Below are the 19 most recent journal entries recorded in Riko_'s LiveJournal:

Saturday, January 3rd, 2004
5:52 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 018 - Start is at bottom of page. My name is Richard Patrick Fitzgerald. I was born in London in July, 1860, and have lived all my life in my mother's house, until her death a year ago. My mother taught me the basic skills of reading and writing, but it was numbers, to which she introduced me in my fifth year of life, which became my only friends. My mother I loved dearly, and still suffer bouts of deep sorrow for her loss. Since my twelfth year I have been employed by a well known merchant bank in the city, first as messenger, then office boy, then clerk, which position I have just lost. I fear that I am also losing my mind. I remember dying. I understand now what Hamlet must have felt, after seeing and speaking to his father's ghost, for his cry "My tablets, my tablets. It is meet that I should set it down," rings truly in my ears. He, too, turned to writing to help maintain a grip upon reality. I remember dying. I love my work, and its loss will be, I am certain, a blow to almost equal the blow with which I was stricken by the loss of my dear mother. I love my work. The columns of numbers are to me the notes of a symphony, the names of stocks like accents or different tone colours in the music. My concert hall is the trading floor of the London stock exchange, and its traders my musicians. The conductor, the composer? Ah. There's the rub. I would be the conductor of, the composer for that orchestra. But I can not be. I lack not skill or training, but merely the possession of an instrument. My diary, carefully hidden in my room, shows me to be a millionaire, based upon a starting capital, a mere five years ago, of one thousand pounds. It is all there, in my book. The record of the transactions that I would have made, had I but commanded that thousand pounds. Where would an 8 to 6, twenty shilling a week clerk find a thousand pounds? I had no inheritance. Indeed, without the contribution of my small wage, we would have starved, my mother and I. Even with my wage, before I attained the eminence of a clerk's position, we went not infrequently short of food, usually in the winter, which added the expense of fuel and lamp oil to our already strained budget. Lately, I have also become a poor sleeper. Even as a young child I had vivid, colourful dreams, but recently both their frequency and their vividness have increased. Usually, now, I awake after a dream and, beset with a sense of sadness and loss, am unable to sleep again that night. And now, I remember dying. My dreams, from as long ago as I can remember, have been of deserts, caravans and oases, and the pleasures of talk, long into the night, around campfires. Later, the dreams included campaigns and battles, in which I was a soldier in the armies of Sal Al Adin, known to the blasphemous English as Saladin. It seemed strange that I, born in England and a baptised member of the Church of England, should feel so about the English, yet it was so, and, even as a child, I felt denied the consolation of religion. The recent changes in the dreams began with the boy, a beautiful boy, whom I began to glimpse among guests at campfire or tent. A warrior child, with blond hair, probably part, or even full blooded, English. There are many of such. It had been a long war. Each time I noticed the boy he smiled at me, as at a friend, though I did not know him and - I was a Sufi, and had earned the honorific 'Haji' - did not concern myself with boys, however beautiful. Yet he smiled, and I returned that smile, afterwards praying forgiveness. To my temptations was added the appearance, sometimes with the boy, but sometimes alone, of a young woman of surpassing beauty. Her pale skin and midnight hair sang to me of forbidden things, and again I prayed forgiveness. Three nights ago came a new dream. I commanded my orchestra. I sat in a roomy office. Heavily curtained windows, richly carpeted floors and a blazing fire made it warm and comfortable beyond any office that I have known, beyond even the offices of the partners of the bank, whose offices I had glimpsed from time to time as a messenger. With me in the office was a large black man, obviously a gentleman, and a lady, the lady of my earlier dreams, yet now dressed as an English lady rather than the all but nothing she wore - I pray forgiveness - in my more recent dreams. I was explaining to them a strategy which I knew would result in a profit of more than a million pounds. They listened respectfully and told me that it was in my hands. My hands. The office door opened disclosing the face of the boy, a cheeky grin on his face. Our eyes met, and the dream faded. It was the following day that tragedy struck, yet it was, I admit, purely of my own choice and making. After the dream had faded I had slept no more the previous night, and was weary at my desk, and finding concentration difficult. There was a particularly important document to be attended to, so I rose from my chair and stepped to the window to help clear my mind before addressing the task. There, in the street outside, was the face of the boy. As I had glanced casually down at the street, a cab was passing. At the window was that face. I stared, open mouthed, my eyes fixed on his face. He looked up at me and... smiled. Our eyes locked for a moment. It was none else but he. Strong inner feelings told me that the woman was also there. Then the cab continued on its way and I stood, stunned, and they were gone. Thinking nothing except that they must not escape me, I flung myself towards the door, through which the chief clerk was at that moment entering. I swept him aside, knocking papers from his hand, and rushed down the stairs to the street. The cab, and the boy, were nowhere to be seen. I stood, as one stunned. Then, slowly, I retraced my steps back to the office. I was dismissed, summarily. They gave me my wages due to the end of the month, a generous gesture, I thought, but insisted that I leave the premises forthwith. I suspect that they thought me insane as indeed, in a sense, I was, having little to say for myself except, "The boy. I could not let him escape me." Now it is near midnight. It is raining heavily outside, but I cannot remain here. I will walk wherever my feet take me until... who knows. Perhaps I may exhaust myself sufficiently to make sleep possible or... who knows... It was after midnight of the night following their quest when Juanita was awakened by someone entering her room. It was Adeline, wearing a light wrapper and carrying a lamp. "Good, you're awake. He's out. And I think he's in trouble." "What is he doing?" "Walking, I'm sure. But it's wet, and freezing cold. It was the cold I felt first. It woke me up, but the minute I saw the fire I realised that it wasn't my cold that I was feeling. I tried to picture him as you described him, but it only helped a little, so I took a chance." "What did you do?" "I guessed from the way I felt his presence earlier that he had been dreaming of me, and he's a young man. I simply projected desire." "If you pick him up that way he may be a handful for you. Did you get him?" "Yes. I felt his response. I think he saw me in his mind, but it weakened quickly. He's almost exhausted, and must be freezing. I tried to see through his eyes. He was walking beside a stone wall, less than waist high to him. I think there was water on his left. Then I lost him, but twice since I've felt him think of me, and the second time he did, I saw the same scene." "We're going to have to go and find him then. He won't survive the night out in weather like this. Do you recognise the scene?" "I'm not sure. Sam knows London best. I'll ring for him." As she reached for the bell cord, Juanita headed for Agnes' door. Within seconds after Juanita reappeared, with a now wide awake Agnes, Sam was at the door, dressed in robe and slippers. Adeline swiftly explained the position to him. "Can you pick up the image from my mind, Sam?" "No. All I have is coldness, and exhaustion." "Wait. I've got him again. He's sat down. He's looking straight at the wall. I'm sure there's water behind it. He's trying to stand... Damn. Lost him again. Did you see anything, Sam?" "No. His link is only with you. I can't make a strong enough contact with you to get it second hand." Adeline rose, dropping her wrapper. "Take off the robe." She stepped towards him. He took off his robe leaving him dressed in white silk pyjamas. "Will this do?" "We'll try." She came forwards, arms outstretched towards him. He extended his arms towards her. Their hands clasped, and both swung their arms outward, drawing their bodies together. They touched. Adeline stood, the length of her body pressed against him, the silk of his pyjamas cold against her skin, instantly becoming warm. Knee to knee they stood, breast to breast. She stretched upwards and her lips touched his. Lip to lip. Sam stepped back, breaking the contact. "Got it!" he exclaimed. "The embankment." "Two and a half miles away." Juanita scanned the map in her mind. "Call... No. Sam, get dressed quickly, your 'fighting suit' will be quickest, and see if you can find a cab. We'll dress the same, find some cloaks and meet you outside. Move." He moved. Fitzgerald was exhausted, soaked to the skin and chilled almost beyond feeling. It seemed that he had been walking for hours. First he had headed west, but, as he got colder and more tired his mind began to wander and he found himself turning more and more away from the wind. It blew from the north, cold and strong so he found himself moving more south than west. Each time he became aware of the change of direction he turned west again, but this happened less and less frequently. Once, he realised that he had emerged on to New Bridge St., Blackfriars bridge lay ahead of him. He staggered towards it, then, pulling himself towards the west again, staggered along the embankment, the Thames on his left. The wind was stronger here, and soon he found himself following the stone wall, conscious only of it and the rushing water beyond. He was brought up short by the sight of the woman, the dark haired woman of his dreams, standing directly in front of him, arms outstretched towards him. "I'm seeing things," he thought, and her image vanished. He had the feeling that she had been asking him where he was, by now he had no clear idea. Only the wall and the water. Twice more he thought he saw her, but each time she vanished almost instantly. He felt a slackening of the wind from his right. He turned his head and saw a large tree, forming a partial windbreak. Against its trunk was a seat. He staggered towards it, then almost fell onto it. He straightened himself up on the seat, but immediately slumped forward. The wall, and the water beyond, were straight in front of him now. 'You're dying,' he thought vaguely. He tried to drag himself off the seat, but fell back. He wanted to see, at least once more, the image of his dream lady. She was there, in front of him. Again he tried to rise, but she was gone, and further effort was beyond him. He wasn't feeling as cold now. The wind seemed to have died. 'We're all dying,' he thought. Me and the wind and the lady. No! Not the lady. He was alert again, but the alertness brought back the feeling of cold. He relaxed and the cold passed from him. No more wind. No more cold. Just sleep. He died. He knew that he must have died. There was an angel face on each side of him, the image of the boy and the lady. But they had no bodies, only blackness lay below their faces. They were lifting him and moving him towards a coach that stood at the other side of his tree. 'It's not a golden coach,' he thought, but there was a golden shield on the door of the coach and he supposed that would have to do. St. Peter stepped from the coach and came towards him. 'I didn't know St. Peter was black,' was his last, fading, thought. The thought passed and he knew no more. (Comment on this)
Friday, February 7th, 2003
2:18 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 017 - Start is at bottom of page. "How do you cope with it, Samuel?" After the initial demonstration, Adeline and Agnes had demanded the right to show their prowess, throwing each other from one end of the mats to the other. Adeline had borrowed Sam's services to demonstrate her command of the shoulder throw, flinging Sam high over her shoulder. Watson flinched at the thud as he hit the ground. Now, the two men were in the drawing room, Sam again in butler dress and the girls 'making themselves presentable', each determined to show off new clothes to Watson. "The falls, sir?" Butlerfaced. "Your daughter is teaching me." "You know that's not what I mean, Samuel. I think that kick would have broken your shoulder. And she's only a girl. Could it not be a... humiliation to you?" "She thought of that, sir. I think she hesitated to show me her capabilities. To spare me that." "She's most perceptive." "She is sir. Her first demonstration was even more dramatic. But she prepared me for it. Do you realise, sir, that she could have killed me, barehanded? I can't tell you, sir, how... honoured I was when she was prepared to instruct me. You saw those falls I made today. Before she showed me how to fall, a fall like one of those would have certainly injured me. She is my superior with the sword, too, and at least my equal with the pistol. She taught me something there, too." "You're proud of her, aren't you, Sam?" "As you are, sir. She makes me feel like a father to her, yet she's my superior, without doubt." "Mine, too, Samuel." Pride, Watson thought, that's how she does it. Makes them proud of her, and themselves, and of her acceptance of them. That's why they all love her. Watson had left, after expressing his pleasure at the improvement in Juanita's accent - not yet perfected, but improved - and Agnes'. "They're making a fine lady of you, Agnes. I'll wager that, in another month, nobody would think to suggest that you're not a lady born, and you and I both know how many of those can at best play the fine lady. I'm proud of you. Would you do me the honour, when you come to choose a new surname, to permit me to bestow upon you one of my family names? It would honour me to present you in society as, say, a niece." Agnes blushed. After dinner, a council of war was called. Donna Juanita, presiding, Agnes - proud newly adopted niece of Watson, Secretary, Countess Adeline, Treasurer, and Mr. Samuel Parsons, Sergeant at Arms. First order of business: All further formalities to be recognised, sneered at and dismissed. Proposed, Chairwoman, seconded, Treasurer. Passed unanimously by acclamation. "My darlings, I want to thank you all for the way you stood by me, though I did not have time to consult you." "We are always with you, dear." Adeline spoke first. "We are a circle. You are our leader. We will never disagree with you in public. We may sometimes ask for a reason, afterwards, in private." Agnes and Sam nodded their agreement. "Beside which, we are apparently now a lodge, of which you are appointed Master, to whom all our oaths are sworn. Will you name the Lodge, Juanita?" The vision of 'her place' passed through Juanita's mind. "Yes. Our lodge is the 'Open Land' Lodge, acknowledging the Great Lodge as mother lodge, but asking no more of it than that. I, the Master, declare this lodge formed and open." "So mote it be." "So mote it be." Juanita paused, then continued in her normal tones. "We are, then, brethren, though we are mostly sistren. Brother Sam being in the minority." "Will we look for other members, Juanita?" "I think we'll have to, Adeline, but I intend us to remain a very small lodge. I'd like to keep our inner circle to we four, but you heard what father said about us needing a banker. You also heard him speak of people as tools. I do not want that. Therefore our banker must be one of us. He must, then, be acceptable to all of us. I have noted our need, and have set the forces working upon the inner planes to bring a suitable banker to us. We will also need a small group of... apprentices is the word that comes to mind. Our aim will be to teach them all as much as they can learn, as quickly as we can teach them. To this end, each of us will accept an apprentice, as they make themselves available to us. As quickly as any of them show their worthiness, let them be promoted. There are four grades between the seeker and minor adepthood. Let us try to bring up at least one person to each of those grades, then recruit no more until a grade is vacant. "Are we agreed?" "We are agreed." "So mote it be. I will begin it upon the inner planes. Then we will wait." "There is one thing that we will need, and soon." "Yes, Adeline?" "We need a seer. Someone at least as experienced as Agnes was before her promotion." "Yes, but, as with the Banker and the others, we must wait until one presents." "Of course." "Right, does anyone here know anything about money?" No one did. "Then we'd all better think hard about getting us a banker." Next morning, at breakfast, Juanita outlined her plan of action. "By now, there are people out there," she indicated the great, sprawling metropolis of London with a casual wave of her hand, "who are wondering what it is that is making them suddenly discontented. Our prospective banker will have been an initiate in a former life, but has probably not made contact in this life. Our future seer will probably have a similar history, but may not. Sooner or later, those who are hearing our call will find their way here. Let's help them." "How do you propose to help them, Juanita?" Adeline asked. "I want to get out and around London, probably around the financial districts for the Banker, who knows where for the seer. Fleet Street comes to mind, for no reason that I can think of." "Juanita, my love, we can't just go wandering around London. I could arrange the use of the coach that brought us from the railway station, but I doubt that's how you want to move around." "You're saying, I think, that two or three ladies can't just walk about in London in daylight?" "Certainly not in the financial districts or Fleet Street. We could walk about the shopping streets a little, but that's all. We'd be too conspicuous." "We don't want that. Let me think... Ah yes. Where can we find a theatrical tailor?" Later that day, near Cambridge square, three young ladies, actresses, by their dress and manner, were helped down from a fourwheeler by a large, well, though slightly showily, dressed Negro. The group made their way, laughing and chattering to a shop bearing the name "Issacson & Gillberg - Theatrical Costumiers". Over an hour later the man emerged, stopped a cab and reentered the shop. Shortly thereafter the three girls reemerged, followed by the man and two others in shirt sleeves. The shirtsleeved pair were laden with packages. People and parcels were propelled, with much backchat, into the cab which then departed, followed by a spate of words and gestures of goodwill. Back at the house, the afternoon tea rested on the sideboard, guarded by the butler, in the otherwise empty drawing room. The door opened to admit three young gentlemen, beautifully dressed in light tweed jackets worn over soft collared shirts and ties, knickerbockers, plaid socks and well polished walking shoes. All wore caps. "How do we look, Sam, darling?" said the smallest of the three. Sam shuddered... Next morning, just before ten, a cab, a four wheeler, drew up to the servants entrance of the Welbeck St. house. A young man left the cab and entered the house. Shortly, he, together with two other equally smartly dressed young men, emerged from the house. The smallest of the three addressed the driver while the others climbed into the cab, which headed down Welbeck St. to Oxford St., where it turned left and headed east towards the city. "Where are we going, Juanita?" "Better call me Jerry, Adeline. Let me see, you can be Oscar and you, Agnes, can be Alfred." "Why those names?" "In a very few years, girls, Mr. Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas will be involved in a terrible scandal. Who called me 'a sodomites dream', Adeline? Yes, I know you got the phrase from my father, but you used it." "Did your father actually say that to you? I got the distinct impression that he only thought it, otherwise I wouldn't have used the phrase, though I found it attractive." "Girls, my father is in his second, third or even fourth incarnation of lusting after my fair body. I know it, and he knows I know it. One day I hope he'll remember that he's no longer my biological father and do something about it. He's a fine man." Agnes looked slightly shocked, but giggled. Adeline thought a moment, then replied. "Perhaps it would be a good thing if he did. He needs you. No, I won't discuss that any further now. Will you please tell me where we are going?" They were now in New Oxford St., heading towards Holborn. "We're going for a drive around the financial district. After we pass St. Paul's, I want you both to watch, with your feelings as well as your eyes. I have the feeling that we could make a contact today. You two watch the left of the road and I'll watch the right. I've told the driver to go to the Bank of England corner, then drive around the area." Juanita had spent some time studying maps, familiarising herself with the London area. "I'm beginning to like your ideas, Juanita, specially dressing like this. I haven't felt this free for years. What do you think, Agnes?" "I've never felt this free. Juanita, is it really so much better being a man?" "No, love. I'd rather be a woman anytime, although... Girls, there are plenty of times in history when it's hard being a woman. This is one of them. No freedom. That's my real reason for these outfits, but I couldn't explain that to Sam. In most times, though, it's pretty tough being a man, too. Men are expendable, women aren't. They always compete bitterly among themselves. In milady's time, most gentlemen had wounds from duels. A big proportion died from them. Milady could use a sword better than most men of her time, but never had to do so in real combat - to the death, that is, or at least to first blood. Men did, all the time. No, we suffer, most times, from their over protectiveness of us. But better that than regularly facing death or maiming in personal combat. That's my thinking, anyhow. Here's St. Paul's coming up. Start looking." They drove around the City for some time. The streets were filled with hurrying messengers, clerks and couriers. No telephones yet, thought Juanita, but the Post Office looks awful busy. Of course, telegrams. As they began to pass merchant banks, responding to feelings of growing expectancy, she began scanning the upstairs windows as well as the footpath. Suddenly, in the midst of a block of almost identical building fronts, she spotted a face at a window, open mouthed, staring at her. She smiled. The figure behind the face stood, frozen, behind the window. "There." She cried. She put her head out the window to call the cabbie to a stop, but almost had it removed by a cab going the other way down the narrow street. She tried again, but realised the impossibility. She pounded on the ceiling of the cab, which eventually pulled into the kerb and stopped. "Sorry sir, came a voice from the box. "'Ad to find a place I could stop." She realised that, not only were they well past where she had seen the man, but also that she would not be able to find the particular building again. She instructed the driver to turn as soon as possible and go back down the street, but by the time he had done so, she could not have sworn that they were in the right street, let alone find the building. She pounded on the ceiling again and, when the driver stopped, leaned out and redirected him. "I feel like a fool. Did either of you see him?" Agnes shook her head, Adeline replied. "I didn't see him, but I felt his presence strongly. He seems to have a link with me. Don't be too upset. I know we've made contact. I'm sure I'll hear from him, now. He saw you. I felt his shock. I think he came after us, then I felt loss. He wants the contact, badly. We'll hear from him." They drove west in silence until, some ten minutes later, the cab drew in and stopped. The cab waited while Juanita led them through the door of a shop inscribed 'Churchill, Gunmakers.' Here they spent the next half hour, finally selecting three beautifully finished Belgian pocket pistols in .22 calibre, a matched pair of ivory handled Colt's Pocket pistols in .44 calibre and a tiny, deadly looking, double barrelled Derringer, in .41 calibre rimfire. All but the Derringer were left with the gunsmith for him to lighten and smooth the trigger actions as far as he was prepared to. He agree to do so, convinced that, young as his new clients appeared to be, they were, or at least the small one was, surprisingly knowledgeable about firearms and agreeably insistent upon their safe handling. "No accidental shooting while that one's around" he thought. "But I don't think I'd like to be the man that attacked any of the three." (Comment on this)
Sunday, February 2nd, 2003
3:52 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 016 - Start is at bottom of page. It was a morning in mid December. The girls were still soaking their aches away in the big tub in the bathroom off the exercise room. Adeline, after much consultation with Juanita, had arranged to have heavily padded mats made for the exercise room and these, now covering half the floor area, allowed Juanita to introduce them to the dubious pleasures of throws and breakfalls. The day had marked a turning point in the girls' training. Adeline and Agnes had been practicing throws together, while Juanita had concentrated on perfecting Sam's skill in using breakfalls. These had to be perfect. A large man can more easily injure himself in a fall than a small one, and Sam was a very large man. Similarly, Juanita had not permitted either of the girls to attempt to throw Sam until their skill was such that there was no chance of a slip that could have had his weight fall on top of them. Today had been the first day on which all four had practiced together. Juanita had spent a little time allowing the girls to watch her throw Sam. She then sent Adeline, then Agnes to try for themselves. To their amazement, each, in turn had sent the charging giant spinning through the air to land rolling and bouncing to his feet like a great, black rubber ball - and return for more. Agnes, however, had omitted to release Sam's wrist in one sacrifice throw. She had, correctly, put one foot against his stomach and flung herself backwards, pulling him off balance and letting her upstretched leg send him over her head, but then found herself rolled along the mat after him. "Bruises," she exclaimed. "I shall be covered be big, blue bruises, my beautiful body blemished by bruises." "Higgins should hear you, love. Your 'b's were perfect, but I think he'd appreciate your 'r's more." "Juanita, that was an awful pun. That's where the worst bruises are. Besides that - beside which, she corrected herself, I doubt whether the professor is interested in anybody's... tail - I don't like the other word - but his own. Is he homosexual, do you think?" "I doubt it, love. Higgins loves his mother, and will find it hard to find anybody who could replace her in his affections. Also, we all know how he prides himself in his outspokenness. Who would want a man with manners like that? I think he's a permanent bachelor. What do you think, Adeline?" "I agree. He should have taken a commission, though I doubt that he'd have got past a selection board. He'll probably end up sharing rooms with a retired army officer... I know his mother. A remarkable woman, which bears out what you say." There was a discreet knock at the door. "Parsons, countess." Adeline hastily wrapped herself in a huge towelling robe and ran to the door. "Yes, Parsons?" "Dr. Watson to see you." "Thank you. Have him wait in the drawing room, and ask if he will join us for breakfast. Is he alone?" "Yes, countess." "Good. Then we can come in robes. Tell him we won't be long." Adeline adopted her best 'madam' voice. "Right, company in the parlour, girls. Front." Shortly, Watson was confronted by the three girls, hair still knotted on the back of their heads, all wrapped in identical, but differently coloured morning robes, and all with slippered feet. "Parsons," he had been talking quietly to the butler when they entered, "does nobody here keep these children in order?" "Nobody can, sir." His face wore its butler mask, but there was an almost paternal pride in his voice. "You're spoiling them then. You are 'in loco parentis' you realise?" "Yes sir, I try." "Humph. Adeline, what have you all been up to?" "Better ask you daughter, sir. She's the senior." "Then things must be worse than I thought. Here's breakfast at least." They had finished breakfast, Parsons having absented himself as soon as he had overseen its arrival and service. As they waited for his reappearance with the coffee Watson spoke. "I perceive that you have worked ritual here - he indicated the drawing room - and that Parsons was of your number." "Is of our number," Juanita replied. "Then you may wish to include him in our ensuing conversation. There is troubling news." "Thank you, father, I will have him join us." She nodded to Agnes, who quickly left, returning in seconds. Almost at her heels came a girl carrying the coffee service, closely followed by Parsons. The coffee was served, the girl departed, Parsons remaining. "Excellent." It was unclear whether Watson was referring to the gathering or his coffee. "Adeline, this is your home, these are your people. We are all of the brotherhood. I am Adeptus Exemptus of the Lodge. Donna Juanita acts", the word was slightly stressed, "at a grade equal to mine. Do you then, I challenge you, answer to me, or to Donna Juanita?" Three replies, in chorus. "Donna Juanita." "And if I command?" Adeline replied, not even glancing at the other two. "Command then, if you may, Donna Juanita." Watson looked to Juanita, his eyes questioning her. She felt the reassurance of her people, and her total responsibility for them, and for herself. Her reply was as formal as had been his challenge. "I will listen to anything which you may suggest but," dies castro, the die was cast, "I will then choose." "Echia, it is that it is." The formality of his manner eased, but his face remained grave. "There is, I fear, trouble, and may be more. When you returned to London I contacted the Master of the Lodge. A supposition made by Donna Juanita, which I had considered, I now realise, too lightly, reflects much feeling within the Lodge." He glanced at Juanita, who nodded her understanding. "There are no holders of the higher grades under the Master of the Lodge who are not, at least in this incarnation, male. The Master is of the belief that the elevation of one, let alone three, women to the higher grades may become an unsettling factor." "I suggested so, father. They won't have us?" "Not quite that, my dear, but trouble enough. It was the suggestion of the Master that your elevation would be acceptable. But that, and I quote, "that of the two women be postponed for further consideration." "Which we know, father, to mean not in my lifetime." "True, I fear. After our words on the subject, fortunately, I was not unprepared for this. Your answers to my challenge this morning which, by the way, I expected, convince me that the Master's answer would be unacceptable to you. I therefore proposed an alternative." "What alternative, father?" "One commonly employed on the rare occasions when there are two adepts of our grade - yours and mine Juanita - in the same chapter of a lodge, or in the same country. That is, for one or other of the exempt adepts to form their own lodge, answerable only to the Master of the mother Lodge. Such a lodge would normally be devoted to a single, special purpose. I have been authorised to propose that you form such a lodge. In the event that you so choose, I am appointed to be sole contact between that lodge and the parent lodge." He became totally formal. "How say ye?" Juanita did not even glance at her people. "So mote it be." Three more voices, in chorus, "So mote it be." "As says the Great Lodge, then, So mote it be," intoned Watson. Then, in a voice so quiet and normal as to be almost shocking. "And now, my dears, some more coffee." "How much help will we have from the Lodge, father?" "In effect, none, Juanita." She raised a questioning eyebrow. "The Master has accepted responsibility for you, that is all that he can do. He is, if you like, a mediator only, acting between the exempt adept who actually runs the Lodge and the secret leaders of the Lodge who are seldom in incarnation. Once you showed yourself to have become an exempt adept I expected something like this, particularly when Carlos took a hand. There was an alternative, of course, which I personally feared, but which I was spared." "What was that?" "That, when you departed with Carlos, you would not return." "Where would I have gone father?" "Only Carlos could tell you that daughter." She decided not to go further into that question. "So what of the problem that we were addressing?" "The future? I have one last communication from the Lodge about that. Since your arrival, the Lodge's seers have seen only the unpleasant future which I indicated to you. Visions of the pleasant alternative do not now appear to them." "That looks bad, father." "It does. Is there anything that you can tell me about Carlos? We haven't heard from him since he left you." "Are you saying that I should try to contact him?" "I cannot command you. It would be your choice." "True. I will consider it. As to seers, I must find my own?" "You must find the people that you need for your new function. Have you considered what kind of lodge you are to lead?" "That was the purpose of the ritual that we conducted here. Yes. It seems that we are to be a fighting lodge." "A fighting, or a hunting lodge?" "Of course, you're right. A hunting lodge. How did you know?" "You, my darling. In our last incarnation together you were my sword. A very effective sword indeed, always eager for combat. You had four possible choices in your last grade, which I would sum up as the Warrior, the Policeman, the Banker or the Hunter. All serve similar ends, but in different ways. You were the Hunter. In your present grade your swords will be four people, each with one of those predilections. Adeline is your Warrior, Parsons - Sam - your Policeman, Agnes is your Hunter, you will, I know, find your Banker." "If I was your Hunter, who were your Warrior and Policeman? I think I recognise the one who was your Banker." "Your esteemed husband, Milady, was my Policeman. D'Artagnan was my Warrior." "Athos, D'Artagnan, your Policeman and Warrior? They hated you, your grace." "Yes, daughter. They hated me, and one loved you, and one loved and feared you. My banker professed to love me, but despised me, and thought he bribed me, yet gave me all the money that I needed, whenever I needed it. All were at my command. You were the only one big enough to know me for what - and whom - I was and follow me open eyed. Thus, you were my ally, and they my tools." "I will not have tools, your grace. Only allies." "I know, my dear. It will make your task harder, but your success more likely. I knew, before speaking in their presence, that these are your allies, your loved ones. I felt the love you have for each other. I am confident that you will find your Banker ally, though how I cannot imagine." "Why do we need a banker?" Adeline asked. "I am wealthy, and Juanita has an income." "Your lodge may need more money than you realise. The mother lodge needs little. The brethren number in hundreds. There is always one who can supply its material needs. If a brother, for instance, needs to travel, there will be a brother who travels in the way of his normal life - a sea captain, say - who can take the needy brother, whether as passenger or as crew. You now lack this advantage. Wherever your work calls you, you must go, and supply the wherewithal from your own purse." "Will not the brethren of the mother lodge help us?" "They will not know you. One of the purposes of a hunting lodge is to occasionally vet the mother lodge for possible treachery. Members of the hunting lodge must be unknown to mother lodge members." "Then ather, we will find our Banker." "I wish you well, daughter. Have you work in hand, or in mind, for your lodge?" "Not yet, but we have commenced our training. It appears that the dangers that we will face may be more on the physical plane than the magical. We have begun our training with that in mind." "Surely not." Watson looked startled. "How can you ladies..." "possibly defend yourselves physically against large, rough men?" Juanita finished for him. "Parsons, we will all join you in the exercise room in ten minutes. Will you prepare it for us?" Out of Watson's line of sight, she winked at him. Parsons affected a puzzled look. "The exercise room? Yes Milady." He departed. Agnes excused herself, and also left the room. Shortly, Adeline did the same. Agnes returned, and Juanita excused herself and left, passing a grinning Adeline on her way back to the drawing room. Juanita rushed into the exercise room, dropping her robe as she entered. She hastily dressed herself in her black tights and wrapped her robe around her as she headed back to the drawing room. "Pardon me, father. Would you like to see where we train?" Taking the now slightly puzzled Watson by the hand, she led him thence, followed by the girls. They entered the empty room. As Agnes closed the door behind them, Sam entered from a side door, dressed in his tights. Watson eyed him in surprise, then turned to Juanita, to find the three girls, now wrapperless, similarly clad. "You all present a pretty picture, my dears." His composure was perfect, but his eyes twinkled. "I can see how you would distract a large, rough man from wanting to fight you. But how would you deal with the alternatives that would certainly," he looked at the girls, "oh, most certainly, come to their minds?" "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, father. Watch." Juanita moved to face Sam, who immediately rushed her, arms outstretched to grab. She stood, as if frozen by his attack, then, as he reached her, grabbed his outstretched wrist and... executed perfectly the sacrifice throw that had caused Agnes' bitterly regretted bruises. Sam flew over her head, bouncing back to his feet. As quickly as he had recovered, she had regained her feet and stood, facing him again. He approached cautiously. She stood, flat footed, until he was barely a pace from her. In one smooth movement she raised onto her toes, pivoting her body to her right, her arms tightly wrapped around her. As she swung, her left foot came up until, as she had pivoted through three quarters of a circle, the knee had almost touched her chest. Through the last quarter circle her left foot extended itself, taking the leg to full stretch. The foot touched Sam on the pad of his right shoulder, spinning his huge body away from her. He made no effort to stop the swing and was carried to the floor where he executed a classic breakfall and bouncing recovery. They faced each other again, bowing. Juanita turned to Watson. "Well?" (Comment on this)
Thursday, January 30th, 2003
1:29 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 015 - Start is at bottom of page. Weeks passed happily at Welbeck St. Juanita's mornings generally began with morning coffee at eight, brought in by Agnes and consumed in front of the bedroom fire. Then the morning's exercise cum instruction. Juanita taught Karate, Parsons knife and sword, the latter with the occasional help of Juanita. Milady, and even Jerry, had learned techniques not known to Parsons. Adeline and Parsons learned quickly, Agnes not as quickly, though she showed herself to be the best of the three with a knife. After the session, a communal tub for the three girls. Juanita wanted to ask Parsons to join them, but was, at least for the moment, overruled. Breakfast around ten, often lasting until one, as Adeline instructed Juanita and Agnes in the details of acceptable behaviour for a lady in that time and place. Agnes, after years in service, knew far more than Juanita, but was far more lacking in confidence, particularly in the matter of her speech and accent. In the matter of accent, Juanita also required much coaching. Eventually, Adeline arranged, through her social contacts, for a phonetics specialist, a Professor Higgins, to visit them two days a week and teach Juanita, the supposed Spaniard, and Agnes, a supposed heiress to the estate of a distant relative, to speak with acceptable accents. Higgins lasted for nearly four months, after which he pronounced them acceptable and gratefully took final leave... Higgins was eccentric, egocentric, and appallingly bad mannered, but was an absolute master of his subject. Within the four months both girls were fluent in an accent exactly appropriate to their class. "Sisters," said Higgins, at the end of that period. "Born home counties, educated Rodean, Swiss finishing school, governing class, old English family - not French or (he shuddered) German roots. Younger sister probably had Irish governess, touch of brogue persists. That, my girls (he pronounced it gels), is how an expert would now assess you, if there were another in England capable of doing so." "Real background," he continued, "You, home counties, overlaid servant cockney, alternating with servant middle class. You," he shuddered again, "American south west, ridiculously broadened, some Spanish and not a little Negro influence. It is at least original. I confess that I have never heard that exact accent before. For my records, therefore, I would appreciate you advising me truthfully where you spent your formative years." "In confidence, professor?" "Of course, dammit, in confidence. What the devil do you think I am?" "I feel, professor Higgins, that I had better not go into that." He smiled at the snub. "For your information alone, then, southern California, near Los Angeles." "Thank you. I can now correctly label my phonetic records of what I consider to be a most amazing debasement of a noble language. As you have now mastered the accent that I was engaged to teach you, I can return to more useful pursuits. Goodbye, Ladies." They never saw him again. Afternoons generally concluded with a half hour in the basement, where Adeline had had constructed a miniature pistol range. Here they were all coached in the use of .22 revolvers and purse pistols. Parsons was a fine shot, but Jerry's life again provided help. Juanita was able to teach them the Weaver stance, standardised by the FBI in Jerry's time. It's comfortable position, strong foot back, strong arm bent at the elbow and weak hand lending support under the trigger guard, allowed the girls to cope with even heavy revolvers, including a beautiful pair of Samuel Colt's single action 'Peacemakers', bored for the 'long' Colt .45 round; Parsons' prized possessions. Juanita was surprised to find the modern looking .22 rimfire cartridges used here, but Parsons advised her that they had been available since the late 1850s. The size of the range prevented all but minimum use of the