himself, had determined Tom’s true identity, as the heir to Drachma, and his true grandson. Further, he told them of Tom’s own mother, Maggie, who died in childbirth, but who, it now seems had become something of a celestial messenger. And so, with the blessing of his grandfather, Tom was now the adopted son of Craycroft, the healer, and the lord of Shepperton.
As he went on, Charlie recalled very vividly his own, brief and partial though it was, encounter with this girl.
“Let me ask you, if I may,” he interrupted, “but this girl, Maggie, could you describe her?”
The earl smiled, then answered, “I take it, then, that you may have come across this amazing young lass.”
“I think so, but could you tell us what she looked like?”
“Well, I shall, but then you and I must each tell of the occasion when we saw her. As to her physical attributes, I should say that she appears to be no more than ten years of age, but she does radiate beauty, which is unmistakable, clothed as she is in gray, but whose hair is red as the setting sun, and who does leave the unmistakable scent of newly turned earth. But what truly lingers, even after she has gone, is the deepest sense of longing. Now I see from your countenance that you have, indeed, seen her. And could you please tell us of the occasion, and then I shall speak of her myself.”
Charlie then told of his encounters with Carlo Vincente, and his very first seeing the earl, himself, in the ICU, in the middle of the night. And he was left at the earl’s side, as Carlo Vincente then strode out of the ICU, and out of their lives, but waiting for him was this young girl, dressed in grey, with hair that shone red. And as he was himself leaving the ICU, he could tell where she had been. There was the unmistakable scent of newly turned earth, and, yes, that powerful, irresistible sense of longing.
Marilyn sat, shivering slightly, but not from cold. There was a new sensation of impending reality that was closing in around her.
The earl next told them of his own encounter with this waif of a girl. “It was as I lay dying, in my own bed, in my own time. There she was, at the foot of my bed. She told me not to fear - I was but going on a journey where none had gone, but that she would stay with me until I was safely at my destination. And that same smell, and that incredible longing were part of that trip. And it was then all of you, which made it possible for me to be here.”
A tear escaped Carol’s eye as he recounted his story. Charlie had lapsed back into silence.
It was Marilyn who broke the silence. “I just want to say thank you, Earl, for sharing that piece of reality, which, it seems, binds us together in ways that I can’t even fathom yet. And you do give me some peace, as well. For I know that I’ll have your thoughts with me, whatever happens.”
“Oh, aye, m’lady. That you shall.”
“And let me ask you. Do the names Diego and Alex mean any thing to you? Are they ones in Shepperton whom you know?”
“Nay, m’lady. I know them not. And why do you ask?”
“It was Falma who told me that they would be persons that I would need to pay attention to.”
“Why, then, Lady, if that is what Falma said, then I would certainly do that.”
And from then it was just a warm gathering of friends, who were sitting and enjoying their tea, which had rapidly become the earl’s favorite drink. As he waxed eloquent on the virtues of Carol’s British Isles choice of comfort drink, Carol just beamed at her man.
As she saw them to the door later, Carol turned to Marilyn, and asked about Janie and Earl.
“You know, I haven’t heard from them in months. I think I’ll call them when I get back home. Not that I really have anything to tell them. But you’re right to ask. There’s something there, and I know Janie well enough to know that she’ll sense it too. But right now, I’ve got to see detective Lewinsky, and see what she has to tell me. Are you ready, Mr. Stephens?”
“Ready when you are, Madam.”
Book Four - Chapter Eight
Those dreams! They kept coming, every time she closed her eyes they were there. It was as if something or someone really didn’t want her to sleep. So, Marilyn quit fighting, and got up early, went downstairs, and put on a pot of coffee. The images from the night kept coming back to her through her hazy consciousness. She simply couldn’t get the images to stop. Images of ancient forests, and mountains, deep and dark rivers. And those voices! It was as if the forest itself was speaking to her.
She turned on the radio, but what came out of the radio was nothing she had ever heard before. There was a harp playing, not loudly at all, but nevertheless commanding – like the voices. But the beauty of the music – it was as if by its own sound it could penetrate all resistance. It was so unlike anything that she had ever heard, that she felt herself give way. She closed her eyes again, and felt herself drifting off. She was now walking along in the forest, as ancient as anything she had ever experienced. The harp could still be heard, but there seemed to be the music of the forest itself, as if a humming accompaniment to the playing of the harp. She could feel the warmth of the breeze, and the sun shining down through the leaves, dappling the path before her. She walked further down the path, toward the sound of running water.
And there, at the water’s edge stood a youth. His demeanor was quiet, and inviting. Marilyn came up to him. He held out his hand toward her, and he spoke to her, in a voice as powerful and ancient as the forest itself.
“Lady Marilyn, fear not. My name is Drachma, but I am called Tom. I bring you greetings from a land and a time far off.”
Marilyn tried to speak, but could not. But the youth continued.
“You have been chosen, and have chosen. Your guide shall be Falma, the wise. Heed what he tells, and follow well his counsel. For he has been here among us; and knows the dangers which you and the others shall face. But for now, m’lady, do as you must, and Falma shall be there for you. And your adventure has now begun!”
Then the youth turned, and walked down the path, into the ever deepening forest. Marilyn tried to follow, but her feet would not move. Next, the forest scene receded , as she opened her eyes, and shook her head clear. She noticed that the music had stopped, and the radio announcer was telling of the music, which came on a disc that had come to him just yesterday, and was apparently some Irish minstrel music from the fifteenth century.
She then got back up, and poured herself a cup of coffee. Next, she picked up the phone and dialed it.
“Charlie, I’m so sorry to waken you… You were? Anyway I couldn’t sleep, and I just had the weirdest dream, if you can call it that… In any event, I just didn’t want to be alone right now… no, nothing like that… You will?... And I told detective Lewinsky that I’d come down to the station this morning. But I think that I’d really like to talk to the earl before I do that… You will?... Well, give me a half hour to get showered and dressed.
“And now, Charlie, you can’t do a story on this. At least you’ve got to wait until all the pieces are in place… Charlie, please… just promise me that you’ll put aside your infernal reporter’s instincts for a while… OK, it’s a deal.
“And Charlie, thanks… No, nothing like that. Well, I’ll see you in about a half hour. Bye.”
As he ascended the stairs to her door, Charlie still didn’t know what kind of mood Marilyn would be in. That phone conversation did not tell him really what he would find. Only, he knew this was something very disconcerting, for she had never before called before eight.
Before he could ring the bell, Marilyn opened the door, and smiled cautiously as she let him in.
“Thanks for coming over, Charlie. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Her hair was still damp from the shower, and hung about her face in casual disarray. She smelled faintly of wildflowers, and she was dressed in jeans and a floral top. All of this made Charlie vaguely uncomfortable in some way that he could not define.
“Thanks. Yeah, I’d like some.”
“Well, sit down here, and I’ll bring you a cup.”
Charlie sat down in the living room, as Marilyn went into the kitchen, and came back with two cups of coffee. She set his down next his chair, and then sat down herself on the living room floor, at his feet. Charlie’s sense of unease abruptly increased.
“Now, Charlie, we’ve got some talking to do, before we go over to Shepperton’s. I know that this is something powerful, as well as something significant that I’m stepping into, so bear with me.” She casually and intimately laid a hand on his leg, as he sat and sipped his coffee. Then she told him of Falma’s visit, her own reactions to what the old man had told her. Next she told him of the dreams, and of her daydream in the kitchen.
“Now, wait just a minute. Let me think this through. All this talk of dreams and meeting mysterious men in the woods takes me back a few years, as you may well imagine. Back to the time when our own earl was a patient in the ICU…”
“Exactly.”
