There was only a moment like this: laughter, the tinkle-tinkle of glasses being gently tipped against one another, the murmur of chatting, the gentle knocking sound of hard-soled shoes against wood floors. Very quickly these happier sounds fell away. The tinkling and murmuring seemed to dissolve into the air; the laughter and the footsteps stopped outright.
“Cat-tee? What are you doing?” Leaning on the toppled table and still holding her weapon, Cati threw a look over her shoulder. Only a few yards behind her, Emma was sitting up in her seat, no longer resting her hand in her hands. “You were just . . . what are you doing with a gun?” Something like understanding – but it couldn’t have been – came over Emma’s face as she looked at the patrons around her. Cati lowered her weapon a little and, following her friend's lead, took in the scene.
To Emma’s right, a man laid on the floor with his knees curled into his chest. A pool of blood was quickly spreading beneath him and he started to rock slightly on his side. Cati threw her gaze to her left, to the man who had been knocked onto the floor when Rashfal had thrown her. The joints in his legs had been strangely locked at right angles as if he had been sitting in a chair, but he was spread out flat now. His eyes were wide open but insensible; his pupils seemed as wide as pennies. There was another pool of blood just beginning to form underneath the back of his head.
Now there was sobbing. At the bottom of the staircase, the woman Cati had bumped into in her flight from Rashfal was pulling herself onto her hands and knees with the help of her companion. As she rose, her lips seemed to fall away in a torrent – blood poured from her broken nose and her smashed teeth. She clutched her ruined face. Her sobs came out as sputters and gurgles. She didn’t want to, but Cati could not help looking to the bathroom attendant. He was on the floor, leaning against the wall and pawing at his shoulder with a senseless look on his face. He was alive, but flabbergasted. None of these people could know what had happened in their midst. One second, they had been dining and drinking, laughing and enjoying the company of their peers; and in the next, they were a broken, ghastly mass of injury and pain.
Cati’s sense of responsibility had been lifted from her during her first moments among the be-stilled scenery. As the disastrous melee had worn on, it had slowly began to settle back into place on her narrow shoulders. Now, as the normal flow of events abruptly resumed, responsibility crashed down on her with staggering weight. She let her gun arm drop and she fell to her knees. Cati began to cry. “I did it . . .”
Emma rushed to her side and began to comfort her friend. “It’s alri–” Emma began, but it wasn’t.
The ragged crowd erupted into motion. The moment of collective astonishment at the suddenness of the carnage gave way into a cacophony of panicked screams, pleas for help, and alarmed outbursts. Some parts of the crowd began an uncoordinated shift to the stairway. Other individuals ran to the bar, or began lifting overturned furniture.
“He’s been shot!” someone screamed.
“My hands!”
“I can’t see! Call the police!”
“She needs water!”
“Everybody stay calm!” someone commanded, but no one obeyed.
Shocks of the grey-dressed man’s blonde hair protruded from between Thelonius’s knuckles. His eyes rolled up to meet Thel’s. “Okay. Let me go now,” he hissed.
The bathroom door swung open. “Mister White! Are you okay!” The second bathroom attendant, the one who had accepted the wizard’s sizable tip just minutes ago, had abandoned his post and his basket of towels. “Oh my God! What happened?” he asked Thelonius. “Here, let me help you with him,” he said as he knelt and moved to slip his hands under the wizard’s shoulders. “Was there some kind of earthquake?”
Clutching the saber in his hand, Henri looked to Thelonius, who had not yet released Mister White’s hair from his clutches. A fresh burden of responsibility had fallen upon their shoulders as well.
Mister White meant to snicker, but it came out a cough.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
The Stillness of the Hunter
The noise of the Cellar receded and disappeared in a “poof” as the front doors swung together and blew a gust of stale air out from the club.
The warmer air from inside circulated around Cati’s ankles. She huffed one last time and looked upward into the stars. On the verge of enjoying a restful breath of night air, she remembered her purse and removed a cigarette.
Henri was at her side holding a match. “Now what, mademoiselle?”
Cati leaned into the matchlight. “Do you think it’s safe to just go home?”
“I do not know.” Henri looked to Thelonius questioningly, but the reporter’s back was to them; he was looking at the interior of the club through the porthole on the front doors. Unencouraged, Henri asked Cati if she would require an escort.
“Oh!” Cati realized. “I had one! Should I tell her I’m leaving?”
Thelonius didn’t turn around. He said, “There’s something wrong.”