big revolvers, but the three girls became acceptable - Agnes - to excellent - Adeline and Juanita - shots with the smaller weapons. Adeline promised to arrange time in the country, some time in the future, for what she called 'real gun practice'. Juanita contested the term 'real gun' pointing out that, in Jerry's time, the much feared Israeli 'death squads' had chosen the .22 automatic pistol as their standard weapon. "Three .22 rounds in the head," she explained, "will stop anyone. The gun is light and quick to use, is easily concealed and doesn't make much noise." "It's true, miss, but if someone's coming at you with any weapon, a big bullet stops him, quick." "Parsons, I'm forced to agree. Adeline, I'm tired of this formality in private. Can't we call Parsons by his name when it's just us four?" "I'm happy with that. Why don't you ask Parsons?" "Parsons, will you tell me your first name, and let me use it in private?" He actually looked shy. "It's Samuel, Milady." "Then I would like to call you Sam when it's only we four. Can I, Sam?" He still looked shy, but nodded, grinning. Dinner was always the highpoint of the day. It was always conducted with full formality with Parsons, in tails, overseeing. Dinner would last for at least two always enjoyable hours. Afterwards, the girls would retire to the drawing room to review the day, increasingly attended by Parsons. He, at first, merely lingered after seeing coffee served, then through coffee, until, with Juanita's encouragement, he often remained after the coffee service was removed. On these occasions, formality was reduced to the more relaxed level of the exercise room. Sam, Juanita discovered, was a Lodge member. Like Agnes, he had taken his fist three grades as a witch. He had been introduced to the lodge by a member, a bookseller, who had been impressed by the depth of his researches into the few available works on Voodoo. It had been Sam, she found, who had found Agnes jobless and almost penniless and had brought her to Adeline. "Least I could do for a fellow witch," he mumbled. "Sam," Juanita asked, "you called yourself a witch. I know little of the craft. Isn't there another name for male witches?" "No, missy. People who don't know talk about Warlocks, but that's nothing to do with us. Warlock means oathbreaker. I'm a fellow craft - a witch - at least I was. Lots of words get confused like that. When they had the witch trials the ones taking down evidence didn't like the accused ones saying God. Whenever they mentioned their God 'Satan' or 'the Devil' was written down. We - witches - worship the Goddess and the Horned God. The Horned God confused them until they decided He was Satan in disguise, which He wasn't. And the Christian Churches doesn't hold with Goddesses because it is so anti women. Read St. Paul. He was the start of it. Not The Master Jesus. He had nothing against women." "So nobody worships poor old Satan anymore... No, I'm joking. I know very well who worships Satan. The black lodges." "Yes," replied Adeline. "They have been quiet for a while, but they always have to be watched for and combated." "Are you expecting any trouble from them, Donna Juanita?" The formality of Adeline's question confirmed Sam's suspicions that Juanita outranked Adeline. "Not for the moment. At a level, I have been watching, while waiting to hear more from the doctor. I feel no activity yet, and I am sure that I would be aware if activity began in their area. There may be developments after we hear from the doctor. Probably not before." Strange, Juanita thought. I haven't consciously thought about it, but the moment I was asked the question, I knew. I must be much stronger and more organised than I was before. "Yet I feel," Adeline replied, "that you are preparing us, all four of us, for something." "I am, but as yet I do not know what." Juanita paused, her gaze shifting from her companions to the fire. Locking her eyes on the shifting shapes and colours of the fire, she opened up her consciousness in the way she had learned so long ago. The shifting chaos of ember and ash, fuel and flame, began to take on patterns in her mind. "NOW." she commanded, mentally. A roundish shape formed, an opening cavern in the embers. It became a clear disk, then slowly shifted into the shape of a rough shield. Within it's boundaries tiny yellow lights flashed. Five flashes, then the surrounding shape began to contract at five points about it's circumference. For a second there was the outline of a five pointed star, then the cavern collapsed upon itself, all order lost. "NEXT." Again the inner command. Her eyes caught the heat haze above the fire, shimmering like water. Quickly, arms of flame rose into the shimmer to form the momentary shape of a glowing cup. As quickly as they had risen, they subsided. Now she seemed to be seeing through the heat haze. A scene formed - the pages of the history book - then vanished and were replaced by "her place", where she had been with Carlos. Then the two scenes, dancing and interchanging, each remaining distinct, then diverging and vanishing. With a snap like a thrown switch, the vision vanished. She fell back in her chair, chilled. She shivered. Adeline leapt to her feet and, signalling Agnes to her aid, lifted Juanita from her chair and hugged her closely, Agnes immediately joining her from the other side. Sam vanished from the room. A moment later he returned. "Coffee coming," he said quietly, then moved to the huddled girls and threw his great arms around the three of them, holding them closely to him. To Juanita, it was like being hugged by a great, black bear. She moved slightly, so that she and Sam were face to face, a warm girl body close on each side. As this position was established she felt warmth flow like a tide from Sam, to her, then through them back to Sam. The chill vanished. "Thank you, Sam, girls." Reaching to her full height, she kissed Sam lightly on the lips, then each girl. They moved apart. They sat silently until a girl appeared with a tray bearing a coffee pot, placed it on the sideboard, and left as silently as she had come. Sam rummaged in the sideboard and produced three cups. "Four, Sam," said Juanita. He nodded and fetched a fourth cup, poured the coffee and handed cups to Juanita, Adeline, then Agnes. The girls waited until Sam gave a slight shrug and lifted his cup. Only then did Juanita raise hers in front of her. The others mirrored her action. "Blessed be", she looked at Sam, "Blessed be". Adeline and Agnes repeated the words together, before Juanita touched the cup to her lip, the others following in unison. They drank. "Juanita, you used witch magic." Agnes looked puzzled. "No, dear. I worked magic at my own grade. Sam, when I cued him, worked witch magic to help balance me - spare me the afterchill of my ritual. Not strictly necessary, but helpful, and very comfortable for me." (Not necessary at all. All she had needed was a cup of hot coffee, but there was no way that she was going to tell them that. Their attempts to help her had drawn them all closer together.) "But without a circle..." Agnes again. "Love, you - you three - are my circle. Whenever the four of us are together, I need no circle for protection." Adeline looked startled, made as if to speak, became thoughtful. "Yes, Adeline, this is new. In all my years of studying and practising magic I've never heard of a ritual safely conducted without a protective circle being erected first." ('Until you met Carlos. Shutup, girl.') "This is what I have been working towards, though I only just now realised it. I have seen that we must be able to defend ourselves on the physical, as well as the magical, plane. There are decision points approaching, important ones. We must be ready." She looked at them, feeling the link which is always forged between people who have worked magic together. Sam, she realised, had been the factor necessary to bring the 'unholy trinity' down to earth. She looked at them, letting her love for them flow out. Wordlessly they clasped hands. The circle was complete. (Comment on this)
Sunday, January 26th, 2003
11:04 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 014 - Start is at bottom of page. Weeks passed happily at Welbeck St. Juanita's mornings generally began with morning coffee at eight, brought in by Agnes and consumed in front of the bedroom fire. Then the morning's exercise cum instruction. Juanita taught Karate, Parsons knife and sword, the latter with the occasional help of Juanita. Milady, and even Jerry, had learned techniques not known to Parsons. Adeline and Parsons learned quickly, Agnes not as quickly, though she showed herself to be the best of the three with a knife. After the session, a communal tub for the three girls. Juanita wanted to ask Parsons to join them, but was, at least for the moment, overruled. Breakfast around ten, often lasting until one, as Adeline instructed Juanita and Agnes in the details of acceptable behaviour for a lady in that time and place. Agnes, after years in service, knew far more than Juanita, but was far more lacking in confidence, particularly in the matter of her speech and accent. In the matter of accent, Juanita also required much coaching. Eventually, Adeline arranged, through her social contacts, for a phonetics specialist, a Professor Higgins, to visit them two days a week and teach Juanita, the supposed Spaniard, and Agnes, a supposed heiress to the estate of a distant relative, to speak with acceptable accents. Higgins lasted for nearly four months, after which he pronounced them acceptable and gratefully took final leave... Higgins was eccentric, egocentric, and appallingly bad mannered, but was an absolute master of his subject. Within the four months both girls were fluent in an accent exactly appropriate to their class. "Sisters," said Higgins, at the end of that period. "Born home counties, educated Rodean, Swiss finishing school, governing class, old English family - not French or (he shuddered) German roots. Younger sister probably had Irish governess, touch of brogue persists. That, my girls (he pronounced it gels), is how an expert would now assess you, if there were another in England capable of doing so." "Real background," he continued, "You, home counties, overlaid servant cockney, alternating with servant middle class. You," he shuddered again, "American south west, ridiculously broadened, some Spanish and not a little Negro influence. It is at least original. I confess that I have never heard that exact accent before. For my records, therefore, I would appreciate you advising me truthfully where you spent your formative years." "In confidence, professor?" "Of course, dammit, in confidence. What the devil do you think I am?" "I feel, professor Higgins, that I had better not go into that." He smiled at the snub. "For your information alone, then, southern California, near Los Angeles." "Thank you. I can now correctly label my phonetic records of what I consider to be a most amazing debasement of a noble language. As you have now mastered the accent that I was engaged to teach you, I can return to more useful pursuits. Goodbye, Ladies." They never saw him again. Afternoons generally concluded with a half hour in the basement, where Adeline had had constructed a miniature pistol range. Here they were all coached in the use of .22 revolvers and purse pistols. Parsons was a fine shot, but Jerry's life again provided help. Juanita was able to teach them the Weaver stance, standardised by the FBI in Jerry's time. It's comfortable position, strong foot back, strong arm bent at the elbow and weak hand lending support under the trigger guard, allowed the girls to cope with even heavy revolvers, including a beautiful pair of Samuel Colt's single action 'Peacemakers', bored for the 'long' Colt .45 round; Parsons' prized possessions. Juanita was surprised to find the modern looking .22 rimfire cartridges used here, but Parsons advised her that they had been available since the late 1850s. The size of the range prevented all but minimum use of the big revolvers, but the three girls became acceptable - Agnes - to excellent - Adeline and Juanita - shots with the smaller weapons. Adeline promised to arrange time in the country, some time in the future, for what she called 'real gun practice'. Juanita contested the term 'real gun' pointing out that, in Jerry's time, the much feared Israeli 'death squads' had chosen the .22 automatic pistol as their standard weapon. "Three .22 rounds in the head," she explained, "will stop anyone. The gun is light and quick to use, is easily concealed and doesn't make much noise." "It's true, miss, but if someone's coming at you with any weapon, a big bullet stops him, quick." "Parsons, I'm forced to agree. Adeline, I'm tired of this formality in private. Can't we call Parsons by his name when it's just us four?" "I'm happy with that. Why don't you ask Parsons?" "Parsons, will you tell me your first name, and let me use it in private?" He actually looked shy. "It's Samuel, Milady." "Then I would like to call you Sam when it's only we four. Can I, Sam?" He still looked shy, but nodded, grinning. Dinner was always the highpoint of the day. It was always conducted with full formality with Parsons, in tails, overseeing. Dinner would last for at least two always enjoyable hours. Afterwards, the girls would retire to the drawing room to review the day, increasingly attended by Parsons. He, at first, merely lingered after seeing coffee served, then through coffee, until, with Juanita's encouragement, he often remained after the coffee service was removed. On these occasions, formality was reduced to the more relaxed level of the exercise room. Sam, Juanita discovered, was a Lodge member. Like Agnes, he had taken his fist three grades as a witch. He had been introduced to the lodge by a member, a bookseller, who had been impressed by the depth of his researches into the few available works on Voodoo. It had been Sam, she found, who had found Agnes jobless and almost penniless and had brought her to Adeline. "Least I could do for a fellow witch," he mumbled. "Sam," Juanita asked, "you called yourself a witch. I know little of the craft. Isn't there another name for male witches?" "No, missy. People who don't know talk about Warlocks, but that's nothing to do with us. Warlock means oathbreaker. I'm a fellow craft - a witch - at least I was. Lots of words get confused like that. When they had the witch trials the ones taking down evidence didn't like the accused ones saying God. Whenever they mentioned their God 'Satan' or 'the Devil' was written down. We - witches - worship the Goddess and the Horned God. The Horned God confused them until they decided He was Satan in disguise, which He wasn't. And the Christian Churches doesn't hold with Goddesses because it is so anti women. Read St. Paul. He was the start of it. Not The Master Jesus. He had nothing against women." "So nobody worships poor old Satan anymore... No, I'm joking. I know very well who worships Satan. The black lodges." "Yes," replied Adeline. "They have been quiet for a while, but they always have to be watched for and combated." "Are you expecting any trouble from them, Donna Juanita?" The formality of Adeline's question confirmed Sam's suspicions that Juanita outranked Adeline. "Not for the moment. At a level, I have been watching, while waiting to hear more from the doctor. I feel no activity yet, and I am sure that I would be aware if activity began in their area. There may be developments after we hear from the doctor. Probably not before." Strange, Juanita thought. I haven't consciously thought about it, but the moment I was asked the question, I knew. I must be much stronger and more organised than I was before. "Yet I feel," Adeline replied, "that you are preparing us, all four of us, for something." "I am, but as yet I do not know what." Juanita paused, her gaze shifting from her companions to the fire. Locking her eyes on the shifting shapes and colours of the fire, she opened up her consciousness in the way she had learned so long ago. The shifting chaos of ember and ash, fuel and flame, began to take on patterns in her mind. "NOW." she commanded, mentally. A roundish shape formed, an opening cavern in the embers. It became a clear disk, then slowly shifted into the shape of a rough shield. Within it's boundaries tiny yellow lights flashed. Five flashes, then the surrounding shape began to contract at five points about it's circumference. For a second there was the outline of a five pointed star, then the cavern collapsed upon itself, all order lost. "NEXT." Again the inner command. Her eyes caught the heat haze above the fire, shimmering like water. Quickly, arms of flame rose into the shimmer to form the momentary shape of a glowing cup. As quickly as they had risen, they subsided. Now she seemed to be seeing through the heat haze. A scene formed - the pages of the history book - then vanished and were replaced by "her place", where she had been with Carlos. Then the two scenes, dancing and interchanging, each remaining distinct, then diverging and vanishing. With a snap like a thrown switch, the vision vanished. She fell back in her chair, chilled. She shivered. Adeline leapt to her feet and, signalling Agnes to her aid, lifted Juanita from her chair and hugged her closely, Agnes immediately joining her from the other side. Sam vanished from the room. A moment later he returned. "Coffee coming," he said quietly, then moved to the huddled girls and threw his great arms around the three of them, holding them closely to him. To Juanita, it was like being hugged by a great, black bear. She moved slightly, so that she and Sam were face to face, a warm girl body close on each side. As this position was established she felt warmth flow like a tide from Sam, to her, then through them back to Sam. The chill vanished. "Thank you, Sam, girls." Reaching to her full height, she kissed Sam lightly on the lips, then each girl. They moved apart. They sat silently until a girl appeared with a tray bearing a coffee pot, placed it on the sideboard, and left as silently as she had come. Sam rummaged in the sideboard and produced three cups. "Four, Sam," said Juanita. He nodded and fetched a fourth cup, poured the coffee and handed cups to Juanita, Adeline, then Agnes. The girls waited until Sam gave a slight shrug and lifted his cup. Only then did Juanita raise hers in front of her. The others mirrored her action. "Blessed be", she looked at Sam, "Blessed be". Adeline and Agnes repeated the words together, before Juanita touched the cup to her lip, the others following in unison. They drank. "Juanita, you used witch magic." Agnes looked puzzled. "No, dear. I worked magic at my own grade. Sam, when I cued him, worked witch magic to help balance me - spare me the afterchill of my ritual. Not strictly necessary, but helpful, and very comfortable for me." (Not necessary at all. All she had needed was a cup of hot coffee, but there was no way that she was going to tell them that. Their attempts to help her had drawn them all closer together.) "But without a circle..." Agnes again. "Love, you - you three - are my circle. Whenever the four of us are together, I need no circle for protection." Adeline looked startled, made as if to speak, became thoughtful. "Yes, Adeline, this is new. In all my years of studying and practising magic I've never heard of a ritual safely conducted without a protective circle being erected first." ('Until you met Carlos. Shutup, girl.') "This is what I have been working towards, though I only just now realised it. I have seen that we must be able to defend ourselves on the physical, as well as the magical, plane. There are decision points approaching, important ones. We must be ready." She looked at them, feeling the link which is always forged between people who have worked magic together. Sam, she realised, had been the factor necessary to bring the 'unholy trinity' down to earth. She looked at them, letting her love for them flow out. Wordlessly they clasped hands. The circle was complete. (Comment on this)
Saturday, January 11th, 2003