“As well as the disappearance of your husband, and Judy Morrison. And also of our friend Carlo Vincente.” Charlie then stopped and thought for a moment. Then he said, “and it was Carlo who gave you that box with the drachma in it, which is now missing. And I suppose that this makes you all the more wary…”
“As it should. And it is also what has me convinced that something powerful is going to be happening. And that is why I need to speak with the earl – you did call him, right?”
“Yeah. And you know what’s weird? He wasn’t the least bit surprised by my call. It was as if he was expecting it.”
“Hmm, after these years, and all we’ve been through with him, there are still things about him which defy logic and certainly defy convention. Do you remember who it was, though, that talked you out of doing that TV piece you had your heart set on doing about him, as he was getting better, and going to leave the hospital?”
“Yes, I do – it was Carol.”
“And you know how that all went down? Well, let me tell you what really happened. This is the first I’ve told anyone about this.”
Charlie’s eyebrows arched, and involuntarily he found his old TV reporter’s instincts kicking in. He put down his cup of coffee, and gave Marilyn his full, undivided attention.
“Well, here is how the whole thing developed, and also, how it was that Carol and the earl got so close. Now, you know that I would go and sit with the earl, as he was gradually getting better, and eventually, moved out of ICU. And let me tell you that the staff of Memorial was extraordinarily helpful in keeping the media away. Anyway, at first it was mostly me explaining to the earl how it was in our century, how he was being cared for, and what the IV and antibiotics were for, and why it was necessary to do all those painful tests on him. At first, Carol was just there to fill in the gaps of my own knowledge. But it eventually got to be much more than that. As you know Carol and the earl were finding that their own relationship was becoming much more than that of patient and nurse.
“Eventually, the earl himself began talking to us about his own past circumstances. And he talked of Carlo Vincente, of Drachma, of Falma, but also of Bob and Judy Morrison. But when asked if he wanted this information made public, he was uncertain. He said that the fewer people knew of his circumstances, the better. And I could see his point. But it was really Carol who flat out told him that he should not agree to be “made a spectacle,” as she put it. And it was obvious to me why she wanted this, for in that brief time, she had fallen in love with the earl. And while it was you and me that arranged for him to have a place to be, and to live and to eat, it was really Carol who made his life complete.
“And just think about it. Who has been there each time you’ve been there to question him with your investigator’s hat on? It was Carol, and you know why? It’s because she really loves him, and she feels an obligation to protect him from even well-meaning reporters such as yourself.”
Charlie thought again for a moment, then responded. “And now, with this newest barrage of weird stuff from the fifteenth century, you want to seek his advice. And apparently you want me to go along…”
“Yeah, that’s right. I want you to go along. And I’ll tell you why. There was something that this Mr. Falma told me. He said, or at least he implied that I was putting myself in some kind of danger. And it’s you that I want to tell the story if this should be true. For I really don’t know what kind of danger, or if it means that this is permanent.”
“And what do you mean you’re putting yourself in danger? What sort of danger?”
Marilyn paused, and then continued. “You know I really have no idea, except that it involves Bob, in that time of his, and that I need to listen to Tom (whom I “met” in my dream), someone named Diego, and also some girl named Alex.”
“Now, do you mind if I write these names down?”
“No, go ahead, but it would seem to me that you probably don’t need to.”
“No…? Well, I’ll write them down anyway, just in case.” And he took out his small notebook from his pocket, and jotted down the names. “Now it would seem to me that Shepperton might be able to shed some light on who these people are.”
“Maybe, maybe not… In any event, I do believe that I’m ready now to discuss matters with the earl.”
Charlie then rose, and helped Marilyn up, with the words, “as you wish, m’lady.”
Marilyn smiled at him, and kissed his cheek. She took the coffee cups back into her kitchen. Next, she came over to Charlie, grasped his arm, and the two of them headed out the door, toward Charlie’s car. On the way out, Marilyn turned to Charlie and asked, “now would you also be so kind as to accompany me to the police station after we see the earl? It seems that detective Lewinsky may not be finished with me just yet.”
Charlie smiled as he said, “but of course.” But inside, his own investigative hairs were acting like little antennae.
Back now at Elliott Avenue, Charlie and Marilyn arrived at the ornate door of the earl of Shepperton’s home. It was Carol again who let them in. She hugged them both, and led them back into the earl’s study.
“Welcome, my friends!” said the earl, with all the warmth of a large bear hug. “And I take it, m’lady, that you have questions and concerns, which I may or may not be able to answer. Now, please take a seat, here…”
He guided Judy to one of the stuffed chairs. Charlie sat in one of the others, while Carol went to the kitchen to prepare some tea. The earl then sat back down, in his chair behind the great desk. Even though he was dressed in late twentieth century casual attire, his regal bearing was obvious. It was then that Marilyn noticed that the earl’s suit of clothes, with which he had come among them four years ago, hung on a set of hangers, behind him.
How odd, she thought, that he would still have his set of ancient clothes, apparently as a memento.
“Now, Earl,” said Marilyn, “if you don’t mind me asking… that set of your own clothing, from your time. Why…?”
“Ah, my good lady, will you not come this way, and I shall show you the reason that I do keep my old set of clothes in here, with me, as a reminder…”
Marilyn and Charlie both got up and walked over to where the earl’s clothes hung.
“Now, notice, if you will, that my clothing has been rent, apparently after I arrived in your hospital.” He showed them the long split down the front, of both the shirt and the trousers. “Come, feel this cloth. It is nothing like I have upon me now. This is silk from the south of France, with which I was garbed. It is of some significance to me. For this material is exceedingly rare, and was only worn by those of royalty. Now, I shall not wear this again, here, in your time. But it is ever here to remind me of whence I came, for I had nothing else.”
Marilyn hesitantly felt the cloth, from so many centuries ago. She noticed the warp and woof of the cloth, and the deep purple color. She noticed that it had been sewn, very carefully around the sleeve, with black silk thread. And she noticed the garish cut made by the scissors in the ER. And as she was handling the cloth, she noticed the room around her began to fade, as she looked about her, noticing the stream, in the dense forest, and there he stood, by the edge of the stream, smiling at her…
She shook her head, and her vision faded.
“M’lady,” it was the earl, “you did see something, did you not?”
He helped her back into the chair. Carol then entered with her tray, and noticed Marilyn’s pallor.
“Here, have some tea. How do you take it?”
As Marilyn returned to the present, she thanked Carol, and took her cup of tea, with milk and a bit of sugar. Charlie was watching all this with a sense of déjà vu. It was all too familiar, this feeling, as well as Marilyn’s reaction. But he said nothing, and stoically took his cup of tea, just black, and continued his intense observation.
Then, as Marilyn seemed to regain her hold on reality, the earl said kindly, “now, my good lady, it is with much anticipation that I should ask you to expound on what is obviously a frightening experience for you. And be assured, good lady that all here hold you in highest esteem, and we do offer what we may of comfort.”
“Thanks, Earl. And, believe me, I do know that.” And so she began her narrative. First she told of her encounter with Falma in her own living room, and how she had agreed to help her husband, though she certainly did not know what she could do for him. And she told them of how Falma had been set up to be her guide, and would be seeing her again shortly. Then she went on and told of her dreams, and her intensely vivid daydream with someone named Tom.
“Did you say Tom, m’lady?”