“What, did he follow us?”
“See for yourselves.” He stepped away from the tiny windows on the front doors.
Cati and Henri crept up and drew their faces near to the portholes. Inside, the breezeway, the coat room, and the Cellar’s ground floor ballroom, people stood around, striking cockish poses. A man was leaning over the counter at coat check, his hands behind his waist, peering after the attendant. In the breezeway, a woman was approaching him at an exaggerated trot. She stood on her right toe, with her left foot posed in the air ahead, extended almost as a dancer’s. She and the man, and everyone in the ballroom: they were hung in time. The effect was nearly photographic.
Cati pushed open the doors. “Hey! Hey you!” she called, as if upbraiding the Cellar’s patrons. Henri turned to the bouncer, who had been standing by quietly listening. Already assured in his heart of what to expect, Henri snapped his fingers in front of the bouncer’s nose.
Thelonius sized the bouncer up, and wondered just how to capture the scene on film. How does one photograph the act of standing still? Perhaps if he could take a series of pictures with Henri and Cati in them and simulate the passage of time . . . but just what would that be demonstrating? That a roomful of people could stand quietly as Henri and Cati danced among them? At least the wind is blowing, he thought. Then he remembered Rashfal.
The front doors were swinging again. They closed, separating Cati from the men. She tapped the coatless man on the shoulder, to no effect. Behind coat check, the attendant was holding coats apart with his gloved hands, frozen as the others were. “They’re all like this,” she murmured to herself softly. She couldn’t pull her eyes from these people – the old money, the nouveau riche, the descendants of nobility, the gifted young bankers and businessmen – all the people that her family had been mingling with for generations, all the people from whom she had failed to escape time and time again. Before her, a mass of living mannequins, just as she had always known. Finally! she felt like cheering – as though she had for once managed to transcend the stagnant worlds of her father and her husband, the dead foreign bloodlines, the weight of her inheritance and the demands of her ancestors. She smiled and let her hand dip into the man’s pocket. His wallet was there; she dropped it back in; it wasn’t fun this way.
A foul scent wafted in on the breeze, of rot, or of fluids repelled from the innards of an animal. Thelonius caught it and winced.
Henri saw his companion’s face wrinkle and, as if by mimesis, the scent appeared deep within his own nasal passages. It had snuck in. It burned a little and Henri thought to rub his eyes. He remembered a rule of thumb that had been meaningful to him once in a far away place, a truism that he had muttered to himself hundreds of times as a sick kind of reassurance: If you can smell it, you’re in it!
“Thelonius! – we are in danger! We must go back inside now!”
Thelonius would not have disagreed – but in an instant, the wind intensified – Henri saw the streetlights behind Thelonius pull like taffy and blurrily suggest movement – the lights stretched over Thelonius – no, more like something translucent and wet had been flung across points of light – Henri thought to compare it to observing the headlights of an oncoming car through a dirty windshield – it barreled into the reporter – Thelonius fell to the ground, the camera clattered against the cement - the wind turned up into the sky, refracting the lights of buildings' highest windows. The bouncer’s jacket had been disturbed.
Cati pushed open the doors. “Hey! Hey you!” she called, as if upbraiding the Cellar’s patrons. Henri turned to the bouncer, who had been standing by quietly listening. Already assured in his heart of what to expect, Henri snapped his fingers in front of the bouncer’s nose.
Thelonius sized the bouncer up, and wondered just how to capture the scene on film. How does one photograph the act of standing still? Perhaps if he could take a series of pictures with Henri and Cati in them and simulate the passage of time . . . but just what would that be demonstrating? That a roomful of people could stand quietly as Henri and Cati danced among them? At least the wind is blowing, he thought. Then he remembered Rashfal.
The front doors were swinging again. They closed, separating Cati from the men. She tapped the coatless man on the shoulder, to no effect. Behind coat check, the attendant was holding coats apart with his gloved hands, frozen as the others were. “They’re all like this,” she murmured to herself softly. She couldn’t pull her eyes from these people – the old money, the nouveau riche, the descendants of nobility, the gifted young bankers and businessmen – all the people that her family had been mingling with for generations, all the people from whom she had failed to escape time and time again. Before her, a mass of living mannequins, just as she had always known. Finally! she felt like cheering – as though she had for once managed to transcend the stagnant worlds of her father and her husband, the dead foreign bloodlines, the weight of her inheritance and the demands of her ancestors. She smiled and let her hand dip into the man’s pocket. His wallet was there; she dropped it back in; it wasn’t fun this way.