6:52 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 014 On the morning after the great shopping raid Juanita discovered another facet of Adeline. It was about nine, and Agnes was acquainting her with the geography of the house. Near the front of the house, on one side of the hall, was the dining room. Opposite it was the small drawing room of their first arrival with the main drawing room. As they walked down the corridor towards the rear of the house they passed a door, from behind which came a continuing series of metallic clicks, randomly timed. The clicks ceased, and Juanita tapped lightly at the door. "Come in," came Adeline's voice, a trifle breathlessly. Juanita entered, followed by Agnes, who closed the door behind them. What had once been a ballroom had been converted into a salle de armes. In the centre of the room stood Adeline, half turned towards them, a foil and fencing mask in her hand. She was dressed in black tights, like a ballet practice outfit, skintight, covering her from ankles to neck, the sleeves wrist length. The front of her body was protected by a padded plastron. Facing her, similarly armed and dressed, was Parsons. "I thought I recognised the sound." "Milady would." Adeline replied. "But do you yourself fence?" "I have." "Excellent." She clapped her hands. "It is a part of my daily routine to fence for at least half an hour. We've just begun. I would love you to join me. Parsons is my usual opponent. If you wish, he can teach you much of the art. Agnes, would you care to learn? Consider it a useful part of your education as a lady." "I'll try, if you want me to." "I would suggest it. Parsons will also instruct you, if you wish, in the use of the knife and the pistol. It is my belief that these are useful things for a lady to know, vulnerable as we are in a world of men." "In the bathroom," Adeline pointed to a door at the end of the room, "you will find costumes. Would you like to change and join us?" Before Agnes had time to object, Juanita had accepted on their behalf. In the bathroom, Agnes was hesitant. "Juanita, I don't know if I can wear that... costume. It doesn't seem, well, ladylike, with Parsons and all." "Lesson one about being a lady, sweet. One, you see Adeline wearing it. Is she not a lady?" "Oh, yes." "True, she is a lady. If she wore it on the street, it would be another matter. Two, Parsons. Would you object to him seeing you in that, or less, in private?" "No... but..." "No buts. I could tell you stories, but, basically, a lady wears what is appropriate in the circumstances. End of lesson. Let's get changed." Parsons is good, she thought, as she faced him, points engaged. Fast and light, in the French manner. Must try him some day with some of the Italian tricks Father taught me. But not before I know him a lot better. I wouldn't want to humiliate him. They continued to fence until he had touched her three times, she had touched him twice. Then she stepped back and raised her foil in a casual salute. Parsons saluted her more formally, and they both walked from the strip. "You are a strong opponent, Milady, and I think that you can do better." "Thank you, Parsons. You have a light touch. Takes great skill in a man of your size. Were you, by any chance, taught by the good Doctor?" "Yes, Miss Juanita. He taught me." "Is she as good as me, Parsons?" called Adeline. "Better, countess." "Good, she'll sharpen me up. Will you please introduce Agnes to the basics now. Of the foil, I mean." "What else, countess?" His face the usual mask. He turned to Agnes, handed her a foil and led her to the strip. "I'm pleased that you are a fencer, Juanita. You know my background. I've always sought physical fitness. I also believe that a woman needs to know how to defend herself. Parsons has already taught Agnes how to use a knife. He asked my permission first, but she doesn't know I know, so we'll say nothing. Did women in Jerry's time learn to defend themselves, or rely on their men?" "The club where Jerry learned fencing had as many women as men. His Karate class had more women than men." "What's Karate?" "Japanese, or Korean style of unarmed combat. Bare hands." "Bare hands. What can a woman do with bare hands against a man?" "Not only hands. I'll interrupt the lesson in a minute. Agnes' knees will need a rest soon. But, tell me first, would I humiliate Parsons if I beat him? With the foil, I mean." "I doubt it. He knows the value of skill against strength." "Fine. If you call him over, I'll show you something." "Parsons, do you know anything about the Japanese methods of fighting?" "I've heard of something called 'ju jitzu', but never seen it, milady." "Will you help me demonstrate something of it to the Countess?" "Of course, milady." "Thank you. Will you stand facing me," she stood upright, with both forearms in front of her, parallel to the floor. "Hold my wrists, firmly." Parsons faced her and big hands closed over her wrists. She knew that he could hold tighter, but this would do for a demonstration. "Are you ready? Don't let go." "I'm ready. milady." She spun her hands quickly inwards, both turning towards his thumbs. His grip broke, and the hands swung up in a smooth arc to come to a stop with the heels of her hands just short of his nostrils. Simultaneously, her left knee had shot up, barely touching him at the groin, then descended, the side of the bare foot sliding down his shinbone to finish with the heel poised over his instep. She stepped back and bowed slightly to the startled Parsons. "Tell me, Parsons, if I had done that to you in all seriousness, what would have happened to you?" Parsons paused, thoughtful. Juanita was impressed by his impassive acceptance of what would have been a shattering blow to an even slightly weak male ego. "Milady, I was unable to retain my grip on your wrists. If the heels of your hands had hit my nose in the direction that they were moving before you stopped them, the nasal bone would have been driven backwards and upwards, possibly breaking, possibly being driven into my brain. I would have felt considerable pain in either instance and would no doubt have been deprived of vision for some minutes. Your knee would have also caused me considerable pain, and at least partial immobility. It alone would have totally disabled most men. The friction of your foot on the shinbone, had you been wearing boots, would have caused considerable pain. The impact of your heel on the instep of my foot would have, in all probability, broken one or more bones in the foot, reducing mobility. In summation, the combined effects of your response would have at least rendered even a strong man temporarily incapable of undertaking further aggressive attacks against you, if, indeed, it did not deprive him of consciousness. I suspect, however, that the almost simultaneous application of so many painful stimuli would magnify the effects beyond their mere sum. If the assailant were of normal physique, I surmise that he may even fail to survive the encounter." Juanita clapped her hands in pleasure. "A masterful summation, Parsons, and thank you. You are correct in your assertion that a lesser man than yourself could easily be killed. Do you believe, Parsons, that a person trained in the skills which I have just demonstrated - even one of my size and weight - could kill you, without recourse to weapons?" "I am certain of that, Milady. If you were prepared to instruct me..." He stopped, lowered his eyes. "My apologies, Milady." For the first time she saw the apparently insurmountable Parsons at a loss. He obviously considered that it would be unthinkable that a lady of her position could be prepared to undertake the instruction of a servant, especially in so physical a skill. Adeline stepped in front of Juanita, her eyes blazing like a craftsman shown a new tool that opened unthought of possibilities. She looked all Cherokee. "Teach me." she commanded. Later, in the drawing room, with the again impassive Parsons, reincumbered in his butler disguise, remaining at Juanita's request, they discussed her demonstration. "Parsons, have you ever seen anything like it?" Adeline opened the proceedings. "No, Countess. It opens possibilities that I had never considered." "What possibilities?" "I had considered it axiomatic that few women, unless armed with a weapon which they had been trained to use, could physically prevail over a man." "Parsons," Juanita interrupted. "Stop talking butler language." He looked startled, glanced at a now grinning Adeline, who nodded her head, and continued. "Milady, I never thought I'd see a woman that could put me out of the ring, but you're it. If you could teach these ladies what you seem to know, they'd never need a knife." He looked at her earnestly. "It's a bad place out there, missy, and a woman can't be let out alone. If a man gets her, and she ain't got a knife or a gun, he got her. You, you can walk alone. Not many, man or woman, can walk alone like that. That's what she saw." He nodded towards Adeline. "That's why she wants to learn. She's a proud woman, hates needing protection." He paused. "Guess I never thought of without a weapon. Didn't know how." He looked abashed. "My apologies, countess. But, make sure she teaches you." The butler had returned. "Will you, Juanita?" asked Adeline, eagerly. "And Agnes, too?" "Shucks, chillen," the accent was southern Negro mammy, "We alls will teach you alls what we knows." Her normal accent again. "All three of you. Right, countess?" "Thank you Milady. We are all grateful." (Comment on this)
Monday, January 6th, 2003
11:22 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 013 They had been met at the train and conveyed, in a private carriage, brown velvet upholstered, and with warmly welcomed fur laprugs, to what looked to Juanita like a medium sized mansion in Welbeck Street, just off Oxford Street, to the north. Upon their arrival, they were greeted by a tall, grinning Negro, and hustled into a smallish drawing room already almost overheated by the coal fire which glowed happily in a tiled cast iron fireplace. Here their coats and boots were taken and replaced by already warmed slippers and robes. Within seconds, it seemed, the butler reappeared, followed by two black maids carrying trays of steaming hot chocolate. "Will there be anything else, countess?" intoned the butler, in a vast organlike voice, it's accent as impeccably English butler as his dress and manner. "Dr. Watson has obviously warned you of our coming, Parsons." "Yes, countess. A bedroom has been prepared for your guest, and for her maid." "Thank you, Parsons. Donna Juanita de San Miguel will be staying for some time. She will be addressed as 'Milady' and obeyed as I am obeyed. Her companion," there was a subtle stress on the word companion, "will be addressed as 'Miss' and will be considered a guest rather than a member of the staff." Parsons' expression did not change a fraction, though Juanita noticed that the pupils of his eyes widened slightly. "We will all retire in a few minutes." Adeline continued, "We all appreciate your preparedness. Goodnight, Parsons." "Thank you, Countess. Goodnight." He vanished soundlessly through the door. "Are all your staff black, Adeline?" Juanita queried, "If so, it must be unusual here in England. I didn't realise that there were Negroes in England." "Parsons is third generation, love. All of his harem..." Agnes looked startled, Adeline grinned at her, "Oh yes, dear, I know very well what goes on below stairs, though I keep up the pretence that I don't. As you will learn to do, too, now that you are 'one of the quality' rather than a servant. To continue, all of his harem were born here. Do not forget that Liverpool was a major slave port, or that many escaped slaves got themselves work on ships leaving America. Many were helped to escape by crimps, who then sold them to ship captains short of crew. Sailors were regularly bought and sold in that way. Parsons runs the household with a rod of iron." - she grinned at Agnes. "Is it iron, dear, or weren't you so blessed?" Agnes blushed - did not answer. "Pardon me, my sweet. That was a question that I should not have asked. Any such arrangements are entirely your own affair. Will you forgive me?" "Oh, I don't mind, Adeline. I know that you couldn't resist joking like that. Parsons is a lovely man. I won't say more." She smiled quietly. "Good for you, my dear, whatever that reply meant. As I was saying, Juanita, all the staff worship him, we have no trouble below stairs and I have a loyal and totally discrete household." "They all worship you too." added Agnes. "Thank you, dear. I'm pleased to hear that. Juanita, are you tired? It's definitely past my bedtime." "Mine too. Where do I find a bedroom?" "We'll all go up. I venture to say we won't reach the head of the stairs without at least Ruby, my maid, in attendance." Ruby, a small, plump girl, was at the bottom of the stairs, and led them regally to the Countess' room. "Mum, Parsons said that Milady was to have the room next to yours and Miss," she glanced in awe at Agnes, "the next one." She opened Adeline's door. "Thank you, Ruby. Goodnight my dears. I'm sure everything will be prepared for you two. If there's anything lacking, just ring. I'm convinced that Parsons never sleeps." "Goodnight, Countess. I don't think" Juanita's face was perfectly straight, "I shall need to bother Parsons tonight." She was no sooner in her room than the connecting door opened to admit a giggling Agnes. "Won't need to bother Parsons, indeed. You're a bad girl, Milady, sweet." "And so, I have reason to know, are you, you lusty witch." She grinned in reply. "Juanita," Agnes looked seriously at her, "I hope you've forgiven me for...." "Agnes, dear, I see nothing to forgive. You tested me - yes, I know what you're going to say... you wanted your spell to work. That's true, isn't it?" Agnes' eyes were lowered. "Yes. You were so beautiful, and I so wanted you to love me. And..." "Yes, I know. And we were both as horny as hell." "If that word means what I think it means, I was." "That word means exactly what you think it means, and so was I. I didn't realise how much strain I had been under, and, for me at least, being under strain makes me horny. But, can I ask a very personal question? You don't have to answer it." "You can ask me anything, Juanita, even..." she grinned, "about Parsons." "I don't need to ask, then. He looks like quite a man." Agnes was blushing again. "And you don't just like little girls." "You're not a little girl, or I'd have to spank you. Honestly, though, I've never done anything like that before, a girl, I mean. But I do love you, Juanita, and I was very... horny." "And I love you, Agnes, and I love Adeline, and so do you, I know. Isn't she beautiful? And didn't you ever find her tempting?" "You're a very bad girl, Juanita. It's true, though. Is there something... wrong with me that way?" "If there is, there's something wrong with me, too, and with Adeline, I bet. No, I don't think there is. If two people love each other, and show it, and don't parade it before the world and ruin their lives and others over it, who does it hurt? But I've known lots of people make a huge issue of their personal preferences, and that, in most cases, is all it is, personal preferences, and want everybody to be like them. That is almost certainly harmful. It's always bad to base a life merely on sex. Love is important to the whole world. One's sex life is important only to ourself. I'm preaching, girl. Help me get these clothes off. I'm going to bed." Agnes undressed her quickly, waited while Juanita insisted upon helping her undress and gave her a quick, naked, cuddle, and hurried back to her room... The three girls sat in the main drawing room, recovering from a day of strenuous shopping, the floor around them strewn with their loot. Steaming cups of coffee, conjured up by Parsons within seconds of their return, sat before them. "Goodness," gasped Juanita, "I've never seen anything like the London shops." Nor had she. The Paris of Milady's time had been a pale shadow of the capitol of fashion it was to become. Jerry had enjoyed all his generation's indifference to clothes; had never noticed the acreages of women's fripperies of the great American shops of his time. Juanita, with no clothing of her own, and Agnes to be almost completely outfitted appropriately for her new status, had run wild. The three of them, escorted by two uniformed black maids and the youth who combined the talents of bootblack and occasional doorman, descended upon each shop in turn like the crew of a pirate galley intent on plundering a fleet of defenceless merchantmen. The presence of the countess assured them initially of the best possible attention and Juanita's willingness to spend, often over much protest from Agnes, made each shopkeeper in turn their willing slave. Eventually, the raid had lost it's momentum and, the girls in one four wheeler and servants and booty overflowing another, they conducted a successful retreat to their base. Juanita had horrified the shopkeepers by demanding instant handover of spoils and, by the time they reached the last shop had acquired a tail of shopboys, laden with goods. When willing hands has stuffed the last purchases into the second cab, the boys, each a penny richer, dispersed in the general direction of their respective employers' premises. "That was fun, Adeline, but when do I have to pay for it?" "You may pay for the sin of extravagance in hell, eventually, though I doubt that hell could hold you. In due course, my dear, the merchants concerned will all make up bills, hold them for a month or so, because you spent so much, and are thus a valued client, wait another month because of our titles and address, then send them on to Parsons, who will sneer at them a while before, grudgingly, passing them to my solicitor for eventual payment, generally after the third piteous demand. I think the average period between purchase and payment is a little over a year." "Why do they stand it?" "The Nobility and Gentry, my dear, always keep them waiting for their money. As a Countess, I may reasonably wait, say, four times as long as a mere Gentlewoman and twice as long as a Lady Something or Other. A duchess may take years to pay and the royal family, I suspect, never do. It makes the merchants, middle class to a man, feel very important and contributes to the general merriment of the uppers." "Well, will you please instruct Parsons, in this instance, to inquire of the good doctor where to send my bills for their pre payment rest? I'm sure I don't know who is minding my money, though Father did say I had some." "Parsons will be duly advised. My dears, I am going to rest for a while. I suggest you two do likewise. Will five o'clock do for tea? I'll have you both called." ... (Comment on this)
Friday, January 3rd, 2003
11:25 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 012 "Daughter, please to have some care for the curtains." Juanita found herself clutching the drawing room curtains. Carlos was nowhere to be seen. "Where is he?" she gasped. "Carlos? A few seconds ago he was standing beside you. Then you appeared to try to climb the curtains. He appears to have gone." "Did you see him go, father?" "No, I was distracted by your actions. Carlos, my dear, seems to have a strange ability. One never knows if, having taken your eyes off him, he will still be there at your next glance. Nobody ever seems to actually see him come or go. He is simply there, or he is not." Juanita found that there were tears in her eyes. She felt that she had lost something vital to her happiness. "Then I didn't... go anywhere?" "I did not lose sight of you, if that's what you mean. Daughter, one of your grade should know better than that. That's what magical diaries are for. To record what you think you have perceived for later confirmation or rejection. But he said 'you need the book.' There's your check. Do you have the book?" Juanita looked where she had been standing, but Watson merely tapped his forehead. "I'm a fool." She concentrated her thoughts on book. Page by page, in gemlike clarity, it flowed past her eyes. She knew with a quiet certainty that, at any point, she could stop that flow and read off the page in question. She threw herself into her father's arms, crying, now, with happiness and release... London in 1895 is a film set, she thought. The misty rain, the chill wind, the horse drawn cabs and the occasional carriage, the people... mainly the people. The place reeked of atmosphere. Holmes and Watson, Fagin and The Artful Dodger, Mr. Scrooge, Jeckyl and Hyde and Jack the ripper. Thus thought Juanita - Donna Juanita de San Miguel Y Garcia, wealthy young widow of the scion, alas now deceased after a foolish misadventure in the bullring, of a Spanish family of impeccable lineage, but small fortune. It had been decided that the unholy trinity, Watson's not unjust description of Juanita, Adeline and Agnes, should all return to Adeline's house in London, partly to enable Juanita to learn the essentials of language, dress and deportment, partly for better access to Lodge records and resources, but mainly, Juanita suspected, to ease the strain on Watson's nerves and morals. After her encounter with Carlos she felt the need for time to digest what had happened to her. The lesson of the... trip... with Carlos - that she had been under severe strain - had not passed unnoted by her. Watson had been all agreement. "My dear, you are an Adept of high rank, the equal of my own. From this day forward nobody - except, of course, Carlos, if he chooses to take an interest in you - can tell you what to do. It is your privilege, if you choose, to approach the head of our order, whom you will meet, if you wish, in London. He may advise you, or he may choose not to. He will almost certainly not attempt to direct you in any way. That is the way of his grade. The Countess - Adeline - is at your command. She will be to you what you, as Milady, were to me. "As I understand it now, father, I was your principal weapon." "Not principal, dear, only. Yes, you were my weapon, as Adeline is now yours. Agnes will also serve you in ways appropriate to her grade." "Father, what is Carlos' grade?" "Nobody but he knows that, and he, I can assure you, will not tell. Have you noticed the way he answers - or, rather, does not answer - certain questions?" "I believe, father, that Carlos always answers questions." "If he does, my dear, many of his answers are beyond my understanding. If those answers are not beyond your understanding, you will rise rapidly to a higher grade. I must warn you, however, that the next step is the most perilous of all." "I don't mean that I understand his answers, father, I merely know that they are answers." "If you know even that, for certain, then you are Donna Juanita indeed, and already beyond me. If I may be so bold as to attempt to advise you, do nothing at all for the next few months except to learn about, and try to enjoy, this era. You will know soon enough when there is work for you." They took the train to London that night. Cuddled happily between Adeline and Agnes in an otherwise empty first class compartment, insulated from the misty dark outside the windows, Juanita considered Watson's words. Never had he appeared so humble to her. He obviously treated her, not as his equal, but as his superior. Grades in the order were, she thought, like ranks among officers in a well run army. By the time you rise to a rank you have already proven yourself in the exercise of that rank. A captain must have acted as a major before he can be promoted to major. Did Watson, then, see her as acting in the manner of the next grade above her? Yes, she realised with a shock, he did, and deferred to her accordingly. He must, therefore, believe that she was capable of the step. But why had he not risen to that grade? The step, as he had reminded her, was as perilous as it's name implied - crossing the Abyss. What had prevented Watson - as brave a man as she had ever known - from making that attempt? Beyond the Abyss lay the three highest grades in the order. Which of those three did Carlos hold, and why was it so important to her that she should know? (Comment on this)