“Oh, yes, but he said that his actual name was Drachma…”
“That is certainly interesting, Lady.” And the earl went on to explain how this same youth, named Tom, or Drachma, the younger, figured most heavily in the affairs in Shepperton. He also told of Tom’s past, and how he came to Craycroft, who through means only known to himself, had determined Tom’s true identity, as the heir to Drachma, and his true grandson. Further, he told them of Tom’s own mother, Maggie, who died in childbirth, but who, it now seems had become something of a celestial messenger. And so, with the blessing of his grandfather, Tom was now the adopted son of Craycroft, the healer, and the lord of Shepperton.
As he went on, Charlie recalled very vividly his own, brief and partial though it was, encounter with this girl.
“Let me ask you, if I may,” he interrupted, “but this girl, Maggie, could you describe her?”
The earl smiled, then answered, “I take it, then, that you may have come across this amazing young lass.”
“I think so, but could you tell us what she looked like?”
“Well, I shall, but then you and I must each tell of the occasion when we saw her. As to her physical attributes, I should say that she appears to be no more than ten years of age, but she does radiate beauty, which is unmistakable, clothed as she is in gray, but whose hair is red as the setting sun, and who does leave the unmistakable scent of newly turned earth. But what truly lingers, even after she has gone, is the deepest sense of longing. Now I see from your countenance that you have, indeed, seen her. And could you please tell us of the occasion, and then I shall speak of her myself.”
Charlie then told of his encounters with Carlo Vincente, and his very first seeing the earl, himself, in the ICU, in the middle of the night. And he was left at the earl’s side, as Carlo Vincente then strode out of the ICU, and out of their lives, but waiting for him was this young girl, dressed in grey, with hair that shone red. And as he was himself leaving the ICU, he could tell where she had been. There was the unmistakable scent of newly turned earth, and, yes, that powerful, irresistible sense of longing.
Marilyn sat, shivering slightly, but not from cold. There was a new sensation of impending reality that was closing in around her.
The earl next told them of his own encounter with this waif of a girl. “It was as I lay dying, in my own bed, in my own time. There she was, at the foot of my bed. She told me not to fear - I was but going on a journey where none had gone, but that she would stay with me until I was safely at my destination. And that same smell, and that incredible longing were part of that trip. And it was then all of you, which made it possible for me to be here.”
A tear escaped Carol’s eye as he recounted his story. Charlie had lapsed back into silence.
It was Marilyn who broke the silence. “I just want to say thank you, Earl, for sharing that piece of reality, which, it seems, binds us together in ways that I can’t even fathom yet. And you do give me some peace, as well. For I know that I’ll have your thoughts with me, whatever happens.”
“Oh, aye, m’lady. That you shall.”
“And let me ask you. Do the names Diego and Alex mean any thing to you? Are they ones in Shepperton whom you know?”
“Nay, m’lady. I know them not. And why do you ask?”
“It was Falma who told me that they would be persons that I would need to pay attention to.”
“Why, then, Lady, if that is what Falma said, then I would certainly do that.”
And from then it was just a warm gathering of friends, who were sitting and enjoying their tea, which had rapidly become the earl’s favorite drink. As he waxed eloquent on the virtues of Carol’s British Isles choice of comfort drink, Carol just beamed at her man.
As she saw them to the door later, Carol turned to Marilyn, and asked about Janie and Earl.
“You know, I haven’t heard from them in months. I think I’ll call them when I get back home. Not that I really have anything to tell them. But you’re right to ask. There’s something there, and I know Janie well enough to know that she’ll sense it too. But right now, I’ve got to see detective Lewinsky, and see what she has to tell me. Are you ready, Mr. Stephens?”
“Ready when you are, Madam.”
February 26, 2013
The passing of one of the great ones
It was almost like an afterthought. Just this little piece in the media, which told of the passing of one of the great men of medicine. C. Everett Koop died peacefully in his sleep yesterday, and was 96 years old. Now who was this man, really?
Well, he became known as the surgeon general of the United States, and I'd bet that you could not name any other surgeons general in recent (or remote) years. It is not a post which many aspire to, and typically, it leaves nothing to remember anyone by. It is not usually associated with any great, or traumatic events. And it would be easy to just be there, and get your job done, and get out.
That was not the case with Dr. Koop.
Now, a bit about his background. He was raised in medicine, during the era (my own father's era), when a physician could, and often did, whatever it took to deal with the big issues at hand. It was not the era of "that's not in my line of work." Now Dr Koop was trained as a surgeon, and he developed the specialty of pediatric surgery, and notably performed multiple surgeries for the very first time. It should be noted that his surgical practice was what he quietly did for many years, as well as training multiple fellows, who would go on to become professors around the world at various prestigious institutions. He was not trained specifically in public health. That all changed in 1981, when he was appointed, by Ronald Reagan, to the post of Deputy Assistant Director of Health. He then, in 1982, was appointed to the post of Surgeon General.
Now, in 1982, I was just starting out in medicine, after residency, and practicing in southern Ohio. And what a time it was for medicine! There were issues pressing down on all our practices, which were part of something bigger and grander, and were more than just colds and sprains. There was the AIDS epidemic, there were the other STDs, there was heart disease and cancer. But there was also the issues of medicare and rampant spending associated with taking care of the above named issues. And the population was aging, and Medicare was "going to have to reign in the cost of doing business." And so the DRG (diagnosis related group) was invented. Now, I can recall, in those days, that medicine was being practiced by a bunch of enthusiastic, energetic, and eager men and women, for whom no challenge was insurmountable.
It was into this mix that C. Everett Koop stepped in as Surgeon General of the United States. Now, as a man, he was a mixture of calm, almost serene skill, but he was also an orator. And it is this quality which propelled him to the forefront of medicine. He faced the issues of AIDS and rampant STDs with the courage, won by years of struggle. He advocated the teaching of sexual education, as the most effective tool against these epidemics. He strove for research, and for public health measures, and for international cooperation. All the while, he was a conservative Christian, whose life, outside the "office" was one of approachability and humility.
Now, I'll miss this great man of medicine, whom I had the good fortune to have met. And I'll bet that there are many out there who have likewise been touched by his greatness.
Well, he became known as the surgeon general of the United States, and I'd bet that you could not name any other surgeons general in recent (or remote) years. It is not a post which many aspire to, and typically, it leaves nothing to remember anyone by. It is not usually associated with any great, or traumatic events. And it would be easy to just be there, and get your job done, and get out.
That was not the case with Dr. Koop.
Now, a bit about his background. He was raised in medicine, during the era (my own father's era), when a physician could, and often did, whatever it took to deal with the big issues at hand. It was not the era of "that's not in my line of work." Now Dr Koop was trained as a surgeon, and he developed the specialty of pediatric surgery, and notably performed multiple surgeries for the very first time. It should be noted that his surgical practice was what he quietly did for many years, as well as training multiple fellows, who would go on to become professors around the world at various prestigious institutions. He was not trained specifically in public health. That all changed in 1981, when he was appointed, by Ronald Reagan, to the post of Deputy Assistant Director of Health. He then, in 1982, was appointed to the post of Surgeon General.
Now, in 1982, I was just starting out in medicine, after residency, and practicing in southern Ohio. And what a time it was for medicine! There were issues pressing down on all our practices, which were part of something bigger and grander, and were more than just colds and sprains. There was the AIDS epidemic, there were the other STDs, there was heart disease and cancer. But there was also the issues of medicare and rampant spending associated with taking care of the above named issues. And the population was aging, and Medicare was "going to have to reign in the cost of doing business." And so the DRG (diagnosis related group) was invented. Now, I can recall, in those days, that medicine was being practiced by a bunch of enthusiastic, energetic, and eager men and women, for whom no challenge was insurmountable.