A foul scent wafted in on the breeze, of rot, or of fluids repelled from the innards of an animal. Thelonius caught it and winced.
Henri saw his companion’s face wrinkle and, as if by mimesis, the scent appeared deep within his own nasal passages. It had snuck in. It burned a little and Henri thought to rub his eyes. He remembered a rule of thumb that had been meaningful to him once in a far away place, a truism that he had muttered to himself hundreds of times as a sick kind of reassurance: If you can smell it, you’re in it!
“Thelonius! – we are in danger! We must go back inside now!”
Thelonius would not have disagreed – but in an instant, the wind intensified – Henri saw the streetlights behind Thelonius pull like taffy and blurrily suggest movement – the lights stretched over Thelonius – no, more like something translucent and wet had been flung across points of light – Henri thought to compare it to observing the headlights of an oncoming car through a dirty windshield – it barreled into the reporter – Thelonius fell to the ground, the camera clattered against the cement - the wind turned up into the sky, refracting the lights of buildings' highest windows. The bouncer’s jacket had been disturbed.
Thelonius cursed as Henri crouched and scanned the air around them. Before he even bothered to get up, Thel checked his camera. Henri took note of a drip of blood, trailing from somewhere near Thelonius’ crown, underneath the brim of his hat. Henri pushed a door open. “There is no time! Come!”
(Upon realizing that the world had stopped around him, Thelonius was able to keep it together. Henri and Cati were not able to adjust as well to the realization. Henri has suffered -1 sanity and Cati -2. Due to a surprise attack by goodness-knows-what, Thelonius has suffered -1 hit point. Thelonius and Henri are in combat rounds – please declare your actions. Cati is not in combat yet, but could still act.
Corpus Clock and Chronophage conceived and designed by John Taylor, Stewart Huxley, Matthew Sanderson, and Alan Meeks. Image from A Blog to Read.)
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Going on Instinct
I.
"Oh, God, I think he's seen me," Cati said. "Look, he's coming over here. I don't know, Henri. Ask the fella whatever you want. I don't know if it's going to make a difference now."
II.
Thelonius forced himself to sit upright, his paranoid instincts forced him to quickly search the cramped studio apartment for … well … he didn’t know exactly what. He realized that he had been checking the surfaces for bugs, half expecting to find a swarm of the black crawly things massing out from beneath his ice box.
Once he had assured himself that he was indeed back in his apartment, he then realized that he was more than a little hungry, and thirsty. He rummaged through his cabinets and ice box, devouring the last remnants of bread, cheese, and pickles he found stashed away. He chased the meager meal down with what seemed like quarts of water.
Sated, he briefly thought of lying down and resting. No – he had to talk to Henri and Cati before the memories of what happened began to fade. He picked up the telephone, dialing first Henri’s shop and then Cati’s residence in an attempt to contact someone and warn them.
But would they believe him? Surely Henri would. The man must have experienced something similar the previous evening.
Thelonius tapped his foot anxiously against the dusty wooden floor as he waited for someone to answer the phone.
But no one did, not at Henri’s shop. Fine, he’d try Cati – her number was in the phone book. Three, four, five rings – Thelonius had just pulled the phone from his ear when he heard a tinny voice. “Hello?”
“Yes, hello. This is Thelonius Jones. I need to speak to Miss Predoviciu.”
Closer to his ear now, the voice was deeper and feminine; gruff, though, tired. “Miss has gone out for the evening.”
There was a dull metallic scrape in the kitchen. A pot had settled in a cabinet – perhaps, or perhaps something had shifted it. The sound would certainly have come from the cabinet next to the sink, for Thelonius didn’t have many pots and pans. But hadn’t he just checked in there?
“Vill you leave a message?” inquired Cati’s proxy, who was apparently of Transylvanian origin – or from one of those numerous Eastern European nationalities jockeying for their own state. Predoviciu – was that a Romanian name?
The pot shifted again. “Please wait just a second,” Thelonius replied.
He moved to the kitchen. Standing behind the cabinet door, he peeked inside. Nothing: two pots were stacked in a pan. They must have had been disturbed by his tired foragings. They must have, but Thel couldn't take his eye off the kitchen as he returned to the phone.
“Hello. Do you vant to leave a message?” repeated the voice.