Thursday, January 2nd, 2003
8:04 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 011 She was beside a small stream, on a bank covered with thin, scrubby grass. She was wearing jeans and a rough cord shirt, a green scarf tied around her throat. Beside her were a pair of hiking boots and heavy, wool socks. She was leaning against a greenish brown backpack. From her heavy belt hung a large bowie knife and a waterbottle case. The waterbottle, still dripping and freshly filled, was beside her right hand. She was not afraid, even when a voice came from her right. "Look at this place." It was Carlos. He was dressed in heavy, tight trousers and a rough wool sweater, both of a faded cream colour, brown, elastic sided boots and a broad brimmed brown hat. A small pack lay at his feet. "Is it not beautiful?" She looked around. There were none of the bright greens of the English countryside. The hill was heavily timbered, the stream in front of her maybe two paces wide, but edged with wide gravel banks, as if, at flood time, it would be many times that width. She guessed that it regularly varied from a trickle to a flood. To one side, the ground sloped down a short distance, then swept to the distant horizon, a vast, brown green, plain. Behind her, small, granite boned hills eased into a low range. The sky was a whitish blue, with amazing cloud patterns sweeping across it. The sun, almost down to the horizon, was a blazing globe. Nowhere was there the slightest sign of people. It was beautiful. Harsh and demanding, but beautiful. All fear had gone from her. She felt herself a part - a protected part - of the great, sweeping landscape. She turned to Carlos with a smile, a wave of affection for him flowing through her. "I'll take it." A flashing smile, then the serious, intent face. "If you wish it, it is yours. Do you accept it?" She sensed challenge in his flat, formal voice. "I accept it, Don Carlos." "Then it is yours, Donna Juanita." He began to gather firewood... They sat together, their backs against the huge white trunk of a fallen tree, facing a small fire built against a low rockface which reflected its heat on them. The stream gurgled its way past them twenty paces away. The evening, as the last of the cascade of colours from a glorious sunset faded, was cool, but not chill. They had not spoken. Carlos had collected firewood, built, and lit the fire with matches from his pack. He vanished into the trees for a few minutes, returning with a pile of small green branches, which he placed beside the tree trunk. He had then cleared a small space against the tree trunk, sat facing the fire and gestured to her to join him. She had no desire to speak, feeling a need to merely sit and sort what should have been tangled feelings, but weren't. She felt safe. At home, as if after long travels and much danger. She tried to analyse her feelings. From the moment she had awakened as Geraldine, she realised, she had been living in a state of full and constant alert, her feelings and desires under constant pressure. She remembered the joy of her recognition of her father, the shock of returning memories, the challenge of the Countess, the excitement aroused in her by Agnes' desire for her and the emotional turmoil surrounding her attempted seduction (rape?). No, not rape. She had been good and ready. Was she, perhaps, a closet Lesbian? No, she thought. She had found Agnes very attractive, and heartily enjoyed looking at her, but, left to herself, would not have thought of her sexually - well, not too much, anyhow. No, it was that Agnes had been so hungry for her. Let's file that for further reference, she thought. What was it about this place? She did not know, but she belonged here. Without a word, Carlos reached for his pack and extracted a blackened utensil which resembled a paint tin with a wire handle. It appeared to be intended for a cooking pot. He poured some water from his bottle into it and added a handful of dry, sticklike objects and another handful of what looked like dust mixed with small stones. After hanging the pot from a stick which he cantilevered over the fire, he took from his pack a tin plate and a fork and nodded towards her pack. She explored her pack. There was a tightly rolled waterproof cape and an equally tightly rolled blanket. She found a tin cup, plate and a fork. The cup contained a well wrapped oiled silk pouch with a fine rubber lining, obviously intended for a tobacco pouch, but now containing coffee and a small paper bag of sugar. She put plate, cup and fork on the ground beside her and smiled at Carlos. Still wordless, he returned her smile. Tempting smells were beginning to emerge from the pot. They sat for a while longer, then Carlos retrieved the pot from the fire and poured the contents equally on the two plates. He nodded towards the coffee, and she obediently took the now empty pot to the stream, rinsed and refilled it, and replaced it over the fire. The food appeared to be some sort of dried meat, mixed with beans and herbs to the consistency of a thick stew. It tasted delicious. When they finished eating, she took the plates and forks to the stream, washed them with sand and rinsed them, and returned to the fire. Carlos had extracted a cup from his pack and made coffee. By the time they had finished their coffee it was full dark, stars blazing in the moonless sky. She began to casually scan the sky for familiar constellations till, low in the south, she saw what she recognised as the southern cross. South America, she guessed. No, it was neither tropical enough or mountainous enough, and the air did not have the feel of great altitude. Australia, or New Zealand, perhaps. Even this did not disturb her calm. "You're a remarkable man, Carlos. Where are we, and how did we get here?" "Here," he replied, "is your place. You have accepted it. We are here so that you may fill your head, and your heart, with it. It is the place to which you will always return." "Yes, but what is it called?" His face fell into a mask of comic bafflement. "It is called 'The Place of The Donna Juanita'." She was beginning to learn things about Carlos. She realised that, when he played - overplayed - the innocent Indian no further information would be made available. What you learn from Carlos, she decided, you learn for yourself. As if in answer, he beamed at her. "How did we get here then?" His face was serious. "Donna Juanita, at the start I merely redirected your attention while forcing you to think of the library where the book was. There, I used your fear to increase your desire not to be there. You came here. It is your place." "Because I came here?" The beautiful smile, and a respectful bow. "How can I come back here?" Bafflement filled his face. She laughed and pretended to throw a stone at him. He mimed a frantic avoidance and they fell, laughing, against each other... They were standing at the top of the small hill overlooking their exiguous campsite, warmed by the morning sun. "How little we really need," she thought. They had slept naked, as innocently as two puppies, cuddled together under a blanket warmed, first by the fire, then by their combined body heat. She was awakened by a slight chill on her body as he rose to restart the fire. She watched him light it, then wash himself in the stream and return to its growing heat to dry himself. She took the pot and filled it at the stream, washed herself and returned to join him beside the fire. As the combined warmth of the strengthening sun and the fire dried them they drank their coffee. He has a young man's body, she thought, but he did not act like a young man last night. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to her at the time, that they should undress and cuddle together for warmth. Maybe, too, she had been too short a time a woman, in this body, to have become fully accustomed to the fact. She dared a question, half expecting a pantomime instead of a reply. "Carlos, last night..." she wondered how to frame the question, to ask a man why he had not... what? He answered the half spoken question "Donna Juanita, neither had need. If you had needed me, I would have given. If I had needed you, I would have taken, you would have given." She realised that it was perfectly true. Last night she had needed only companionship. She could not imagine what, if any, needs Don Carlos recognised. But she also understood, as he did, that here was a man who, like her father, could have her any time that she could serve his need. Carlos picked up the still wet pot and shook a few drops of water onto his hand. Taking her shoulder with his other hand he turned her around till she was almost facing the sun and, shaking the drops of water into her eyes, moved her head from side to side until her eyes were filled with the rainbow reflections of sun on water. "Now," he commanded "Look." He released her head. The entire scene had taken on the jewellike clarity that she had first experienced in the library. Every detail of the scene, from horizon to horizon, was etched, indelibly into her attention. It was as if she could see the whole scene, all around her, not in sections, but all at once. She felt herself pulled violently backwards, clutching for support... (Comment on this)
Tuesday, December 10th, 2002
1:24 am	Juanita. Gates of Life. 010 "Daughter, it's time to get on with our task." "Certainly, father. Is that why you sent the girls away?" Watson chuckled. "That is the first time in my life, my dear, that I have heard a Peeress of the Realm - a Countess, and a maidservant referred to collectively as 'the girls'. Especially," he added, "as both of them are your senior in age." "You object?" "By no means. I find it, I must confess, quite refreshing." "Good. Father, it leads me to a question that I must raise. We all recognise the rarity of a triple promotion within the Lodge. To me, it raises the question as to whether one common factor underlies this event?" "What factor is that, my dear?" "We are all women. No... Don't answer quickly, but hear me out. When I find two members who are both eminently promotable, but remain untested for their deserved grades, I look for common factors. Ask yourself, father. Is it possible?" "I take your point. I doubt it, but you may be right. Let's look at each case separately, yours first. In your last active incarnation - Jerry had no contact with us - you held the grade of Adeptus Major; a high grade. Upon your return to us, you were tested at that level. Your response under the pressure of a magical assault, was to rise above the assaulter to your true grade, thus circumventing the assault. In private, now, I can ask you. Was that difficult? I now know that we severely underrated Agnes." "Very difficult, father. Particularly, I suspect, after my life as Jerry. I failed to recognise that a spell was being cast. She almost had me, father. I was totally in her hands before I realised she was a witch and invoked aid." Her father coloured slightly and lowered his eyes. "Your words, my dear, are particularly evocative. I wont ask the nature of her spell. Please continue." "Father, your unwillingness to discuss the exact - I stress exact - nature of the spell points to the nature of the weakness that I wish to explore. I feel that, without the memories - the sexual tolerance - gained in my twentieth century life as Jerry, I too may have overreacted under that stress. Had I done so, I doubt that Agnes would have survived. I believe that it was the attitude of sexual tolerance to which Jerry was exposed that permitted me to turn the rage at being attacked to compassion for the attacker, and thus not only save her from harm, but attain the higher grading. Have you spent too long in this society father?" "I see your point." He sighed. "Let us, then, grasp the nettle. What was the exact nature of her spell?" "A love spell, as you expected, father." "Yes. Who was to have been the object of your... ah... affections?" "No ducking, father. Not affections. Lust." "I'm sorry girl. I'm trying. Who?" He stiffened as if expecting a thrust. "Oh, not you, father. She probably knew well enough that few girls would need prompting to lust after you. No, she wanted me herself, and damn near got me. You could have hung quoits from my nipples, they were so hard." "Daughter, please spare my Victorian sentiments by limiting the images that you raise, although..." He grinned, "that's quite an image. Has Jerry's maleness, then...?" "No, father. I'm not a les - a lesbian, term we used for female homosexuals. I'm quite normal, but gays - homosexuals, male or female - are no big deal to Jerry. A lot of straights - normally sexed people, whatever that means, recognise that full time gays have it pretty tough. Stable relationships are few and far between. Anyone who understands this finds compassion for gays easy." "And Agnes?" his brow clouded, "Is she... gay?" "By no means, as, better believe me, you would find out if you gave her half a chance. She'd have you on the floor in a minute. Emotional girl, Agnes. No, father, she's quite normal. Father, one thing Jerry's short life taught me is that, basically, sex is sex. If you love someone, you want to make them happy. Being really gay is being terminally biased against one sex or the other to the point of being unable to function with members of that sex. You've read the classics, father. Lived some of them. You should know." Watson looked sad. "You're right, Juanita. I do know. But I have spent many years in this society. I can see that I have much work to do to regain my balance in these matters. Thank you daughter, for forcing me to confront this problem." "You're welcome, father. But I wonder how long you're going to keep on calling me daughter in self defence. It is, you know." "It is, I know very well. Don't you think I'm hard enough pressed evading the attentions of Adeline and, now you tell me, Agnes, without having to protect myself from you?" "It's a tough life. Maybe you'll lose." "It may be," his smile had returned, "that I will." "Have you given any thought to the problems of our future, Juanita?" "Other than examining the accounts from your seer, no. Will it be possible for me to speak to him?" "Her, my dear, her. Yes, but first we wanted your comments." "Father, what you have given me all appears accurate." "Are you able to assign a time scale to those events? As you well know, that is the hardest thing for us to determine." "Some of them. I wish recent history had been one of Jerry's favourite subjects, but it wasn't. He kept a crib sheet as a reference for the few times he needed something verified. I wish I had it here. It would be invaluable. Jerry threw it out after his last exams." "Did Jerry compile the crib himself?" "Yes. I remember spending a day in the library, ploughing through a reference book, deciding what I needed and what I didn't." "Better yet. Carlos may be able to help us." "Where is he?" "Here, my Juanita." She gasped and turned towards the voice. Carlos was standing with his back to the window, his face beaming. She knew that he could not have come through the door. Conceivably, he had entered through the window. Why? And how long had he been there? "I came when you called me." She realised that no amount of questioning was likely to produce a better answer than that. 'This man' she thought 'would be unbearable, if it wasn't for the lovely smile.' As if in answer the smile, impossibly, brightened. "Jaunitissima." The ending implied a small, small child, but his affectionate tone suggested not the slightest offence. "You are in need of a paper and, perhaps a book. We must find them for you." He made a gesture as if to search his pockets. "But they're..." He raised a single finger to his lips. "The paper that you wrote, it is there." He pointed to her head. "The book. You need the book?" She thought guiltily of the amount of information that she had not recorded that afternoon. "It would be helpful, but..." Again, the raised finger. Nobody, she knew, could move a physical object backwards in time. "Did you look at most of the pages of the book?" "A lot of them, but I just passed over most of them." He made a gesture of dismissal and with a swift, single liquid movement turned, threw the curtains shut, and turned back to her. His shining eyes captured her attention. "Look." He stepped towards her, his right hand gesturing dramatically towards the bookshelves. As her eyes followed it, she felt herself spun towards the bookshelves, then spun again. Each time she tried to reorient herself her eyes faced bookshelves. She was seated in a library, the wooden seat warm beneath her. A book lay open before her. She shivered. She was certain that, if she raised her eyes, she would see Jerry on his way from the seat she now occupied to the door. She did not dare raise her eyes. Fear already filled her, her very stomach rebellious. She suppressed all thought of her stomach, knowing that, if she did not, she would throw up. She looked at the book in front of her, flipping through the pages. Each new page she looked at shone like a jewel in her head. She remembered Huxley's "Doors of Perception" and his description of the effects of mescaline. Each page held a magnificent significance. It seemed that she and the pages were the only reality. Terribly, something touched the back of her neck. She tried to move, but merely jerked herself a fraction more upright. A sharp handclap and a voice. "Come." (Comment on this)
Sunday, December 8th, 2002
4:46 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 009 After they had breakfasted, Agnes joining them under protest - overruled unanimously - they trooped down to the bathroom, Agnes leading, laden down with towels. "My goodness," exclaimed Adeline, surveying the vast tub, steaming with hot water, "the doctor never showed me this before." "I told you he was a civilised man." Agnes, fully dressed, took their robes and stepped back. They looked at each other, both grinned. "Agnes, said Adeline severely, "do you honestly expect us to get into that huge tub alone? We may drown. Get those clothes off before I call Robins in to guard us." Agnes hesitated a moment too long. Then two giggling, naked women were tearing her clothes off her. After calm had returned to the bathroom, the three lay soaking in the tub. "Agnes," Juanita said softly, "I need to go over last night with you. Tell me about it, as you experienced it." Agnes coloured again. "Miss..." Juanita frowned, "Juanita, I was told to test you." "I know that now, dear. Go on." "I was to work a love spell. If you were able to resist it, you still held your old grade." "Did you know what that grade was? No, of course you didn't. And if I could not resist it? You were to....?" "I was to have you." suddenly intense. "Tell me what you saw happen." "When you came in I was working with my white cord. You didn't recognise what I was doing, so I started the next part of the spell. You were already bound in the cord, so it was easy. It was supposed to make you relax and become more conscious of your body and it's desires." Agnes was blushing again, her nipples hard. "As I undressed you, I felt your body responding, by the time you were undressed I was sure you were....." "As you said, I was yours." Agnes' eyes were downcast. "Yes." She almost whispered. "Then what happened?" "You suddenly stiffened, then... invoked Mars - Ares. I looked up at your face and it was changing. Your face, your whole body had reddened and, as you raised your arm, I could see a dark glove on it. It looked hard and heavy. I realised that you were about to kill me. I knew that you could do it easily, as easily as swatting a fly." "Yes, but what were your thoughts, your feelings at that moment?" "First, I realised that I had failed, that my spell was broken. Juanita, I've never known a spell that strong, that far along it's working, to fail." "I'll support that." Adeline spoke. "I could feel it through the walls. Made me all tingly." She grinned. "Behave yourself, Adeline. Yes, go on Agnes." "Well, when I looked at you, and felt the power coming down through you, I felt a.... presence. I loved it and feared it all at the same time, then I... I don't know, Juanita, but I was suddenly calm and peaceful." "I am thy sacrifice?" "Yes. That's it. Not those words, but... whatever you wanted to do, I accepted. It was the right thing to happen. Then, I saw you change again, and you blessed me, and I felt it right down to my toes, then I must have fainted. The next thing I knew, I woke up between you two in the bed, stone cold. You weren't very warm, Juanita, but" she glanced at Adeline "Adeline was, and the bed was, then you started to get warm too, then I must have fainted again, and it was morning." "You went to sleep, and slept until you had recovered. The coldness you felt was caused by the breaking of your spell. I felt it break. The backlash must have been