It was into this mix that C. Everett Koop stepped in as Surgeon General of the United States. Now, as a man, he was a mixture of calm, almost serene skill, but he was also an orator. And it is this quality which propelled him to the forefront of medicine. He faced the issues of AIDS and rampant STDs with the courage, won by years of struggle. He advocated the teaching of sexual education, as the most effective tool against these epidemics. He strove for research, and for public health measures, and for international cooperation. All the while, he was a conservative Christian, whose life, outside the "office" was one of approachability and humility.
Now, I'll miss this great man of medicine, whom I had the good fortune to have met. And I'll bet that there are many out there who have likewise been touched by his greatness.
February 23, 2013
OK, so this one was a bust.
As I explained in my last post, I am a very poor salesperson, especially if it comes to selling my own books. But this time, I thought I might have stood a chance. I had a book signing event scheduled today in a suburb of Tulsa, OK (100 miles away). And I really figured this one stood a chance of succeeding. I had asked everyone I ran into in the Oklahoma City area, and if they had any friends, relatives, former classmates, etc. in the Tulsa area, who they thought might possibly want to attend my book signing. And further to have their friends contact others in the area. Besides, my publisher contacted the area newspapers, etc. about my upcoming book signing.
Now, with all this activity going out over the internet, phone lines and all, you might have thought that I stood a reasonable chance of getting some action. And I was prepared, and had armed myself with a great supply of books, cards, bookmarks, and I even brought cookies!
Well, I had a great time talking with the two bookstore attendants, who were quite interested in my books. But besides them, the only person who showed up and bought anything was one of the student nurses who works at my hospital in OKC, but who lives in Tulsa, and she told me that she would be there, with her husband. And that was the sum of the activity, besides the standard patrons, who did stop by, but bought nothing.
As I said, my own forte is not book signing events at all. And it's tempting to throw up my hands at any future events, of which I have only one lined up, and just go back to writing my sequel, and let things take their turns as they will. All this selling stuff seems a waste of time and effort at this point.
Now there are authors out there, making a killing selling their stuff, and who have mastered the techniques required to become fluent in the social media. But I tell you, that's not for me - it is about as appealing as getting your notice from your gastroenterologist that it is time, once again, for your colonoscopy.
Well, I'm not totally discouraged, but I've got to get back to Bob, Judy, Craycroft, and their doings on Shepperton.
Now, with all this activity going out over the internet, phone lines and all, you might have thought that I stood a reasonable chance of getting some action. And I was prepared, and had armed myself with a great supply of books, cards, bookmarks, and I even brought cookies!
Well, I had a great time talking with the two bookstore attendants, who were quite interested in my books. But besides them, the only person who showed up and bought anything was one of the student nurses who works at my hospital in OKC, but who lives in Tulsa, and she told me that she would be there, with her husband. And that was the sum of the activity, besides the standard patrons, who did stop by, but bought nothing.
As I said, my own forte is not book signing events at all. And it's tempting to throw up my hands at any future events, of which I have only one lined up, and just go back to writing my sequel, and let things take their turns as they will. All this selling stuff seems a waste of time and effort at this point.
Now there are authors out there, making a killing selling their stuff, and who have mastered the techniques required to become fluent in the social media. But I tell you, that's not for me - it is about as appealing as getting your notice from your gastroenterologist that it is time, once again, for your colonoscopy.
Well, I'm not totally discouraged, but I've got to get back to Bob, Judy, Craycroft, and their doings on Shepperton.
February 12, 2013
Being a doctor - being an author. Some perspectives.
It would seem that my novels' sales have now moved into hibernation, meaning that they're not moving at all from the supplies at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Hastings, etc. But just to let you know that my third volume, Turbulence and Restoration, is a month from its release date (March 12th). Now, let me tell you that it is very difficult for me to be my own salesperson. I see lots of authors out there who are pushing their own products, writing on "social media" sites, and who appear to be having some success doing that. But that is not me, nor is it my "style."
What is my style is what I did yesterday. I spoke about my third book to a small, but very interested book club. It was just them and me, talking about my book, and what it meant to write it, why I write, and where the characters come from. This gave me a greater sense of pleasure and fulfillment than any on-line sales could ever do. I believe it was the personal impact of sitting down, talking with people, finding out what they liked and didn't like, and how my books entwined with their lives that truly got to me.
And, as I reflected on this, I realized that was also what I love about medicine (my day job). And how, we, as a society, are now making that so much harder. The business of medical practice is becoming just that - a business. I see the physician - patient relationship as something that is vanishing from view, to be replaced by "the realities of the marketplace." This saddens me, and I think that this reality was what motivated me to write my books.
We, as humans, are searching for relationships. We long for them. We strive for them. But where does one go to get treatment for a cold, the flu; to find out if that nagging pain may be significant? Too often, we go to the local urgent care center, and come away with only partial answers, and no personal fulfillment felt either by the patient or the "provider." Only a sense that "I got what I paid for."
What I strive to do, in my job as a physician, is to remind my patients and myself that what we are entering is a relationship (albeit limited in time and scope), which is based upon centuries of history, and which I fervently hope is not going to vanish with the economic realities of the present.
What is my style is what I did yesterday. I spoke about my third book to a small, but very interested book club. It was just them and me, talking about my book, and what it meant to write it, why I write, and where the characters come from. This gave me a greater sense of pleasure and fulfillment than any on-line sales could ever do. I believe it was the personal impact of sitting down, talking with people, finding out what they liked and didn't like, and how my books entwined with their lives that truly got to me.
And, as I reflected on this, I realized that was also what I love about medicine (my day job). And how, we, as a society, are now making that so much harder. The business of medical practice is becoming just that - a business. I see the physician - patient relationship as something that is vanishing from view, to be replaced by "the realities of the marketplace." This saddens me, and I think that this reality was what motivated me to write my books.
We, as humans, are searching for relationships. We long for them. We strive for them. But where does one go to get treatment for a cold, the flu; to find out if that nagging pain may be significant? Too often, we go to the local urgent care center, and come away with only partial answers, and no personal fulfillment felt either by the patient or the "provider." Only a sense that "I got what I paid for."
What I strive to do, in my job as a physician, is to remind my patients and myself that what we are entering is a relationship (albeit limited in time and scope), which is based upon centuries of history, and which I fervently hope is not going to vanish with the economic realities of the present.
February 2, 2013
A new Chapter - Book Four
It's really been too long since I posted a chapter from the up-and-coming sequel to The Book of Drachma, which does not yet really have a name, but so far I'm calling it Heir of Drachma, though rather unenthusiastically. And the reason is simply that, for me to post it on Authonomy.com, I needed a title. Seems that Sequel to The Book of Drachma wouldn't work. Anyway, here is another chapter, to whet your appetite. And the numbering of the chapters is not firm yet...
Book Four - Chapter Six
With the storm now blowing in earnest, LeGace was glad to step inside. It had been quite some time that he had been away, and now he was here, and the mansion was his. He looked around, and could see that it had been cared for, as he had directed, but still, without anyone living in it, the mansion would need some work, and some live human habitation. As he walked down the long hallway from the entrance, his footsteps echoed unnaturally and he displaced cobwebs as he walked. He dared not light any of the torches, and the old corridor remained dark, as he stepped further down the hallway, and then turned into what had been the master’s study. Here he could see, by the light from a series of high windows that nothing seemed to have been touched.
He would have to see to the necessities of setting up the house again for living, as there would be people staying here. He would have to be discreet is his selection of servants, but that is partly what Guarneri was for. He took off his cloak, and laid his satchel down, and made himself comfortable in the chair behind the great desk. Outside it had turned quite cool from the storm, but inside was reasonably pleasant, though the air was musty.