Thelonius glanced sidelong at the cabinet speaking a bit distractedly, “Uh…..no…I mean could you tell me where she has gone, if you do not mind. I am a friend of hers, and I have an important message I must relay to her as soon as possible.” Hopefully the housekeeper would reveal where Cati had gone. Thel suspected that the flapper was out at one of the various speakeasies about town.
Magda detected the hints of stress and sincerity in Thelonius' words; she recalled eavesdropping on some of the miss's phone calls and hearing the reporter's name; she was tired and annoyed. She sighed. "Miss went to SoHo."
There was silence. As if she had just committed a calculated sin for some greater purpose.
"Thank you, that's all I need," Thelonius finally replied. And it was. He was there in thirty minutes.
Cati would have taken a cab, so there would be no car to search for – as if that'd work. Thelonius would have to follow his instincts here. Those strange talents that were both cultivated and somehow innate all the way to his bones; Thelonius knew he could trust his nose. He parked the Nash behind one of the more up-and-up clubs, near a cluster of luxury autos. A Bugatti, a custom-bodied Rolls Royce Silver Ghost, a '24 Hispano-Suiza. A couple of young men in drivers' uniforms leaned casually against the Rolls. One of them let the driver's side door bear his weight as he leaned back and gazed skyward. He was that car's driver. The other man had, then, driven the cabriolet. The Bugatti had been driven by its owner most likely – after all, if you're going to have someone else at the wheel, why get a Bugatti? These were the sorts of things that instinct could reveal.
He went into the street. The upper crust was about. A tux and a night gown stepped into the Palace. No, not Cati's style; she might have had the money but probably didn't have the interest. Three women with bobbed hair and feathered headbands crossed the street onto Thelonius' block, and proceeded around the corner. Probably off to The Teepee Club, a gimmicky flapper dance hall. That was more Cati's speed, Thelonius thought. But too obvious; The Teepee Club was a fad, it'd be gone in a year. Where else was there? The Cellar. One block away. There was watery jazz, it catered to the upper class, there was booze in the basement. Its owner was in on an informal consortium of liquor vendors who had come to agreements with both the mob and the police. In exchange for monetary gifts, both authorities kept out of The Cellar. This much was an appreciated fact in the underworld currents. The establishment's special mixture of seediness, safety, and class would have attracted Miss Predoviciu. Perfect.
The bouncer was an old acquaintance, an informant from the voodoo case six months ago. He was more credulous of Thelonius than Thelonius had been of him – invisible bullets, indeed! – and so it was only too easy for the reporter to gain entry. He stepped inside the foyer, but before Thelonius could take in the dining and dancing arrangements of the main hall, he was jostled by a man in a leather coat and a cap. And shocked – when the man's elbow brushed his own, there was a brief flash. No, not like a flash of light, more like a flashing-out of reality: a quick flash-forward of the consciousness into the next moment with none of the normal seamlessness of the usual experience of time. When the reporter looked behind him, the man was out the door and in the street. He was short, dark-haired, thick, sweaty.
He jogged outside. The man had gotten into the driver's seat of a cab and was already pulling out. Thelonius had to resign himself to memorizing the license plate: NY 1923 153-512.
He went into the basement level, and immediately made out Henri's form, standing out in the best of ways, even in this crowd. Beside him, standing, was none other than Cati.
Thelonius began to move across the tearoom floor towards the groups, but he saw a third figure moving towards them. He paused, wisely taking the opportunity to assess the situation before interrupting. The man was tall, blondish, dressed all in grey. His clothing was cut in almost harsh lines that suited the man and made him seem statuesque, like a piece of architecture, a component of the skyline.
III.
The man stepped directly up to the pair, as if homing in on them. Henri and Cati had only a moment to prepare themselves.
"Good evening, miss," he greeted Cati, and then turned his attention to Henri. "Sir." With no bashfulness, he examined Cati. "You look just stunning in that dress, would you care to step upstairs with me for a dance?"
Cati glanced about nervously, searching for her answer in the crowd. She caught sight of yet another familiar face near the stairs: Thelonius. His presence was slightly reassuring. But strange – how had he too come to this place at just the right moment? The blonde man put her ill at ease . . . but her allies were all around, and she was in a crowd.
(I by Teresa. II by Dan and dsolomon. III by dsolomon.)
"Oh, God, I think he's seen me," Cati said. "Look, he's coming over here. I don't know, Henri. Ask the fella whatever you want. I don't know if it's going to make a difference now."
II.