tremendous. I was cold because power had come down through me, and I'm always cold when that happens. You'll see." "Me Miss.. Juanita?" "Yes, you, my lovely Agnes. You see what I meant, Adeline?" "Yes, you were right. She sacrificed herself, at least in intention." "Agnes. "Juanita's voice was again soft. "Are you ready to enter the Lodge with the grade of Adeptus Minor? You earned that grade last night." "Oh. Juanita," tears streamed down her face. "Would I be able to be with you, work with you, then?" "You have a place with me as long as you want it." "Oh yes, Miss, yes, please. Oh, I love you, both of you." "We know, Agnes, and we love you." It was hard to believe, Juanita thought, that the three perfect ladies sitting around the drawing room fire enjoying their after luncheon coffee had any connection with the three giggling, splashing girl children in the bath an hour earlier. She was beginning, she thought, to understand this era. In public, perfect propriety, in private, perfect freedom. She decided to test the idea. "Adeline, are most people here - now - like us.. I mean, a total, tightlaced, role play in public, but like us inside?" "I don't know, love. This is a very hard era in which to know anybody; get past the public face, I mean." "May I speak, Countess?" "Speak freely, Agnes, and don't worry about Robins. In the first place, he lusts after my body and, I am sure, yours too. As for Juanita, I think he worships her. But in no case would he fail to knock before entering. Tell us, dear." "Juanita, Adeline, since I came to London at thirteen, I've been below stairs. You see and hear things. But I've also been a witch. Even today, more ordinary people, especially in the country, come to the local 'wise woman' for medical or spiritual help than ever go to the doctor - most of them can't afford to pay him - or the Vicar. They don't trust him. I probably know more about what goes on behind closed doors, as it were, than you, Adeline." "I see what you mean, yes. I've long suspected a below stairs freemasonry. Do you mind telling us?" "I'll tell you two anything I know." The two listened, fascinated, to Agnes' stories, gleaned from her own experiences, and people that she had helped with their medical and personal problems. One thing became apparent: in both the upper and lower classes, people were still people. They loved, they lusted, they aspired. There was, in fact, much that they held in common. The middle classes, however, were a different proposition. They shuddered at the 'immoralities' of 'the labouring classes' and never realised - or let themselves realise - the fact that the upper classes, behind their facades, did exactly what they wanted to do. "It's like two different countries, dears. You upper class people, we servants and the working people are one. The clerks, the shop people (except the ones that only deal with the uppers), the 'business people', the civil servants - especially those - the teachers and preachers - most preachers; some of them are ours - most are the other." "You say some preachers are 'ours'. What do you mean, witches?" "Yes, some of the best, specially away from town, hold to the old worship." "Better add one group to your list, Agnes, the doctors. Some of the best of them are ours. Initiates, members of the Lodges." "What about the journalists and the artists? Do either of you know?" "I don't know if Adeline knows, but most of them I know of are like the clerks. Very 'umble till they become well known and very pretentious afterwards. Middle class, the lot of them. But some of them are nice, like you two." "Thank you, Agnes. Juanita, the best of the artists and writers behave like the uppers. Do what they want to, and to hell with anybody. Agnes missed two groups, the politicians and the Court. The politicians are nearly all middles, playing their venial little power games. The Court... Victoria's line, the Georges, were always the middle classes of royalty. She, at least, recognised that she was head of a great empire, and may well be remembered as a great queen. She'd have kept America, regardless of the cost. Probably had Disreili as Governor General there. The court, though, plays it's own power games, from the servants on up. It's its own world. Some of them are ours." "And a couple of the servants are ours." "Regular Mafia, you two. No, I'll explain later. Here comes father. I saw him pass the window." "The doctor is your father?" "No, Adeline, not in this life. But he once was." Adeline looked thoughtful. "Then that may explain... not now, here he comes." "Good afternoon ladies, Agnes. You've lunched, I hope. Robins will be bringing me coffee. Would any of you like to join me?" "We'll all join you, father." His eyes flicked from Juanita, to Agnes, and back to Juanita. "And we must talk about Agnes. Last night was most productive. Agnes, will you go and flirt with Robins for a minute, then have him bring coffee for us all?" As Agnes left, Watson looked to Juanita. "Well. What have you done to Agnes? Spoilt another good servant, I have no doubt. At least she's still alive, which says a considerable amount for her." "Doctor, I was wrong, as I'm sure you knew, but why did you let me risk Agnes?" "Firstly, Carlos made no move to interfere. Secondly, I was overseeing... No, don't be alarmed, I was feeling the powers building, ready to step in if you lost control. I don't know the exact nature of your test, but, knowing you two and having my suspicions about Agnes, I've no doubt it was something entertaining. Juanita, I knew you would not fail, but I am most gratified to find that you have become my magical equal. "You compliment me, father. Did you, however, notice Adeline's part, and Agnes' response?" "I was aware that Adeline was working above her grade. That is part of the reason I let her go on. It was a test for her, too. Yes, she also passed, and welcome to your new grade too, Adeline. But what of Agnes? I noticed nothing, but that fails to surprise me. There was so much power flowing through that it captured my entire attention. Daughter, I think you upset the weather over five counties. It's still appalling, but seems to be clearing." "I felt pressed, father. The weather can take care of itself. Besides, it may have been Agnes, probably was." Watson’s eyebrows rose slightly as they described what had happened to Agnes. "Three promotions from the same test. No wonder Carlos came here. I've no doubt he knew." "Yes, father. So you see about Agnes? She is no longer a servant." "True, my dear, but I am sure that she will wish to remain your servant. Ask her." "I will." (Comment on this)
1:24 am	Juanita. Gates of Life. 008 The room was warm and lit only by the blazing fire. She closed the door behind her and leaned with her back against it with an inner smile for the thought of the locks and safety chains which Jerry had considered the minimum possible security measures. Here, she thought, the mere fact of a closed door ensures perfect privacy. She moved towards the fire and realised that she was not alone. Agnes was kneeling - sitting on her heels, straightbacked, like an Egyptian statue, her blond hair loosed and falling in a cascade almost to her buttocks. In a single movement she rose to her feet. "Are you ready for bed, miss?" She was barefooted, and clad in a simple robe of white linen, tied at the waist with intertwined red and blue cords. Around her neck hung a rosary like necklace of amber and jet. In her left hand she held a white cord which she had apparently been braiding. "I've been waiting for you. My room is next door," she half pointed to a closed connecting door, "and I knew you'd want to go straight to bed when you came up." Geraldine realised that she was tired, and that being 'put to bed' was a luxury to which she would happily become accustomed. The warm, dark atmosphere of the firelit room enfolded her, as Agnes took her hand and led her closer to the fire. "Just look at the lovely embers, Miss, and warm yourself while I get these things off you." Agnes stood close behind her, unbuttoning the back of the dress and lifting it over her head. "There, doesn't getting your dress off make you sleepier?" Geraldine realised that it was true. Facing the warmth of the fire while Agnes undressed her she felt herself already half asleep. "Now the hair. Loosen it all off." Agnes' voice had taken on a soothing, sing song tone, and, as her hair was let loose, Geraldine felt no more volition than a child. She felt hands at her waist, then the camisole lifting off her, enjoying it's silken pull as it slid over her nipples. Something soft hung over her shoulders, two ends touching her breasts - the white cord, she thought vaguely. "Looser and looser," now, as Agnes knelt in front of her and reached for her stockings, the room, even the fire, seemed distant and indistinct. "Down and down," hands at a stocking top, rolling, caressing the stocking down her leg, "Down and down," hands pausing on her bare thigh before, even more slowly, more sensuously rolling the second stocking off, bare hands thrilling on bare flesh. "Down and down", hands at her bare waist, sliding under the back of the last garment, sliding excitingly over her bare buttocks and down the backs of her legs, leaving her naked, ready. Geraldine realised that she was unable to move a muscle. "Down and down," she looked down at Agnes, again sitting as before, the open bodice of her gown opening further, falling to her waist, exposing her hard nippled breasts. "Now you're ready." Her hands returned to cup Geraldine's buttocks and leant forward to touch her lips gently to Geraldine's skin, just above the line of the silken blond pubic hair. Agnes swayed back, then forward again, her breath warm, exciting, on Geraldine's body. The cord, lying loosely around her neck, now felt like a halter, of irresistible strength, binding her to Agnes. "Now you're mine." Juanita's mind leapt to life, fighting the sensual lassitude of her body. Her body, lethargic, but aroused, fought her. "Cord magic. Amber and jet. She's a witch." The cord was like fire around her neck. "Fire. Fire and swords and an iron crown." "Ares!" The word burst from her lips. The lassitude vanished, replaced by a surge of anger. Kneeling before her, Agnes' eyes filled with terror. Geraldine looked at her upraised face and raised her right arm above her head, ready to strike. She felt the weight of an iron faced leather gauntlet on it. She looked down at Agnes. The fear in Agnes eyes had been replaced by a look of awe, then acceptance, then, as the upraised arm began to descend, of release. The falling arm slowed, as Geraldine felt herself filled with compassion for the woman kneeling, childlike at her feet. The arm, the hand now bare, came to rest, palm down, on the top of Agnes head. "Bless you, child." Agnes' eyes rolled up. She collapsed at Geraldine's feet. The room snapped into focus, as the connecting door opened. The Countess entered, clad only in a silken gown. Geraldine's eyes flashed. "You. You had her do it." It was not a question. The countess, unabashed, smiled back, "Yes, I did, though she was, as you might imagine, more than willing. It was your test. Welcome to your new grade. Now, quickly, get her into the bed. She's chilled to the bone, and so are you." Rain trickled down the windows. It was ten in the morning, but the heavy cloud and a mist that made vague blurs of large trees scarcely a hundred paces away made Juanita - she had happily abandoned the name Geraldine - think of a late winter afternoon. They sat in front of the fire, newly laid and lit by a servant summoned by Agnes, while Juanita and Adeline - the Countess - hid, giggling like naughty children, in Agnes' room. All three had awakened half an hour previously in the big bed, Adeline and Juanita flanking Agnes, who had only returned to shivering consciousness after they had held her between them, their naked bodies restoring body heat to her, for nearly half an hour. By the time Agnes had recovered, Juanita was herself sleeping, worn out by the inner storm that she had passed through. Now, they awaited Agnes' return, Adeline barely clad in the silk wrapper she had worn the night before and Juanita wrapped in her familiar, multihued robe. Adeline eyed the robe disapprovingly. "I have no doubt, my dear, that the robe is warm, but it does nothing at all for your appearance, beside spoiling the view for me. You are very beautiful, Juanita." Juanita feasted her eyes on Adeline. Adeline was worth looking at, she understated to herself. Taller than Juanita, but no less slim, her creamy, almost custard coloured body was totally hairless. Not, she was sure, shaven, but naturally hairless. Without even the little makeup that she had worn at dinner her face looked slightly asiatic, but her long black hair shone in a way that oriental hair seldom did. Nor did she have the skin over bone look that Juanita associated with oriental woman. There were muscles beneath that creamy skin, as had been demonstrated when Adeline had lifted Agnes from the floor where she had collapsed and placed her in the bed with no more apparent effort than if the full grown woman had been a child. The Countess, if countess she was, was certainly not an English Countess - not English born, Juanita corrected herself. "Do you like the view, honey?", grinned Adeline, in an accent as American as Juanita’s. "So you're not English?" The accent had surprised her. Adeline's English accent to that point had been perfect. "Cherokee, dear, through and through." The clear English accent had returned, and Adeline's creamy, hairless body was explained. Full blooded American Indian woman of the northern tribes - she knew - were so, and even their braves lacked facial hair. "Born and raised on the reservation, but left at fourteen to follow a travelling theatre. We grow up young. They thought I was your age. I made it to the theatre in New York, but wanted to travel and joined a tour of Europe. Married The Earl in Italy - he was a younger son, didn't expect to inherit the title. When he did, the family was furious. Didn't know I was Cherokee. American was bad enough. Never told them, just snubbed them. Since he died I've not been much for society, but the title, like the money, is useful, especially when I travel." "When did you... enter the Lodge?" Juanita was not altogether sure, in this era, if that was something one asked. "My father, and his father, and so on, a long way back, were medicine men. The women were seldom taught the art, but I was an only child, so father taught me. He even named me for it. My 'medicine' name is Silent Thunder. Told me, when I left, how to look for others. Edward, my late husband, was a Lodge member. I recognised that he was something when we met, and - he told me later - he saw that I was psychic. Didn't have the skill to recognise that I had passed beyond that. Watson recognised it when I was introduced to the Lodge, and I soon outranked Edward." "May I ask, dear, what is your present grade?" "After your amazing performance last night, you may ask me anything. When your new grade is confirmed, as it will certainly be, you will be the same grade as the doctor, and two grades my superior." "Two grades, are you not Adeptus major?" "No. Even in your life as 'Milady', when you held that grade, you were my superior. Last night's test was to determine if you still held that grade. There was some doubt, after your life as Jerry. It was expected, in fact, that you would fail." "And if I had, would you have saved me?" "No, I could not." "And if I had succeeded, you realise that I may have killed Agnes?" "It was unlikely, but barely possible. And I was overlooking the test from the next room. When you broke her spell - did you notice that the knots had even fallen out of her cord - I started in." "You started in to interrupt your superior in the act of defending herself, to save Agnes?" "It was my duty to try to save her. I had given her the task of testing you." "Then you acted above your grade. I will recommend that you be tested for the grade of Adeptus major and, I assure you, you will gain - have already gained - that grade. But there's a further strange fact about last night. Did you observe Agnes after she realised that she was defeated?" "No, my attention was on you. Wait, I felt her fear, then... something else. I'm not sure what it was." "If I am not mistaken, I think that she, also, exceeded herself. I will question her about it as soon as possible. She holds the third degree in the Wiccan rite?" "Yes." "Is she of the Lodge?" "No. We were to test her for the equivalent grade next month." "If I am right, I think we will be testing her for the next higher grade, your old grade. We will see. If I am not mistaken, Agnes is coming now." As she spoke, there was a knock at the door. "Agnes?" "Yes, countess." "Come in." Agnes entered, wheeling a tray piled high with what promised to be a magnificent breakfast. "The doctor asked me to tell you that he will be away until at least two. He had me order the bath prepared for you. He said that, after what he knew of last night's activity, you'd both find it welcome." "Did he manage to keep his face straight, Agnes?" "He did, Miss, but his eyes were twinkling." "Agnes, you will not call me Miss again in private. I am Juanita. Surely, after last night, there need be little formality between us?" Agnes blushed. (Comment on this)
Saturday, December 7th, 2002
11:16 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 007 There was a knock at the door. "Come in." Geraldine found this small formality, a real sense of privacy, most welcome. Did nobody ever come through a door without knocking and waiting to be called? Lovely. The door was opened by Watson, looking elegant and even taller in his dinner suit. "May I take you down to dine, Milady?" "Tres gallante, monsieur, avec plaisure." "Mon plaisure, mademoiselle. Your choice of gown, I presume? "Yes, father. Suitable?" "It looks magnificent, my dear, and so do you. Come. Sherry in the drawing room, then dinner." Your guests have arrived?" "Both of them. I take it that your maid met with your satisfaction?" "I like her, but, my maid? I thought that she was in the service of someone she called 'the countess." "Was is the word, my dear. She came up from town with the Countess, who employed her when she lost her last station. She was to stay with you if you found each other satisfactory. She is yours, my dear. I presume you applied to her the same, or similar, magic with which you captivated the eternal devotion of my butler. If you continue in this wise, no one but yourself will retain any of their people." "Nonsense, father. I showed respect for Robson and let Agnes know that I liked her. That's all." "Not nonsense, otherwise everyone would be loved by their servants. We'll discuss it later, if you wish. Here's the drawing room." Watson opened the door and led her into a large, high ceilinged room. The windows were heavily draped, but wall bracketed oil lamps and a large crystal chandelier, plus the logs burning in the vast fireplace lit the room almost to the degree that she expected from electric lights. There were two people in the room. A stately lady of peculiarly ageless aspect. Tall, slim figured, with almost orientally black hair, she had a fine, wedge shaped face with prominent cheekbones. Her eyes were startlingly dark, almost black and her skin a creamy gold. She was dressed in a flowing gown of gold silk, a choker of gold and amber emphasising a long, graceful neck. On her left hand she wore a slim gold band of intricate design and on her right a heavily carved gold ring set with a very large diamond, it's colour varying between light yellow and brilliant blue-white. "Countess, may I present my protege." The countess nodded an acknowledgment. A flicker of expression crossed her face as Geraldine mirrored her nod. "A proud one, I see. Well, we will see." The smile that grew as she spoke assured Geraldine that, if she had not shown sufficient respect, that this was not wholly unwelcomed by the Countess. "My apologies, Countess, If my behaviour is unseemly, but I am quite unused to being presented to ladies of your rank." The glowing smile broadened further "And, I see, observant and quick witted. I'm charmed to meet you, my dear. I had not expected such a beauty." The last, delivered past Geraldine to Watson, was obviously intended as sincere comment, rather than pleasantry. "I was struck by the same thought, Countess." he replied. He turned to the man who stood behind and to the right of the countess. "And Don Carlos, my protege. Don Carlos has come some distance to me you, my dear." Geraldine almost dragged her eyes from the Countess to look at him. At first glance, a Spanish gentleman of advanced years, dressed in high Spanish formal style in slim, almost skintight black trousers with a faint silver thread down the outside seams and a tight, long sleeved, waistcoat like jacket, lightly embroidered in silver. His fine leather boots were slim and with pronounced heels. His hair was drawn back tightly and tied in a small pigtail, like a bullfighter's. His face, she suddenly realised, was almost totally Indian, the skin a deeply tanned copper colour, heavily wrinkled, the nose classical Aztec. He surveyed her intently for what seemed some minutes, then moved towards her. "He moves like a cat," she thought. Even for a man half his apparent age, his movements would have seemed unusually swift, though smooth and graceful. He bowed over the hand that she had involuntarily extended towards him and touched his lips to it. His creased face broke into a warm, encompassing smile. "I am utterly charmed to meet you, Milady." Her eyes widened slightly at his use of the name, and the