He heard the bell chime five times in the castle, and so he thought, I told them to be here by half past five, so I shall but wait. He dug around in the drawers of the desk, and was pleased to find some paper. He next pulled out of his satchel a bottle of ink and a quill. He thought for a few seconds, then began writing:
The year of Our Lord, One Thousand, Four Hundred, Ninety Six,May, the 7th
These then are the particulars of which thou shalt bear the responsibility:1 – As to the condition of the domicile, it shall be made clean, and shall be so maintained, and shall be made livable.2 – As to my own suite of rooms, they shall also be made and kept immaculate, and shall be available to me at any such time as I desire.3 – As to the grounds, they, too, shall be kept tidy, with appropriate tending of the gardens.4 – As to the kitchen, the pantry, the wine cellar – they shall, at all times be kept stocked, with the freshest possible goods and produce – and thou shalt be ready to produce, upon notice, any and all meals and entertainment which I desire.5 – Failure of any of the aforementioned conditions shall be grounds for immediate termination, and legal action as deemed appropriate.6 – Terms and conditions, as well as payment for services shall be decided upon, in accordance with Master Alessandro Guarneri
Signed this date, in the presence of my employer, Count Antoine LeGace, and, acting in his stead, Master Alessandro Guarneri.
He read over what he had written, and then, satisfied, he got up and strode out into the hallway. From there, he made a studious examination of his new abode, starting on the first floor, with its entryway, its sitting rooms, the drawing rooms, the kitchen, the pantry, and the servants’ quarters. From the back of the mansion, he looked out, and he could see the great castle. Its stone turrets, lit up with the flashes of lightning, and then darkened again, within the swirling rainstorm.
Ah, Craycroft, he thought,you know not what awaits you.
He came to the great staircase, and he went up. There he found more suites of rooms, all of them elegantly appointed, but musty from years of disuse. He walked down the corridor until he found the master suite, and here he lingered, noticing the fine furnishings, and the exceptional view. Even with the storm outside, he was able to make out the great castle, and he could feel just what it was that had eaten at Master Reordan all those years ago. And now, here he was, in the master’s own suite, in what was Reordan’s mansion. But now he was the lord of this manor…
He could hear activity down stairs, so he left the master suite, and descended the great staircase. When he got down the stairs he could see that Master Guarneri had brought with him a couple, which he assumed were husband and wife, and a younger lass, of twelve or thirteen years. He looked them over, looked at their dress, their bearing, and he looked into their eyes. They looked back, the terror plain in their faces. Eventually he spoke.
“Now, then, Master Guarneri, I see you have chosen. Well, come this way, then, and I shall talk to these folks. You may take off your cloaks, and leave them here in the hall. Now, come.”
The couple and the lass followed Guarneri and LeGace silently down the hallway to the study. When they were inside, LeGace reached over to the desk, and he picked up the paper, handed it to Guarneri.
“Now, it is up to you, Master Guarneri, to educate these people as to what shall be expected of them, and to have this paper signed, and if they be unable, then sealed with some blood. We need to make certain that all is taken care of before this week is done. I shall then be back, and I expect this place to be immaculate. Is that clear?”
“Oh, aye, m’lord,” said Guarneri, “it shall be as you say. And I shall have an armed retinue seeing to security.”
“Very well,” and so saying, he took his cloak and went out, down the hall, and back out into the rainstorm.
“Now that man,” said Guarneri, “he shall be your lord. His own coming and going shall be at his own discretion. Your task is to make certain that all in this house is in order, according to this edict.” He showed them the paper.
The man said simply, “now, there be no reason to show us that paper, for none of us can read. But what I can tell ye is that whatever it says upon that paper we shall faithfully do.”
“Well, let me ask that you, as head of this household, if you can but sign the paper, or at least make your mark in such a way as to identify that you did hear and understand what it says?”
Guarneri then read the letter to the assembled trio. And the man and his wife both nodded, indicating their understanding, and vowed that they would begin their tasks right away. What Guarneri did was to have the man attest to what had been written down, and to “sign” the form in his very blood, which he produced with his own knife and his forefinger.
“Now, Emile, you have signed with your own blood, which shall also bind your wife and daughter, to do what this writ has said. As to payment for services, you shall be paid monthly the sum of ten shillings. Just come with me, then, and I shall show you about the place. I shall show you where you may stay, where you may enter, and where you may come only if the master or I am present.”
They followed Guarneri, and saw the kitchen, the rooms for storage, for the wine and ale, for produce. He next showed them their own quarters, and the servants’ entrance. And he informed them that they must not enter the mansion proper except as their duty required, or if they should be summoned. In truth, the first and foremost rule was that as servants, they were to be in the background at all times.
He then informed them that their new master was not to be acknowledged, outside this place, except that, if they were asked, they were to say only that their new employer was a count from France. With that, they were dismissed to do their duty, and to prepare the mansion for the arrival of their new liege lord. They were paid their first month’s wages, which Emile took gratefully, and placed the coins in his little pouch under his belt.
It was much later when Jeremy and his friend Rowan emerged from their hiding place, and hurried off toward the castle, and toward the constabulary. After they left the road that led to the mansion, and joined up with the main road, they felt it safe to speak openly.
“Aye, that was he, for certain, was it not?”
“Oh, aye, it could have been none other. Now, we’ll have to report this to Cayman, for sure,” Rowan said as they hurried through the storm. As the two of them stepped inside the castle, they saw him again, walking toward the village. They paused in their way, and ducked behind a cart, and observed him further, as he went on toward the village, and then he turned into a small side road, which they knew led to Tierney, the blacksmith’s store.
“Well, I think that’s somethin’. Now we shall have to visit old Tierney, I believe, in the mornin’.”
Then the two of them hurried on, and came to the constabulary. As they entered the warmth and the smell of men crowded in from the rain assaulted their senses.
“Ah, Jeremy and Rowan! Now what could the two of ye ha’ been doin’?” The man behind the desk asked cheerfully.
“Me good sir,” Jeremy addressed Dowdell, “what we’ve got to say, we need to say to Captain Cayman, that’s for sure.”
“The Captain? Well, I do believe you’re in luck, me lads. Now why don’t ye take off yer wet cloaks, and have a seat, and I’ll see if he’s still in back. He came back shortly with Cayman.
“Well, Rowan and Jeremy! What brings ye two around on such a wet afternoon? And Dowdell tells me that ye wanted to tell me specially.”
“Indeed, Captain,” began Jeremy. “It is ye that we most need to tell. Ye see, we’ve been sort of on the look out, from somethin’ his cousin told us. He said that he saw a most fearsome man, who has a cane, and was in the company of, he believes, some man what used to be here upon this isle – a master Guarneri. Anyway, we think that this man has somehow gotten hold of the old mansion up the hill.”
“A man with a cane, eh? Could ye be referring to Antoine LeGace?
Book Four - Chapter Six
With the storm now blowing in earnest, LeGace was glad to step inside. It had been quite some time that he had been away, and now he was here, and the mansion was his. He looked around, and could see that it had been cared for, as he had directed, but still, without anyone living in it, the mansion would need some work, and some live human habitation. As he walked down the long hallway from the entrance, his footsteps echoed unnaturally and he displaced cobwebs as he walked. He dared not light any of the torches, and the old corridor remained dark, as he stepped further down the hallway, and then turned into what had been the master’s study. Here he could see, by the light from a series of high windows that nothing seemed to have been touched.