Thelonius forced himself to sit upright, his paranoid instincts forced him to quickly search the cramped studio apartment for … well … he didn’t know exactly what. He realized that he had been checking the surfaces for bugs, half expecting to find a swarm of the black crawly things massing out from beneath his ice box.
Once he had assured himself that he was indeed back in his apartment, he then realized that he was more than a little hungry, and thirsty. He rummaged through his cabinets and ice box, devouring the last remnants of bread, cheese, and pickles he found stashed away. He chased the meager meal down with what seemed like quarts of water.
Sated, he briefly thought of lying down and resting. No – he had to talk to Henri and Cati before the memories of what happened began to fade. He picked up the telephone, dialing first Henri’s shop and then Cati’s residence in an attempt to contact someone and warn them.
But would they believe him? Surely Henri would. The man must have experienced something similar the previous evening.
Thelonius tapped his foot anxiously against the dusty wooden floor as he waited for someone to answer the phone.
But no one did, not at Henri’s shop. Fine, he’d try Cati – her number was in the phone book. Three, four, five rings – Thelonius had just pulled the phone from his ear when he heard a tinny voice. “Hello?”
“Yes, hello. This is Thelonius Jones. I need to speak to Miss Predoviciu.”
Closer to his ear now, the voice was deeper and feminine; gruff, though, tired. “Miss has gone out for the evening.”
There was a dull metallic scrape in the kitchen. A pot had settled in a cabinet – perhaps, or perhaps something had shifted it. The sound would certainly have come from the cabinet next to the sink, for Thelonius didn’t have many pots and pans. But hadn’t he just checked in there?
“Vill you leave a message?” inquired Cati’s proxy, who was apparently of Transylvanian origin – or from one of those numerous Eastern European nationalities jockeying for their own state. Predoviciu – was that a Romanian name?
The pot shifted again. “Please wait just a second,” Thelonius replied.
He moved to the kitchen. Standing behind the cabinet door, he peeked inside. Nothing: two pots were stacked in a pan. They must have had been disturbed by his tired foragings. They must have, but Thel couldn't take his eye off the kitchen as he returned to the phone.
“Hello. Do you vant to leave a message?” repeated the voice.
Thelonius glanced sidelong at the cabinet speaking a bit distractedly, “Uh…..no…I mean could you tell me where she has gone, if you do not mind. I am a friend of hers, and I have an important message I must relay to her as soon as possible.” Hopefully the housekeeper would reveal where Cati had gone. Thel suspected that the flapper was out at one of the various speakeasies about town.
Magda detected the hints of stress and sincerity in Thelonius' words; she recalled eavesdropping on some of the miss's phone calls and hearing the reporter's name; she was tired and annoyed. She sighed. "Miss went to SoHo."
There was silence. As if she had just committed a calculated sin for some greater purpose.
"Thank you, that's all I need," Thelonius finally replied. And it was. He was there in thirty minutes.
Cati would have taken a cab, so there would be no car to search for – as if that'd work. Thelonius would have to follow his instincts here. Those strange talents that were both cultivated and somehow innate all the way to his bones; Thelonius knew he could trust his nose. He parked the Nash behind one of the more up-and-up clubs, near a cluster of luxury autos. A Bugatti, a custom-bodied Rolls Royce Silver Ghost, a '24 Hispano-Suiza. A couple of young men in drivers' uniforms leaned casually against the Rolls. One of them let the driver's side door bear his weight as he leaned back and gazed skyward. He was that car's driver. The other man had, then, driven the cabriolet. The Bugatti had been driven by its owner most likely – after all, if you're going to have someone else at the wheel, why get a Bugatti? These were the sorts of things that instinct could reveal.
He went into the street. The upper crust was about. A tux and a night gown stepped into the Palace. No, not Cati's style; she might have had the money but probably didn't have the interest. Three women with bobbed hair and feathered headbands crossed the street onto Thelonius' block, and proceeded around the corner. Probably off to The Teepee Club, a gimmicky flapper dance hall. That was more Cati's speed, Thelonius thought. But too obvious; The Teepee Club was a fad, it'd be gone in a year. Where else was there? The Cellar. One block away. There was watery jazz, it catered to the upper class, there was booze in the basement. Its owner was in on an informal consortium of liquor vendors who had come to agreements with both the mob and the police. In exchange for monetary gifts, both authorities kept out of The Cellar. This much was an appreciated fact in the underworld currents. The establishment's special mixture of seediness, safety, and class would have attracted Miss Predoviciu. Perfect.