almost accentless precision of his English. In fact, she realised, what accent there was hinted of American. His smile became even more radiant as he stepped back and froze into relaxed immobility. Watson stepped forward to take Geraldine's arm as a knock came to the door. "Come in, Robins." he called as he seated her beside the Countess in one of the four deep leather chairs forming an arc in front of the fireplace. She withdrew into the sanctuary of the chair's depths as Don Carlos seated himself on her left and Watson sat at the Countess's right. "Some sherry?" Robins offered a silver tray to the countess (was rewarded with a friendly smile), Geraldine (he gave her a conspiratorial grin), Don Carlos and Watson. She sat quietly, nursing the fragile crystal sherry glass, while Watson exchanged pleasantries with his two guests. The aura of personal power radiated by her father was familiar to her, but the countess was the first woman she had encountered who shared his gift of capturing the total attention of any normal mortal lucky enough to be in her presence. It was not merely her beauty. No, Geraldine had first been struck by the sense of presence that she conveyed. Only upon critical examination of her appearance was the beauty discovered. She theorised that, for most people, such critical examination would never take place. If asked if she were beautiful they would reply 'of course', but may well have been unable to even describe her appearance. She guessed that, like her father and, she realised with a start, herself, the countess could make people see her in almost any way that she wished them to see her, without change of anything but her expression and manner. Don Carlos was another matter. He had a trick of... almost invisibility. The picture that came to her mind was that of a hunter, carefully concealed, awaiting his prey, or a mantis, moving like the twig he so closely resembled. Certainly, a hunter. When he stood as she had first seen him, still and silent in the background, he had shown no more presence than had any piece of furniture in the room. Geraldine recalled how her attention had slipped immediately past him to the countess. Again, only upon critical examination had she noticed even his remarkable Aztec Indian face. Even his striking costume had failed to catch her attention. But when he wanted your attention.... she remembered the initial steadiness of gaze that held her almost rigid while it held her, then the huge relief - the total acceptance and inclusion - of that brilliant smile. She guessed that even her father had little - no, not little - no chance of prevailing against this man. Who was he, she wondered, and why was he here? She looked up and found her eyes held by those of the countess. "A penny for your thoughts, my dear. Summing us all up, I have no doubt. Have you reached any conclusions?" There was no offence in the challenge, though challenge it clearly was; at least between the two of them. "Men," she thought, "don't challenge each other in quite this way. Probably would not recognise it for what it was." "My apologies Countess, there is much that I must learn. I feel little more than a child in this company." "But a clever child, and one not to be underrated. You have obviously been assessing my self, not my title and position, neither of which, I noticed, seemed to impress you. No, child, I'm not offering criticism. All of us here know the small value of such things. You shall, except in public, of course, call me Adeline, and I shall call you....what? Carlos has named you Milady, but that has perhaps a little too much weight to be carried among friends." "My name used to be Jerry, but I doubt that it would be acceptable here." "No, and too similar to Geraldine. We do have opponents. No, we must appeal again to Carlos. What are we to call her, Carlos?" Again, she found herself pinned by that marvellous gaze. Again, the irresistible smile. "What of Juanita?" It was now as if he was looking inside her most secret self, reading the effect on that self of the name. Again the smile. "It will serve you well. Do you accept it?" The note of challenge in the last four words shook her. It was as if she were being challenged to undertake a difficult and dangerous task. She felt a chill pass through her as, unable to resist, she replied "It will. I will be Juanita." To her amazement, Carlos leaped to his feet, almost danced around her, grinning furiously, and patted her back and the top of her head. "Juanita, my little Juanita. It is good." To her surprise, neither the countess or her father appeared surprised at his behaviour. Her father merely nodded, the countess smiled and said, "Juanita, the spanish 'Joan', I like it." "But do not forget," Carlos said intently, "also little John." "Ah, I see. Thank you, Carlos. Well then, Geraldine Jerry Saint Joan Little John Milady Juanita, our hostess, may we now consider dinner?" (Comment on this)
Monday, November 25th, 2002
9:49 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 006 There's one thing at least to be said for this society, she thought. If anybody is upset about anything, they have tea. As she had sat, stunned by the horror of the prospect opened by her father's words, he had calmly pressed a button beside his chair. Within minutes there was a knock at the door. He opened it, and a man entered with a teatray, which he placed on a table between them. "I'd like you to meet Robson, my dear. He is, nominally, the butler. Actually he attends to the entire operation of this establishment." Robson appeared to be in his sixties, tall and upright, with the walk of a soldier. His face bore a marked resemblance to a section of granite cliff. "Pleased to meet you, Miss. The doctor said that you would be staying with us. If any of the servants, or anybody else for that matter, gives you any trouble, let me know and I'll smarten them up, quicksmart." All this was spoken in a voice of the utmost fierceness, but the grin that served for a final punctuation would have melted an iceberg. 'It has, no doubt,' she thought 'melted the resistance of many a young, and not so young, girl, too.' The grin acted like a tonic to her. "Thank you. Were you, by chance, a military man?" He looked like an aged Aramis, that most military of the musketeers. "Yes, Miss. Colour sergeant of the Seventeenth Lancers. Retired." "You were at the Charge, at Balaclava, then?" "Yes, Miss. More of us survived than you'd expect. More than we expected, either. My last action with the regiment." "You deserve respect, Robson. May I ask a favour of you?" "Anything, Miss." "No, not just anything, Robson. I would like to address you, not in public, of course, but between ourselves, as Sergeant. You've more than earned the rank." Robson was silent a moment... "Miss, the doctor calls me sergeant sometimes. I'd consider it an honour to have you do so too. It's not many young 'uns - beggin' your pardon, Miss - that understands and respects soldiers." "I do, Sergeant." "Thank you again, Miss." He almost backed from the room. "Daughter, you've just won a man who would lay down his life for you. Is any man proof against you?" "I did nothing, father, except show respect to a man who deserves it." "Whatever, I must tell you that you show signs of nobility from time to time" "I'll take that on its face value, as a compliment. Now, you've calmed me with tea and the sergeant, what's this stupidity about Armageddon? Nobody could be fool enough to want that sort of an end for themselves." "Ah, but the Black Lodge do not believe that it would be their end. They're wrong, of course, as any fool could see. Evil, my dear, seldom rises above stupidity, in the longer term." "Let's skip - sorry - leave that for the moment. How do you know?" "We don't know, but we strongly suspect. We're hoping that your knowledge of the years between now and your... departure will help us be sure and, if sure, able to stop them." "What do you know so far, and how?" "Daughter, if you think about it, you can answer the "how" yourself. Our seers. You know that they can pick up pictures from the future, even if they - or we - can seldom interpret them. We hope that you, who have lived many years in what may be our future, can add flesh to the bones provided by these visions." "Ah. I hadn't thought of that. That's why I discounted visions. Too unreliable. But you said 'may be our future’. What do you mean?" "I'm not sure. Suffice to say that, for every nine visions which show this horrifying future, one shows a different one, one in which the Black Lodge is either destroyed or unable to prevail. We conclude from this that the odds are very much in favour of the future of which you have experienced part. But the odd visions imply to us that an alternative exists. We consider it worth our lives to work to achieve the reality of that alternative." "I recognise the evils of Jerry's time. Do your visions show it as getting better, or worse.?" "Worse, and, afterwards, we can see nothing. We believe that, on the odds, the Black Lodge will succeed. Armageddon, termination of our Earth and its people." "Forget the tea, father, may I have a brandy?" "We'll both have a brandy, and drink to the alternative." "I'll certainly drink to that. I agree with you that it's worth our lives; all of our lives, and more, if we can change the possibility - no - probability." "We are all agreed on that. Here's your brandy." "What can we do, father?" "For now, only prepare. Remember, in our work, time seldom presses, unless the Black Lodge actually attacks us, which seldom occurs without at least some of us becoming aware in advance of their intent. Here, we are as safe as is humanly possible. This building, and its grounds, are heavily protected, and have been for many years. The grounds can be overlooked physically, but the interior is difficult to enter and impossible to view psychically." Watson crossed the room and opened a small safe, extracted two wads of papers in manilla folders, then relocked the safe. "Here," he handed her the first file, "is a precis of our more common visions of the future. This file," he handed her the second, much slimmer, file, "is the less common but, I am sure you will find, much more attractive option. I have some duties to perform. While I do so, would you oblige me by attempting to match either or both of these files with the twentieth century world of your experience. We dine formally tonight. Some of our brethren will be here. After dinner we will discuss your findings. To assist you in dressing correctly for the occasion a ladies maid of some experience with, I understand, appropriate clothing is being brought up from London." "Till tonight, then father." The papers were fascinating. There, in a succession of soundless visions, were the major turning points of late nineteenth and early twentieth century history: the battle of Omdurman, the Boer war, both with that butcher Kitchener. Then world war one and the Russian revolution, then all the other nasties. She had not the slightest difficulty in recognising any of them. Indeed, she recognised, in street scenes that could only be from the Russian Revolution, a scene which she had last seen depicted on the cover of a paperback copy of Moorehead's "The Russian Revolution". She wondered, in passing, whether the artist had shared the seer's vision, or the seer, the artist's. The answer, she thought, could solve the age old question of where literary and artistic inspiration originated. She continued until the light from the windows faded. She was considering ringing for a light (after wondering where the switch was) when she heard a quiet knock at the door. "Come in" she called. The door was opened by a servant holding aloft an oil lamp. Behind her was what appeared to be a pile of clothing with a pair of feet protruding, just, below. The lamp entered, followed by the servant, the bundle, another servant carrying two more lamps and an elfishly voluble girl, no, woman carrying yet another lamp and haranguing her predecessors unmercifully. "Now I know why you all stay out here in the country. Not one of you could hold a job in town. Careful with those dresses, girl, or you'll have to take them down and press them all again. Watch those lamps. If you spill oil on anything, or burn anything, I'll..... Compliments from my mistress, the Countess, Miss, and I'm here to help you dress. You, put those down on the bed. You, a light each side of the mirror. You, put that down and light the wall lamps. This room is a cave. You, light that fire. How can you expect anybody to dress themselves decently without light. You, the tall one. How much light will there be in the dining room? More than this, or less, and the drawing room? You're sure. I hope for your sake you're right. Now, out, all of you, out. out. out. I'm sorry, dearie, but you can't find decent servants here. I don't know how you stand it. I'm Agnes, dear. What shall I call you? They didn't tell me anything, just 'clothes for someone about your own size.' You are the one they're for? You look so young. Grown up, though, definitely grown up." She eyed Geraldine's figure admiringly. "And who chose that getup for you, mind you, it suits you. You look like a lovely, lovely boy. Many's the woman, or the man, too, in town that would think you a lovely morsel. Can't say I'd blame 'em, at that. Get those clothes off, dear and let's see what we can dress you in." At last the torrent of words slowed to a trickle. Agnes, at least, sounded competent. "Thank you, Agnes. In public you will refer to me as 'the young lady', in private" - she looked at the maids trim figure, close to her own in overall size, but a little smaller in the shoulders, bigger in the bust - "you can call me Jerry" she grinned. "Oh, and Agnes." "Yes mum, miss." "That's better, Agnes." "I'm sorry if I offended you, miss. You looked like such a girl." "I'll accept that as a compliment, Agnes. Now, I need all the help you can give me, so you can stop being formal. I want you to treat me as someone who knows absolutely nothing - nothing, you understand - about clothing and preparing myself for a formal occasion. Do you understand me?" "Yes, miss, pardon me, miss, are you from America?" "Yes, I am. That's part of why I'll need your help." "Not to worry, not to worry, now, let's get these clothes off you. Oh, you bad girl. No smallclothes. Can't say as I blame you, though. Not in a warm house like this and," she gave an impish grin, "Other occasions. My, you are a beauty. Let's look at you. Turn around dear, now, raise your arms. Oh, my. Set the town on it's ear, you will. I was going to dress you in white, but - no offence, dearie - it's not grown up enough for you. A full blown woman's, not a young girl's dress for you. With them clothes on you looked like a lovely boy or a young girl. Without 'em, a real woman. I'd 'av never 'av talked to you as I did if I'd seen what a woman you were. Now, not the green, nor the red, what about this?" She held up a dress in royal blue velvet. "or this" A black satin evening gown?" "What about this?" Geraldine held up a grey silk dress. "And you said you knew nothing about clothes. Twenty guineas if it's a penny, and worth more than that to any woman looking to make the right entrance. Will you wear smallclothes, dearie, or not?" "I really should, shouldn't I? I just couldn't stand these." She held up a pair of starched white cotton knee length pants. "All right for the likes of me, I suppose, cotton smallclothes and woollen stockings, we're supposed to wear, though I wears her ladyships castoffs." Agnes lifted her dress to her waist, exposing two remarkably pretty bare legs and silk underdrawers. "But not for the your ladyship. No. Silken pretties for you." She pulled out a pile of shimmering silk, looking like a clear silvery pool on the bedspread. "Now, lets get you dressed. Ooo, I want to cuddle you every time I looks at you, you're so beautiful." With what Geraldine considered exaggerated delay and care the silken drawers and camisole were applied. Then grey silk stockings, rolled slowly and caressingly up her legs. "Now, arms up." The dress was pulled down over her head. "There, fits you as if it was made for you, no, let's have it off again. The dress was removed and, while Geraldine warmed herself in front of the fire, luxuriating in the strange, delicious feel of silk against her bare body Agnes rummaged through a small box that she had brought, extracted needle and thread, and performed miraculous alterations that pulled in the waist of the dress and shortened it by a few inches. With loving care, Agnes again lowered the dress onto her. "There. My you're lovely." Her hands circled the waist.. "Not too tight? No, good." They slid down to smooth over the buttocks. "Lovely. It fits lovely." Geraldine seriously doubted that that was what she meant. Was Agnes lesbian? she wondered. No, almost certainly not, just very sexy. "Now, shoes. Can you fit into these? Sit down on the bed and let's see. Oo. They're too big. Not by much. though. Let's put a tiny piece of wadding in the toes, there. Stand up, dearie. Are they all right? Now, let's look at you." Agnes cast a carnivorous gaze over her. "Lovely. Fit to visit the Queen. Now, we'll just do your hair and put a tiny bit more colour in your face. It's the lamp light, you know. If the dining room is lit like this, you’d look like a ghost. A bit more eyes, there." She looked at herself in the mirror. The high heels and the long line of the beautifully cut dress made her look taller than her medium height. The silky dove grey lent an air of distinction. The touch of cosmetics added drama to her high cheekbones and mystery to her eyes. She turned to Agnes, framed by the lights flanking the mirror. "Oh My." Agnes' eyes widened, "You. are. a. beauty. Miss." "You like your handiwork, do you?" "Oh. Miss. It isn't my handiwork. I've never seen anyone so lovely." "You look pretty good yourself, Agnes." Agnes coloured and dropped her eyes. "Thank you, Miss. Miss, are all of you, you know, from America, as friendly as you?" "How do you mean, Agnes?" "Well, you make me seem...not different, somehow. As if I wasn't a servant, like." Agnes' speech had lapsed from her ladies maid voice to what Geraldine supposed was her natural accent. "It is different there. I'm not used to having servants. You could put it down to American democratic ideals, I suppose, but we - at least I - don't think of servants as different. Just people with a different job to do." "Bless you miss, it isn't like that here. But you, you're more like a friend than a ....you know." Her eyes misted. Geraldine stepped forward and hugged her for a moment. Was surprised to see tears. "I am your friend, Agnes, and I'd like you to be mine." Agnes drew herself up. "I'm honoured, miss, I am. I'll go and tell the doctor your ready." With a barely concealed sniff, she quickly left the room. (Comment on this)
Thursday, November 14th, 2002