He would have to see to the necessities of setting up the house again for living, as there would be people staying here. He would have to be discreet is his selection of servants, but that is partly what Guarneri was for. He took off his cloak, and laid his satchel down, and made himself comfortable in the chair behind the great desk. Outside it had turned quite cool from the storm, but inside was reasonably pleasant, though the air was musty.
He heard the bell chime five times in the castle, and so he thought, I told them to be here by half past five, so I shall but wait. He dug around in the drawers of the desk, and was pleased to find some paper. He next pulled out of his satchel a bottle of ink and a quill. He thought for a few seconds, then began writing:
The year of Our Lord, One Thousand, Four Hundred, Ninety Six,May, the 7th
These then are the particulars of which thou shalt bear the responsibility:1 – As to the condition of the domicile, it shall be made clean, and shall be so maintained, and shall be made livable.2 – As to my own suite of rooms, they shall also be made and kept immaculate, and shall be available to me at any such time as I desire.3 – As to the grounds, they, too, shall be kept tidy, with appropriate tending of the gardens.4 – As to the kitchen, the pantry, the wine cellar – they shall, at all times be kept stocked, with the freshest possible goods and produce – and thou shalt be ready to produce, upon notice, any and all meals and entertainment which I desire.5 – Failure of any of the aforementioned conditions shall be grounds for immediate termination, and legal action as deemed appropriate.6 – Terms and conditions, as well as payment for services shall be decided upon, in accordance with Master Alessandro Guarneri
Signed this date, in the presence of my employer, Count Antoine LeGace, and, acting in his stead, Master Alessandro Guarneri.
He read over what he had written, and then, satisfied, he got up and strode out into the hallway. From there, he made a studious examination of his new abode, starting on the first floor, with its entryway, its sitting rooms, the drawing rooms, the kitchen, the pantry, and the servants’ quarters. From the back of the mansion, he looked out, and he could see the great castle. Its stone turrets, lit up with the flashes of lightning, and then darkened again, within the swirling rainstorm.
Ah, Craycroft, he thought,you know not what awaits you.
He came to the great staircase, and he went up. There he found more suites of rooms, all of them elegantly appointed, but musty from years of disuse. He walked down the corridor until he found the master suite, and here he lingered, noticing the fine furnishings, and the exceptional view. Even with the storm outside, he was able to make out the great castle, and he could feel just what it was that had eaten at Master Reordan all those years ago. And now, here he was, in the master’s own suite, in what was Reordan’s mansion. But now he was the lord of this manor…
He could hear activity down stairs, so he left the master suite, and descended the great staircase. When he got down the stairs he could see that Master Guarneri had brought with him a couple, which he assumed were husband and wife, and a younger lass, of twelve or thirteen years. He looked them over, looked at their dress, their bearing, and he looked into their eyes. They looked back, the terror plain in their faces. Eventually he spoke.
“Now, then, Master Guarneri, I see you have chosen. Well, come this way, then, and I shall talk to these folks. You may take off your cloaks, and leave them here in the hall. Now, come.”
The couple and the lass followed Guarneri and LeGace silently down the hallway to the study. When they were inside, LeGace reached over to the desk, and he picked up the paper, handed it to Guarneri.
“Now, it is up to you, Master Guarneri, to educate these people as to what shall be expected of them, and to have this paper signed, and if they be unable, then sealed with some blood. We need to make certain that all is taken care of before this week is done. I shall then be back, and I expect this place to be immaculate. Is that clear?”
“Oh, aye, m’lord,” said Guarneri, “it shall be as you say. And I shall have an armed retinue seeing to security.”
“Very well,” and so saying, he took his cloak and went out, down the hall, and back out into the rainstorm.
“Now that man,” said Guarneri, “he shall be your lord. His own coming and going shall be at his own discretion. Your task is to make certain that all in this house is in order, according to this edict.” He showed them the paper.
The man said simply, “now, there be no reason to show us that paper, for none of us can read. But what I can tell ye is that whatever it says upon that paper we shall faithfully do.”
“Well, let me ask that you, as head of this household, if you can but sign the paper, or at least make your mark in such a way as to identify that you did hear and understand what it says?”
Guarneri then read the letter to the assembled trio. And the man and his wife both nodded, indicating their understanding, and vowed that they would begin their tasks right away. What Guarneri did was to have the man attest to what had been written down, and to “sign” the form in his very blood, which he produced with his own knife and his forefinger.
“Now, Emile, you have signed with your own blood, which shall also bind your wife and daughter, to do what this writ has said. As to payment for services, you shall be paid monthly the sum of ten shillings. Just come with me, then, and I shall show you about the place. I shall show you where you may stay, where you may enter, and where you may come only if the master or I am present.”
They followed Guarneri, and saw the kitchen, the rooms for storage, for the wine and ale, for produce. He next showed them their own quarters, and the servants’ entrance. And he informed them that they must not enter the mansion proper except as their duty required, or if they should be summoned. In truth, the first and foremost rule was that as servants, they were to be in the background at all times.
He then informed them that their new master was not to be acknowledged, outside this place, except that, if they were asked, they were to say only that their new employer was a count from France. With that, they were dismissed to do their duty, and to prepare the mansion for the arrival of their new liege lord. They were paid their first month’s wages, which Emile took gratefully, and placed the coins in his little pouch under his belt.
It was much later when Jeremy and his friend Rowan emerged from their hiding place, and hurried off toward the castle, and toward the constabulary. After they left the road that led to the mansion, and joined up with the main road, they felt it safe to speak openly.
“Aye, that was he, for certain, was it not?”
“Oh, aye, it could have been none other. Now, we’ll have to report this to Cayman, for sure,” Rowan said as they hurried through the storm. As the two of them stepped inside the castle, they saw him again, walking toward the village. They paused in their way, and ducked behind a cart, and observed him further, as he went on toward the village, and then he turned into a small side road, which they knew led to Tierney, the blacksmith’s store.
“Well, I think that’s somethin’. Now we shall have to visit old Tierney, I believe, in the mornin’.”
Then the two of them hurried on, and came to the constabulary. As they entered the warmth and the smell of men crowded in from the rain assaulted their senses.
“Ah, Jeremy and Rowan! Now what could the two of ye ha’ been doin’?” The man behind the desk asked cheerfully.
“Me good sir,” Jeremy addressed Dowdell, “what we’ve got to say, we need to say to Captain Cayman, that’s for sure.”
“The Captain? Well, I do believe you’re in luck, me lads. Now why don’t ye take off yer wet cloaks, and have a seat, and I’ll see if he’s still in back. He came back shortly with Cayman.
“Well, Rowan and Jeremy! What brings ye two around on such a wet afternoon? And Dowdell tells me that ye wanted to tell me specially.”
“Indeed, Captain,” began Jeremy. “It is ye that we most need to tell. Ye see, we’ve been sort of on the look out, from somethin’ his cousin told us. He said that he saw a most fearsome man, who has a cane, and was in the company of, he believes, some man what used to be here upon this isle – a master Guarneri. Anyway, we think that this man has somehow gotten hold of the old mansion up the hill.”
“A man with a cane, eh? Could ye be referring to Antoine LeGace?
February 1, 2013
Royalty Checks
I recently read something by one of my favorite comic writers, Dave Barry. In among his usual banter was something that really caught my attention - namely his mention of John Kennedy Toole. He listed John Kennedy Toole as one of his own favorite comic writers. And this got me thinking.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the story of Mr. Toole, I will tell you that he wrote a couple of books, one of which was A Confederacy of Dunces, for which he won the Pulitzer Prize. But he never got to enjoy any of the fame associated with winning such a prestigious prize, for he was dead at the time. In fact, he never got to even see his manuscript published, for it was published after he died - he committed suicide. It was only the persistence of his mother that got the thing published in the first place.