The bouncer was an old acquaintance, an informant from the voodoo case six months ago. He was more credulous of Thelonius than Thelonius had been of him – invisible bullets, indeed! – and so it was only too easy for the reporter to gain entry. He stepped inside the foyer, but before Thelonius could take in the dining and dancing arrangements of the main hall, he was jostled by a man in a leather coat and a cap. And shocked – when the man's elbow brushed his own, there was a brief flash. No, not like a flash of light, more like a flashing-out of reality: a quick flash-forward of the consciousness into the next moment with none of the normal seamlessness of the usual experience of time. When the reporter looked behind him, the man was out the door and in the street. He was short, dark-haired, thick, sweaty.
He jogged outside. The man had gotten into the driver's seat of a cab and was already pulling out. Thelonius had to resign himself to memorizing the license plate: NY 1923 153-512.
He went into the basement level, and immediately made out Henri's form, standing out in the best of ways, even in this crowd. Beside him, standing, was none other than Cati.
Thelonius began to move across the tearoom floor towards the groups, but he saw a third figure moving towards them. He paused, wisely taking the opportunity to assess the situation before interrupting. The man was tall, blondish, dressed all in grey. His clothing was cut in almost harsh lines that suited the man and made him seem statuesque, like a piece of architecture, a component of the skyline.
III.
The man stepped directly up to the pair, as if homing in on them. Henri and Cati had only a moment to prepare themselves.
"Good evening, miss," he greeted Cati, and then turned his attention to Henri. "Sir." With no bashfulness, he examined Cati. "You look just stunning in that dress, would you care to step upstairs with me for a dance?"
Cati glanced about nervously, searching for her answer in the crowd. She caught sight of yet another familiar face near the stairs: Thelonius. His presence was slightly reassuring. But strange – how had he too come to this place at just the right moment? The blonde man put her ill at ease . . . but her allies were all around, and she was in a crowd.
(I by Teresa. II by Dan and dsolomon. III by dsolomon.)
Monday, May 11, 2009
The Cellar
Henri walked into the Cellar. Ostensibly a ballroom and restaurant, it was well-known that the Cellar's basement floor carried a stock of liquor appropriate to the tastes of upper class drinkers. What a dense crowd for a Tuesday night! If the police knew about the place – and they must have known – then they turned a blind eye to it. Possibly there were bribes involved, or perhaps the owner was somehow managing to function without the aid of the mob, or both. Henri would run into someone he knew here.
In a dark corner, Cati crouched over her "tea". It had been almost an hour and a half since she had met Emma upstairs and had dragged her into the basement, and Cati had remained mildly disconsolate about her strange encounter. Even if his anxious manner had undercut his ability to intimidate, there had been a real menace in the driver's eyes and words.
"I still don't get it, lady," Emma said as she released a puff of smoke. She languidly rocked her long-stemmed cigarette holder in her fingers. "The driver wanted to take you to a minstrel show, and then he cursed at you in Hungarian and missed the turn." With a bored expression on her face (which Cati knew to read as the first step in the fossilization process), Emma tapped her cigarette, expertly pitching her ash into the tray.
"So you are being followed!" She was mostly joking. "Should we tell him the game's up?" she asked, smiling.
Cati was about to agree, but then she saw him, the taxi driver. For an instant, he had been coming down the stairs into the basement level, but another man, standing too high in the stairwell for Cati to see his face, put his hand on the driver's shoulder. They exchanged words, the driver nodded and turned back up the stairs.
The other man came down the stairs. His build was the opposite of the driver's, who was short and a little stocky. Instead, this fellow cut a figure as straight and as sharp as a skyscraper. His freshly pressed trousers and jacket, both the same granite-like grey, further suggested modernist architecture. He was generally attractive in that way that seemed to cut across the peculiar features of the many nations and countries that were now represented in New York City. At the bottom of the stairs, he removed his hat. He was fair, but not quite blonde.
"Cati, dear! You look a little frightened! You don't think that French guy's actually stalking you, do you?"
Saturday, February 28, 2009
The Swami
He groaned a little as he rolled over to receive his visitors. He had lost weight. Once a rosy-cheeked and hale man, here - in the hospital bed without his turban and jewel, without the monkey and audience, of which he was in such easy and total command - Ramanuja presented a pallid and weary visage. Nevertheless, he looked many times better than he had upon his last meeting with the erstwhile investigators. Most of all, Cati appreciated the fact that he was free of the tubes and ghastly equipment.