Now imagine, if you will, the scene in which his mother, refusing to let go of her dream, and his manuscript, sits across the room from the publisher, until he at least reads the thing in front of him. That thing is a collection of yellow legal pads, which was the only copy in existence of his magnificent manuscript. Now, the publisher has agreed to read the beginning of this manuscript, and thereby, with a good conscience can tell the woman that this manuscript just didn't meet their needs. But that is not what happened. The publisher began reading this story in front of him, and he continued reading, and he continued, and continued, then looking across the room at the woman, said rather humbly that he would personally see to it that this manuscript would be published.
What an incredible tragedy! Now, I suggest that you find a copy of this most wonderful book, and do what that publisher did, just sit down and start reading it. And I challenge you to stop until the end of that masterpiece. I promise you that Ignatius J Reilly will become more than just a name to you.
Another thing that Dave Barry mentioned in his ramblings was royalty checks, and let me tell you that his are much, much larger than mine ever could be. But even mine are so much bigger than John Kennedy Toole ever received. And this, my friends, is the nature of the publishing business - it is not anything fair or just. It just simply is.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the story of Mr. Toole, I will tell you that he wrote a couple of books, one of which was A Confederacy of Dunces, for which he won the Pulitzer Prize. But he never got to enjoy any of the fame associated with winning such a prestigious prize, for he was dead at the time. In fact, he never got to even see his manuscript published, for it was published after he died - he committed suicide. It was only the persistence of his mother that got the thing published in the first place.
Now imagine, if you will, the scene in which his mother, refusing to let go of her dream, and his manuscript, sits across the room from the publisher, until he at least reads the thing in front of him. That thing is a collection of yellow legal pads, which was the only copy in existence of his magnificent manuscript. Now, the publisher has agreed to read the beginning of this manuscript, and thereby, with a good conscience can tell the woman that this manuscript just didn't meet their needs. But that is not what happened. The publisher began reading this story in front of him, and he continued reading, and he continued, and continued, then looking across the room at the woman, said rather humbly that he would personally see to it that this manuscript would be published.
What an incredible tragedy! Now, I suggest that you find a copy of this most wonderful book, and do what that publisher did, just sit down and start reading it. And I challenge you to stop until the end of that masterpiece. I promise you that Ignatius J Reilly will become more than just a name to you.
Another thing that Dave Barry mentioned in his ramblings was royalty checks, and let me tell you that his are much, much larger than mine ever could be. But even mine are so much bigger than John Kennedy Toole ever received. And this, my friends, is the nature of the publishing business - it is not anything fair or just. It just simply is.
January 22, 2013
The Main Characters in the Book of Drachma
My wife's book club is discussing my third volume of The Book of Drachma next month. And in so doing, one of the people in the book club asked for a list of the characters in the series. I, being the author, thought that the characters were somewhat self-evident. I admit, I was wrong!
Now the characters in the first book are fairly easy to keep track of, but then, as I discovered, the characters from the fifteenth century do get a bit confusing, unless you're reading right through the whole series at once, perhaps it would be of some benefit to have a list. So, here it is:
Main Characters in The Book of Drachma
Dr. Robert (Bob) Gilsen – married to Marilyn Gilsen - (In our time)
Joshua Crabtree – adopted son of Janie and Earl Crabtree - His biological mother was a sandy-haired young woman – never found in our time.
Judy Morrison - a nurse. Single in our time, but ? in the fifteenth century
Dr. Barbara Greshin - A cardiovascular surgeon, who, through fate, operates on Josh Crabtree
Dr. Jerry Beasley - an ER Dr (in our time)
Marilyn Gilsen - wife of Dr. Robert Gilsen (in our time)
Carlo Vincente - a man, who has traveled through time, who carries important messages for Bob Gilsen, Judy Morrison, Marilyn Gislen and Charlie Stephens
Janie Crabtree - the adoptive mother of Josh
Earl Crabtree - the adoptive father of Josh
Charlie Stephens - ace investigative reporter for Channel Five.
Edgar Bryant – a detective (in our time)
Chris Lewinsky - a detective (in or time)
Craycroft - a home-grow, locally trained physician on Shepperton Island. Taught by Cartho, and close friends with Felicia Vincente, Carlo Vincente, Falma, Rust and the Earl of Shepperton.
Tom (Drachma the younger) - a youth who stumbles upon the great mystery. Seemingly, nothing more than a page, but who is so much more, not the least of which is the grandson of Felicia Vincente and Drachma, the Elder of the Forest.
Lady Felicia Vincente - the woman who defines elegance, grace and beauty. Originally, the daughter of the ambassador from a great Italian house, but who is so much more – as the lover of Drachma the Elder, the grandmother of Tom, and the mother of Maggie.
Councilor Rust - one of the councilors on the ruling Council, and who becomes Craycroft’s trusted ally.
Jeanne - Felicia’s lady in waiting, who becomes assistant to Craycroft, friend to Judy Morrison, and is the granddaughter of Charlie McFerris.
Frieda – Lady Felicia’s observant, sharp-witted maid.
Councilor Reordan - another councilor on the ruling council, who has money, but seeks power.
Councilor Silvo - another councilor, and puppet to Reordan
Councilor Genet - another on the council, who plays an important role.
Falma - the alchemist, and loremaster to the house of the earl, and long-standing friend to Drachma the Elder, whose sense of magic, and the varied connections in his world make him the logical choice to accompany Judy on her trek across Shepperton, and so much more.
Melchior - Falma’s apprentice, but so much more, who becomes Robert’s right hand man.
Kerlin - originally a forest guard, whose strength of character convinces the earl and Drachma that he is cut out for so much more.
The earl of Shepperton - the only true royalty on the island, who come from a long line of ruling earls, but has no children, no brothers or sisters – none to leave the rule of Shepperton.
Martin, Kevin, Stoneheft, Sean and Michel - forest guards, assigned to care for Robert Gilsen.
Finch - a mercenary, employed by Reordan.
Angelica - Drachma’s longstanding assistant, and so much more.
Maggie - Drachma and Felicia’s daughter, Tom’s mother - and so much more!
Barncuddy - master of the alehouse.
Willie Minstrel - minstrel at Barncuddy’s, and much more than that.
Cayman - one of the castle guards, who plays a bigger role, the further we get along.
Eustace - a street urchin, who finds out eventually that he is the son of an incredible lady (Diane) and an earl, and what all this means.
Diane - a serving wench at Barncuddy’s ale house, who just happens to be the daughter of an expatriate princess, with her own history.
Hermes - a page, assigned to Bob Gilsen, who turns out to have his own peculiar sensibilities.
Aaron - Craycroft’s personal, and favorite page.
The earl of Derrymoor - a formerly shipwrecked earl, from Ireland, who turns out to have much to do with the doings of Shepperton.
Drachma the Elder of the Forest - well you’ll just have to figure this one out!
Now the characters in the first book are fairly easy to keep track of, but then, as I discovered, the characters from the fifteenth century do get a bit confusing, unless you're reading right through the whole series at once, perhaps it would be of some benefit to have a list. So, here it is:
Main Characters in The Book of Drachma
Dr. Robert (Bob) Gilsen – married to Marilyn Gilsen - (In our time)
Joshua Crabtree – adopted son of Janie and Earl Crabtree - His biological mother was a sandy-haired young woman – never found in our time.
Judy Morrison - a nurse. Single in our time, but ? in the fifteenth century
Dr. Barbara Greshin - A cardiovascular surgeon, who, through fate, operates on Josh Crabtree
Dr. Jerry Beasley - an ER Dr (in our time)
Marilyn Gilsen - wife of Dr. Robert Gilsen (in our time)
Carlo Vincente - a man, who has traveled through time, who carries important messages for Bob Gilsen, Judy Morrison, Marilyn Gislen and Charlie Stephens
Janie Crabtree - the adoptive mother of Josh
Earl Crabtree - the adoptive father of Josh
Charlie Stephens - ace investigative reporter for Channel Five.
Edgar Bryant – a detective (in our time)
Chris Lewinsky - a detective (in or time)
Craycroft - a home-grow, locally trained physician on Shepperton Island. Taught by Cartho, and close friends with Felicia Vincente, Carlo Vincente, Falma, Rust and the Earl of Shepperton.
Tom (Drachma the younger) - a youth who stumbles upon the great mystery. Seemingly, nothing more than a page, but who is so much more, not the least of which is the grandson of Felicia Vincente and Drachma, the Elder of the Forest.
Lady Felicia Vincente - the woman who defines elegance, grace and beauty. Originally, the daughter of the ambassador from a great Italian house, but who is so much more – as the lover of Drachma the Elder, the grandmother of Tom, and the mother of Maggie.
Councilor Rust - one of the councilors on the ruling Council, and who becomes Craycroft’s trusted ally.
Jeanne - Felicia’s lady in waiting, who becomes assistant to Craycroft, friend to Judy Morrison, and is the granddaughter of Charlie McFerris.
Frieda – Lady Felicia’s observant, sharp-witted maid.
Councilor Reordan - another councilor on the ruling council, who has money, but seeks power.
Councilor Silvo - another councilor, and puppet to Reordan
Councilor Genet - another on the council, who plays an important role.
Falma - the alchemist, and loremaster to the house of the earl, and long-standing friend to Drachma the Elder, whose sense of magic, and the varied connections in his world make him the logical choice to accompany Judy on her trek across Shepperton, and so much more.
Melchior - Falma’s apprentice, but so much more, who becomes Robert’s right hand man.
Kerlin - originally a forest guard, whose strength of character convinces the earl and Drachma that he is cut out for so much more.
The earl of Shepperton - the only true royalty on the island, who come from a long line of ruling earls, but has no children, no brothers or sisters – none to leave the rule of Shepperton.
Martin, Kevin, Stoneheft, Sean and Michel - forest guards, assigned to care for Robert Gilsen.
Finch - a mercenary, employed by Reordan.
Angelica - Drachma’s longstanding assistant, and so much more.
Maggie - Drachma and Felicia’s daughter, Tom’s mother - and so much more!
Barncuddy - master of the alehouse.
Willie Minstrel - minstrel at Barncuddy’s, and much more than that.
Cayman - one of the castle guards, who plays a bigger role, the further we get along.
Eustace - a street urchin, who finds out eventually that he is the son of an incredible lady (Diane) and an earl, and what all this means.
Diane - a serving wench at Barncuddy’s ale house, who just happens to be the daughter of an expatriate princess, with her own history.
Hermes - a page, assigned to Bob Gilsen, who turns out to have his own peculiar sensibilities.
Aaron - Craycroft’s personal, and favorite page.
The earl of Derrymoor - a formerly shipwrecked earl, from Ireland, who turns out to have much to do with the doings of Shepperton.
Drachma the Elder of the Forest - well you’ll just have to figure this one out!
January 19, 2013
Just asking...
It is now nearing the end of January, and I've finished the work of writing and editing The Book of Drachma, all three volumes of my trilogy. And, yes, there is some sense of accomplishment in all this. But there is something else, too - a sense of impatience, of something that I should be doing, but I am not.
Well, more on that a bit later.
Let me just, for a few moments, tell you something of what went into this whole writing thing. As many of you know, I am a physician. That has become my identity. It is what defines me and establishes how I perceive the world, and my relation to the world around me. It is as inescapable as my own body and temperament. And I believe that this is something that most physicians the world over, and through the millennia, from the ages of darkness and ignorance, down to the present time, have accepted. Some have accepted this eagerly, others with reluctance, but let me tell you that with few exceptions, this is what separates us, and yet defines us within each generation of humanity.
And it is just that which got me going on my track of writing The Book of Drachma. For it seems to me that the lay media still don't get it right. There is a very distinct difference between what is written about us, and what is written by us. Now, all the rules of good writing still apply, regardless of who is writing what. And all the standards of story-telling still hold true. Nevertheless, it is my contention that there is a chasm out there that does need to be occasionally crossed by physicians; approaching the world of fiction writing from inside rather than outside the world of medicine.
It was with this motivation that I started my novel (in 1989), and I guess it was this same motivation that kept me from destroying what I had begun. What I started was a novel, roughly divided into three parts, with no intention of writing three distinct books. That was the publisher's idea, and that's how it got published - as a trilogy, with each part gradually more complex than its predecessor. And now it's done, for what it's worth.
And what is it worth? All the hours I put into this opus - was it worth doing? I guess that's not for me to decide. Well, let me tell you that the feedback I've been getting has been generally favorable (aside from comments such as "not enough smut"). And people keep asking about the sequel, which I guess is a good sign.
Well, that brings me back to my original concern, namely what do I need to be doing? I know the book is unlikely to sell itself, and get out of the Edmond/Oklahoma City arena without some kind of major effort (apparently on my part), or some kind of push. So, if any of you out there have any ideas at all, I'll certainly listen to them. For despite being a physician, I do think The Book of Drachma does offer something reasonably unique to persons from all kinds of backgrounds.
Well, more on that a bit later.
Let me just, for a few moments, tell you something of what went into this whole writing thing. As many of you know, I am a physician. That has become my identity. It is what defines me and establishes how I perceive the world, and my relation to the world around me. It is as inescapable as my own body and temperament. And I believe that this is something that most physicians the world over, and through the millennia, from the ages of darkness and ignorance, down to the present time, have accepted. Some have accepted this eagerly, others with reluctance, but let me tell you that with few exceptions, this is what separates us, and yet defines us within each generation of humanity.
And it is just that which got me going on my track of writing The Book of Drachma. For it seems to me that the lay media still don't get it right. There is a very distinct difference between what is written about us, and what is written by us. Now, all the rules of good writing still apply, regardless of who is writing what. And all the standards of story-telling still hold true. Nevertheless, it is my contention that there is a chasm out there that does need to be occasionally crossed by physicians; approaching the world of fiction writing from inside rather than outside the world of medicine.
It was with this motivation that I started my novel (in 1989), and I guess it was this same motivation that kept me from destroying what I had begun. What I started was a novel, roughly divided into three parts, with no intention of writing three distinct books. That was the publisher's idea, and that's how it got published - as a trilogy, with each part gradually more complex than its predecessor. And now it's done, for what it's worth.
And what is it worth? All the hours I put into this opus - was it worth doing? I guess that's not for me to decide. Well, let me tell you that the feedback I've been getting has been generally favorable (aside from comments such as "not enough smut"). And people keep asking about the sequel, which I guess is a good sign.
Well, that brings me back to my original concern, namely what do I need to be doing? I know the book is unlikely to sell itself, and get out of the Edmond/Oklahoma City arena without some kind of major effort (apparently on my part), or some kind of push. So, if any of you out there have any ideas at all, I'll certainly listen to them. For despite being a physician, I do think The Book of Drachma does offer something reasonably unique to persons from all kinds of backgrounds.