As he recognized the trio, his eyebrows lifted and his limp mouth pulled into a little smile. "Hello!" he cheered (as cheerily as one might expect). "Our saviors have come to visit! Kindly sit and rest. We were just listening to the birds sing." Outside the cracked window, a pair of pigeons cooed sweetly to one another.
His eyes were slightly red, and his lips were dry and cracked. Looking to the window, he pushed himself up in bed. His list of woes was short, as described by Doctor Cherry: minor lacerations on the eyes, mouth, ears, and at various joints; a few bruises; severe dehydradation. "He'll should be fine by now," he had explained, "really. He's been chit-chatting with the police all afternoon."
The swami did not look fine. Without pulling his gaze away from the pigeons, pushed his lips out, as if puckering for a kiss, and reached for the glass of water on his nightstand. "We think that you, sir," he said deliberately and seriously to Thelonius, "do very well as you are, testing Maya rather than seeing through it." It seemed that even now he couldn't resist making such comments. But his tone of voice was wholly different from his grandiose stage character, and his words rang with all the more sincerity for it. Maya, then - the illusionary world of experience per Eastern religion - what of it? (The line between religion and the occult blurred often enough that Thel had cultivated an acquaintance with a fair number of 'strictly religious' practices in his time, from Jainas to snake-handlers. Maya was one of these concepts.)
Ramanuja replaced his glass, and pulled his blanket up to his shoulders, binding himself. "And, you, madam, have risen to the occasion most admirably. We know, for you saw what sorry is'tate we were in." He nodded sullenly towards Cati. "As have you, sir" - it was Henri's turn - "for we think that you have the most questions of all. Is that not what you all have come for?"
"The men who killed Margaret are unknown to us. Margaret was our pupil, we were her swami. We were very close, but it is not as some have suspected. I am very sorry for the Whitcombe family." Wrapped in his blanket, he looked like no monk or mystic. If he were only to put on a button down shirt and a normal pair of trousers, he could disappear right into the city crowds. He turned his face towards the window again. After a moment the swami said, "You will be wanting to ask better questions this time."
(Thel passed an occult check.)
As he recognized the trio, his eyebrows lifted and his limp mouth pulled into a little smile. "Hello!" he cheered (as cheerily as one might expect). "Our saviors have come to visit! Kindly sit and rest. We were just listening to the birds sing." Outside the cracked window, a pair of pigeons cooed sweetly to one another.
His eyes were slightly red, and his lips were dry and cracked. Looking to the window, he pushed himself up in bed. His list of woes was short, as described by Doctor Cherry: minor lacerations on the eyes, mouth, ears, and at various joints; a few bruises; severe dehydradation. "He'll should be fine by now," he had explained, "really. He's been chit-chatting with the police all afternoon."
The swami did not look fine. Without pulling his gaze away from the pigeons, pushed his lips out, as if puckering for a kiss, and reached for the glass of water on his nightstand. "We think that you, sir," he said deliberately and seriously to Thelonius, "do very well as you are, testing Maya rather than seeing through it." It seemed that even now he couldn't resist making such comments. But his tone of voice was wholly different from his grandiose stage character, and his words rang with all the more sincerity for it. Maya, then - the illusionary world of experience per Eastern religion - what of it? (The line between religion and the occult blurred often enough that Thel had cultivated an acquaintance with a fair number of 'strictly religious' practices in his time, from Jainas to snake-handlers. Maya was one of these concepts.)
Ramanuja replaced his glass, and pulled his blanket up to his shoulders, binding himself. "And, you, madam, have risen to the occasion most admirably. We know, for you saw what sorry is'tate we were in." He nodded sullenly towards Cati. "As have you, sir" - it was Henri's turn - "for we think that you have the most questions of all. Is that not what you all have come for?"
"The men who killed Margaret are unknown to us. Margaret was our pupil, we were her swami. We were very close, but it is not as some have suspected. I am very sorry for the Whitcombe family." Wrapped in his blanket, he looked like no monk or mystic. If he were only to put on a button down shirt and a normal pair of trousers, he could disappear right into the city crowds. He turned his face towards the window again. After a moment the swami said, "You will be wanting to ask better questions this time."
(Thel passed an occult check.)
Friday, February 27, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
The Hyperboreans - in the New York Public Library
Hyperborea. A region beyond the North Wind, or the place where Boreas blew. The legend is associated with that of Apollo. For 19 years he returned to this land, each time at the moment when the stars had completed another revolution in the sky and had returned to their original positions. Each night between the vernal equinox and the rising of the Pleiades he could be heard singing appropriate hymns and accompanying himself on the lyre.
After Apollo had massacred the Cyclopes, who had manufactured the thunderbolt used by Zeus to kill Apollo's son, Asclepius, Apollo hid the arrow he had reserved for revenge in the great round temple dedicated to him which had been built in the center of the principal Hyporean city. Some said that this arrow, which was enormous, had flown there of its own accord before forming the constellation of Sagittarius in the sky. A Hyperborean named Abasis traveled throughout the entire world borne by this arrow; he did not need to eat as this wondrous arrow provided all the nourishment which he needed.
Legend relates back to the founders of the Hyperborean race a certain number of practices connected with the cult of Apollo. Leto was supposedly born in this land and then returned to Delos to bear her own children. The sacred objects pertaining to Apollo which were venerated at Delos were said to have come from the Hyperborean land. On this subject we defer to Herodotus who wrote that these sacred objects had been entrusted by the Hyperboreans to their neighbours the Scythians who travelled towards the west until they reached the shores of the Adriatic, and then journeyed to the south, passing from town to town. They travelled to Dodona and then to Carystos in Euboea, and eventually reached Delos via Tenos.
Their country was represented – particularly after the Classical period – as an ideal one with a mild climate, inhabited by people with happy temperaments – a Utopian land. There, apparently, the sun produced two crops each year; the inhabitants had civilized customs and lived in the fields and sacred groves to great ages. When the old people considered that they had had a good life they threw themselves joyously into the sea from a high cliff with the heads garlanded with flowers and found a happy end in the waves. The Hyperboreans had a knowledge of magic; they were said to be able to travel in the air and find hidden treasure. Pythagoras was said to be an incarnation of Hyperborean Apollo.
From: "Hyperboreans" in The Dictionary of Classical Mythology by Pablo Grivale. Translated by T.B. Hopkins-Nunsmouth. 1919.
(As of the evening of the 25th, Thelonius and Henri have access to this piece.
Text excerpted from "Hyperboreans" in The Dictionary of Classical Mythology by Pierre Grimal. Translated by A.R. Maxwell-Hyslop. Blackwell Publishing, 1996. Adapted by da solomon.)
After Apollo had massacred the Cyclopes, who had manufactured the thunderbolt used by Zeus to kill Apollo's son, Asclepius, Apollo hid the arrow he had reserved for revenge in the great round temple dedicated to him which had been built in the center of the principal Hyporean city. Some said that this arrow, which was enormous, had flown there of its own accord before forming the constellation of Sagittarius in the sky. A Hyperborean named Abasis traveled throughout the entire world borne by this arrow; he did not need to eat as this wondrous arrow provided all the nourishment which he needed.
Legend relates back to the founders of the Hyperborean race a certain number of practices connected with the cult of Apollo. Leto was supposedly born in this land and then returned to Delos to bear her own children. The sacred objects pertaining to Apollo which were venerated at Delos were said to have come from the Hyperborean land. On this subject we defer to Herodotus who wrote that these sacred objects had been entrusted by the Hyperboreans to their neighbours the Scythians who travelled towards the west until they reached the shores of the Adriatic, and then journeyed to the south, passing from town to town. They travelled to Dodona and then to Carystos in Euboea, and eventually reached Delos via Tenos.
Their country was represented – particularly after the Classical period – as an ideal one with a mild climate, inhabited by people with happy temperaments – a Utopian land. There, apparently, the sun produced two crops each year; the inhabitants had civilized customs and lived in the fields and sacred groves to great ages. When the old people considered that they had had a good life they threw themselves joyously into the sea from a high cliff with the heads garlanded with flowers and found a happy end in the waves. The Hyperboreans had a knowledge of magic; they were said to be able to travel in the air and find hidden treasure. Pythagoras was said to be an incarnation of Hyperborean Apollo.
From: "Hyperboreans" in The Dictionary of Classical Mythology by Pablo Grivale. Translated by T.B. Hopkins-Nunsmouth. 1919.
(As of the evening of the 25th, Thelonius and Henri have access to this piece.
Text excerpted from "Hyperboreans" in The Dictionary of Classical Mythology by Pierre Grimal. Translated by A.R. Maxwell-Hyslop. Blackwell Publishing, 1996. Adapted by da solomon.)
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