4:19 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 005 "Father, I've been thinking." It was eleven the following morning. Watson had completed his morning rounds, and they were again sitting in the study, described by him as his 'place of refuge.' His standing orders were that nobody was to enter the room when he was there. A bell pull outside the door was provided for occasions when he was urgently required. One servant only was permitted to enter in his absence to clean and lay the fire. "I've been thinking, too. We'll have to find some suitable clothes for you." She was again dressed in the rainbow coloured wrapper. "I understood that clothes had been provided for you in your room." "There were, father, but I'd need someone to teach me how to get into them, and they looked hideously uncomfortable." "When in Rome, my dear." "Yes, I know. But first let me tell you what I've been thinking. I don't think I can handle this society as a woman without at least a year of tutoring and practise. I must have spent an hour last night thinking about it, and my lack of knowledge appals me. Why can't I be a man?" "You seem to me to make a most implausible man, my dear." "Well, a boy, or a very young man, at least. You mentioned last night that you - we - have enemies who could be relied upon to attack us if they even suspected my existence here. Would they expect a male? Remember, I've been being a male, even if an inadequate one, for the last twenty three years." "Not in that body, my dear. Certainly not in that body. And, as that man, would you have made the suggestions that you made to me last night?" She had the grace to lower her eyes. "I'm sorry, father. I love you, you know that, and I was rather unstable last night. Ritual seems to stimulate me. No, damn it, I won't excuse myself. Before I dropped my robe in the bedroom, while I still suspected that I was a male, I still wanted you to see me naked. You're a most attractive man, father." "One thing you'll have to learn, daughter, is not to swear in public. Jerry was normal, wasn't he? He wasn't.....I don't know how to put it." "Gay, father? No, gay doesn't mean the same here. Homosexual? Inverted? Given to 'the love that dare not speak it's name?' Lord Alfred Douglas, wasn't it? And I wasn't really swearing, but I know what you mean. If you can believe it, I have been very careful of my language in your presence, not even using the four letter words that girls regularly used in company. Father, you literally would not believe the late twentieth century in America, particularly on the subject of sex." Watson visibly flinched. "I'm sorry, father, but you need to know more about that society, or you cannot possibly understand me. There had been more change in technical, social and sexual factors particularly in the last forty years, she told him, than in the preceding six centuries. Jerry was not a homosexual - had not even one such experience - but many of his fellow students had several such experiences and still considered themselves 'straight'- normally sexed. The term 'gay' was reserved for those that were publicly and exclusively homosexual. "Yes, publicly, father. Oh, I don't mean that they had sex in public, (Watson flinched again) but they sometimes went as far as public kissing. In girls" (Watson tensed) "- no, I don't mean lesbians, I know almost nothing about them, except that they're just as vocal about their 'rights'- virginity over the age of, say, thirteen is rare. Sexual partnerships in high school are common. The celibate man or woman is the rarity, even, it is suggested, among priests. Do you begin to see why I concluded that I could not expose myself in public in this society as a woman?" There was a silence before Watson replied. "This obviously bears some thinking about. I had not realised that such changes in sexual mores could take place so quickly, and I have been too many years in this society. We both remember that, in the societies in which we have lived, sex and its ramifications were far more open than they are here. We also both recognise that the present attitude to sexual matters is both hypocritical and unhealthy. Let us discuss this further, but, in the meantime, I will consider finding you some boy's clothes, so that you need not be confined to your bedroom and this study." "And the bathroom," she grinned. Magical Diary. 23rd. November 1895. It seems a lifetime. Even when father asked me to start my diary, it didn't ring any bells - damn - must learn to watch my language. Father says that, boy or girl, I'm going to have to remain American for at least some time. Says that every time I open my mouth I convict myself. Father has become quite Victorian. He hasn't really. I noticed that look of lust when I first bared all in front of him. And it was hardly intentional at all. Bullshit (Another word I'll have to forget). Be honest with yourself, girl. You've lusted after him since you were twelve, with your teats first starting to grow. Back to business. This diary business meant nothing until he found me this book. Must be over a hundred years old. Then I saw the heading at the top of the first page. I still don't know who wrote it. I don't remember ever managing such beautiful script. But it's mine - the book, I mean. Father must have kept it after I died. I doubt that he would have been able to find any of the earlier ones; the ones I actually kept. Magical diaries are one of the things that must be ultimately private. I remember being Milady De Winter. I remember my husband, Athos De Winter, bless his beautiful memory. At least it's a beautiful memory for me. Athos never really understood - me, or what father and I were trying to do - which was to weaken the King so that father (Armond Du Plessis, Cardinal Archbishop and Duc De Richelieu, no less) could gain enough power to disperse the parasites that were eating up France. If we had succeeded, France could have followed the English pattern of a virtually bloodless revolution, then a democracy under a constitutional monarch. Must ask father what went wrong. I was busily engaged in getting myself killed at the time. Took the ritual with me, though. Wonder if father knows that I memorised it? I hope not; it's better lost. You never know. Still, I'm glad it's now in a safe place; ie the nasty, devious mind of old hot pants herself, me. I don't think another copy existed. I hope not, though from what Jerry learned about Hitler, I'm not sure. I remember Jerry. Actually, I was there all the time, but I, as Jerry, didn't know it. A good thing, too. If he had known as much about women as I do he could have cut a wide swathe through the girls of America. But, of course, he wouldn't. Jerry wasn't happy and never knew why. His was my first male incarnation outside the church. One day, father assures me, I will be just as happy in incarnation in either sex. He's probably right, but I LIKE being a woman. For those of you who've never tried it - scratch that - for those of you who don't know you've tried it, I can't explain how right it felt to look in that mirror and see a woman's body. And such a pretty one. So I'm narcissistic, so what. Actually, the Gods have been good to me - The Goddess, actually. I've never been one of the chaste moon priestesses. More of a field operative, to use CIA terms, out there in the firing line and, usually, loving it. Maybe I'll grow up some day. Probably I won't, unless I can find me a man of father's calibre. So.... Magical operations for the day: Last night. 22nd. Sun in Sagittarius. Opening rite, Path 23, Saturn. Aborted after confirmation of contacts. Memory all there now. I wonder if I would have emerged from my dream state without the ritual? Thought you were dreaming, didn't you, kid. Just waiting for an opportunity to come out with 'elementary, Watson.' Plus trying to seduce him. No more for today. Father promised me some clothes (boy's) tomorrow. Haven't seen him since lunch. He has a lovely library, though... Dinner had just been finished in the study. The wind was working itself up to a typical November gale, it's strength barely perceptible except for an occasional whistle in the chimney. "I feel that a small brandy would not go amiss. Would you like a sherry, my dear." "I know ladies drink sherry, father, but, in the sanctum of your study, would a small brandy be permissible. Someday I must explain 'women’s lib' to you." Watson moved to a sideboard, took two brandy balloons and poured two drinks. "Whoa. That's enough. I like brandy, but I hate getting drunk. Thank you. Here's to ... The Queen, God bless her? No, to us." "Yes, we two, always and ever. Five lives, isn't it?" "Yes. Father and daughter, twice, unrelated enemies - that's when I really began to love you - unrelated allies and clandestine allies, with you a 'father of the church'. Never lovers - husband and wife." "You know why that had to be." "Had to be, but no longer has to be. We've progressed beyond that necessity." "That may be so, but we have work here to do, and I'm 85 years old in this body and you're 18 in that." "You've found out something, then?" "No, daughter, but I've been thinking some more about the matter of clothing for you, and an identity, and money. By the way, how do you like your outfit?" She was dressed in a white blouse, closed at the throat by a tiny black velvet string tie, the sleeves wide, but buttoned at the wrist, black velvet knee breeches, white silk stockings and soft, heelless black slippers. Her hair was pulled tightly back and knotted behind her head, like a toreador's pigtail. "Do you like it?" "You look like a sodomite's dream." "Thank you. Yes, I realise that I can hardly remain Geraldine Fallshaw, if I am to remain in hiding, but what about money?" "You will have to live some sort of a life in the outside world, and I don't fancy you working as a shop girl or a maid, even if anyone would employ you as either. No references, etc." "Hadn't thought of that. As Jerry, I lived in the natural state for a student - poverty. As Milady, the idea of money never occurred to me. There were always men to take care of that." "Including me." "Yes, 'your Grace', a few of your golden Louis would perhaps not go amiss now." "You remember that, then?" "Yes, most, if not all of Milady and the others plus, I think, all of Jerry." "Excellent. Actually, money isn't that much of a problem. As Geraldine, you have two thousand a year in your own right, plus accumulation over the last five years, since you came into your inheritance." "My parents are dead, then?" "Yes, Geraldine is an orphan. The problem isn't parents. It is that, were you to publicly claim your inheritance, attention - unwelcome attention - would be drawn to you. Fortunately, the Solicitor handling your affairs - he was also the family solicitor - is one of us. He has been paying me a princely sum annually - from your estate - for your care, all of which - excepting the pittance that it has cost to feed and clothe you -has been deposited with another solicitor, not one of us, but a reliable man. In addition, the solicitor handling your estate has decided to put the management of the interest from your estate under the exclusive care of yet another solicitor. The annual fee for these - fictional - services will be available to you via an account to be established with the Bank of England. This I arranged to be put in train today. You will have, therefore, about ten thousand pounds accumulated, plus drawings up to two thousand a year. Most people would consider this a more than adequate fortune." "It's been decided, then, that I am to go out into the world?" "Yes, you deduced that, I presume, from the arrangements?" "Of course. Why else would I need so much money. To quote Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 'I understand that it's possible to live quite comfortably on seven hundred a year'." "Quite. But to exist in society, most people would need all that you have and more. There is enough, however, for you to travel the world, if you wish." "Father, do we know why I am here?" "I believe so. In your time as Jerry, had anything developed with the Jews." "Israelis, please, father. They have established a state of Israel." "Where, and how?" "Where? In Palestine. How? It's a long story, father, with one very strange feature." "What was the strange feature?" "I knew you’d want that first. Six million or so Jews were massacred in the 1940s - those who died hardly did anything to prevent their deaths. Most, I understand, died like cattle. Then, after the war ended, the survivors demanded and were given their own state in Palestine. Self government, but almost no arms, and surrounded by many times their number of Arabs who hated them. Can you imagine what happened?" "I would wager that they defeated the Arabs." "How did you know?" "A guess, fortified by the fact that you said that they have, not had, their Jerusalem - sorry - Israel." "Right both times. First they got their Israel, then they added territory. Three more times they were attacked by the Arabs, never were they less than heavily outnumbered and out equipped. Three times they won, each time adding territory. The first of these 'wars', I think that was the one that they called 'the six days war' - that's how long it lasted - got them the city of Jerusalem. Anyhow, the amazing thing, to me, was how a people that had let themselves be slaughtered could turn around and become some of the world's most effective warriors." "It's perfectly clear to me, my dear. Have you read Revelations lately?" "St. John the divine? I've read it." "Think about the prerequisites for Armageddon." "The reestablishment of Jerusalem. Father! What's happening?" "The Black Lodge, we believe. They're trying to induce Armageddon by the year 2000." (Comment on this)
Sunday, November 10th, 2002
2:25 am	Juanita. Gates of Life. 004 They lounged, facing each other, from opposite sides of a great grey marble bath, filled with steaming hot water. "You looked exhausted, father." "You, my dear, wore a robe. I had to put up with it fully clothed, not excluding that amazingly uncomfortable collar. It was the second time today I expected a heart attack." "What was the first, dear?" "As you well know, when you decided to examine yourself, naked in the mirror. But then, you always were a provocative child." "And you, father, remain the only unseducable man I know." "You've never previously complained of lack of opportunity or, I might add, success in that field." "I'm at least partly joking, father, though I suspect my last life has made me more open on these matters. Have you lived in the period?" "No. This is the furthest along the time track I've lived." "I don't know whether to recommend it to you or not. How long have you been in this society?" "Over eighty years, and active in the Lodge for fifty five of them." "You look about forty five." "Yes, we do tend to wear well." "The virtuous life, I suppose." She smothered a giggle. He frowned. "You always did lack respect. Tell me about 'Jerry'." "Jerry was a nebbich - sorry, a Yiddish word, means a nobody, a nothing." "Yes, I recognised it, close enough to Hebrew. Continue." "Oh, he was a nice kid, clever, strong and good looking, but a mite confused. As you know, I've never been sexually active in a male lifetime, but in that era and country, being a nebbich is possibly the only way to stay that way. Your Dr. Freud certainly succeeded in spreading his ideas. They worked, of course, for people brought up in a society as sexually repressed as his, or this one." By the 1960s, she told him, particularly in American cities, sexual freedom had spread to a foolish extent, with significant numbers of so called men denying responsibility for their children and women opting to have children out of wedlock rather than working for a living. The state supported them, you see. The more children, the more support. This in the face of the worst population problem the world had ever known. "Malthus was right, then?" "No, I think Malthus was wrong. He said we'd breed faster than our food supply could increase but food production rose amazingly. The 'green revolution' some called it. Death control was the problem. It was acceptable; birth control wasn't. Medicine advanced to an amazing extent. A non medical student, who merely read the easily available bits, plus studied first aid, in Jerry's time, may well have learned more about medicine that the average nineteenth century practitioner of medicine knew. The 1890s doctor would know more anatomy, but that's about all and, of course, a lot of what he would think he knew would be flatly wrong. Average lifespans were much longer in Jerry's time. Most people died of heart disease or cancer; considered here and now, 'old men's diseases'. "What about Tuberculosis?" "Effectively gone. Same for smallpox. Nearly the same for polio. They developed effective antibiotics." "Amazing. With such advances in medicine, I'm surprised that you were poisoned - by a prank, you said." "Yes. In retrospect, I recognise the symptoms. Acid." "Acid? What kind of acid?" "Sorry, a contemporary generic term. Usually D.Lysurgic acid Dimethylene, called L.S.D., or it could have been S.T.P. or D.T.P., or even a mixture of any or all of them." "I've never heard of them." "You wouldn't have. Synthesised alkaloids, based on the active ingredient of mescalin, which comes from a cactus. It's an hallucinogenic like aconite, or digitalis." "Witchcraft? Those are among the witch poisons, or witch cures. Depending upon how they were used." "No father. Not witchcraft. Kids use those drugs - and worse. Recreational drugs, they're called. Marijuana, cocaine, heroin. You can buy them in almost any schoolyard. Some fellow students who didn't like Jerry's attitude to drugs considered it amusing to lace his beer with acid. It doesn't often kill people. Sometimes drives them insane. Actually, Jerry may not be dead. Coma that lasts for years is one recorded effect of acid." "I find the society hard to believe." "So did I, and I lived in it. You mentioned witchcraft. There are at least three separate schools of witchcraft, and you can buy books describing their rituals. Virtually anyone can join a coven. Devil worship? At least one self proclaimed Satanist Church has been demanding equal rights under tax law with all the other churches." "Does the Lodge, our magical society, no longer exist?" "I don't know. But then, how could I? A number of magical societies still exist, but Jerry certainly never encountered ours. One advertises for members in the cheap daily papers and low level magazines. The others seem to have their homes conveniently close to centres of political power. Those are a little harder to contact, I understand." "How do you know as much as you do about this?" "A lad at my University was granted a Baccalaureate in magic, Thaumaturgy, a few years ago. Bonewits, I believe his name was. Published a book. Mentioned the Golden Dawn, by the way. Fellow named Crowley published - will publish - their rituals. Later a woman claiming to be an initiate published parts of rituals, claiming that she had authority to publish. Bonewits’ claims that hers are accurate, but incomplete, while Crowley’s are complete, but changed enough to damage anyone who performs them. His tables of correspondences, though, which he also published, are correct. He appears, at least, to have been a good scholar." Come to think of it, I read one of the woman's books, 'Psychic Self Defence', I believe it was called. She claims to have received her initial training at a nursing home somewhere near London. From her description, it could be this place. But she was trained - will be trained - fifteen years at least down the track." "By that I assume that you mean fifteen years in the future?" "That's right. I'm going to have to watch my speech in public. I'm getting a little cool. Can we return to your study, or somewhere. Want to dry me?" "Stop tempting, daughter. I feel more than sufficiently wicked just looking at your lovely body. I suggest that you dry yourself and I'll call a servant to prepare your bed for you. It's nearly midnight." "Spoilsport. Thank you, and goodnight, father dear." "A good night to you, beloved daughter." (Comment on this)
Friday, November 8th, 2002
12:32 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 003 They sat in Watson's study, in great leather chairs, in front of a roaring fire filling a fireplace big enough for a barbecue. Watson was dressed in the striped trousers and black frock coat of his profession. His shirt and cuffs were starched and spotless. "Unusual for this time." she thought. He had obviously dressed formally and professionally out of consideration for her. She still wore the slippers and wrapper. The pile of female garments displayed in her room posed problems which, she decided, could safely be left for later consideration. The meal that had been called breakfast could not have been more than an hour ago, yet dusk was falling. Obviously, it had been timed to her awakening. Watson, she thought, didn't look like a Dr. Watson. He almost looks like a heavyweight boxer - except for his face. Despite the height - probably over six feet - and the obviously powerful body, there was nothing of the rotundity of face and body so characteristic of his time. His face was long with the bone structure clearly visible. Dark eyes under heavy brows, together with a jutting hawk's beak of a nose. The eyes were unusually steady, and reinforced a general impression of someone waiting with total patience - sentinel like - for the next challenge. I would not like to be the one making that challenge, she concluded. Watson was speaking. "I wonder if you are aware of the theory of reincarnation? You are? Good. I must assure you that, not only is that theory true, but, if it were not, you would not be here. There is, however, a common fallacy about reincarnation, that is, that 'lives' are necessarily sequential. It appears - indeed, we are almost certain - that they are not. A life in, say, biblical Jerusalem, could be followed by one in, say, today, then by one in the middle ages, or even one in what we consider the far future. In those spheres time appears to mean less than nothing. This is the explanation for much of what is called clairvoyance, or fortune telling, in it's lowest aspect. You have lived before, as have I. We have met - were known to each other - before. You - the physical you, body and brain - were born on the third of November, 1877, near this hospital. It was christened Geraldine Anne Maria Teresa Fallshaw. I say 'it' because, until today - last night, to be exact - it was held to be senseless. The words spoken to me last night were the first words ever to pass those lips. We believed that the soul intended for this body had been barred, by methods which we may consider later, from ever tenanting it. Some months ago, it was found that you - I will refer to it as you, at least from that point - were attempting to make movements. This had not happened before, and I was called in. You - your body - were brought to this nursing home and watched carefully, partly, at least, because of the possibility that we mentioned earlier. Movement continued. It was as if the somebody was attempting to develop the muscles of the body - muscle tone had been totally flaccid - to a useable state. We cooperated with this process, providing massage and resistance to movements to help develop the musculature. Over this period, I consulted with those more learned than myself in these matters. It was concluded that the soul intended for this body was attempting to overcome the barriers that had prevented it's more timely entry. This was considered a most important occurrence, because we believed that we knew the identity of that soul, and the reason and source of the barriers imposed. We also believed that the soul had remained discarnate, and thus would welcome any efforts that we were capable of making to assist it. We also believed that that soul - you - because of various factors, would be aware of at least it's last life. After much deliberation - these are not matters to be lightly considered, let alone attempted - we bent our strongest efforts to assist you to take over that body, which we believed to be yours. Only you can tell us if we were right to do so. If you are whom we believe you to be, you are sorely needed. In your last life you - if indeed it was you - perished attempting to restore to us a vital document, containing the details of a dangerous ritual. Your passing in the attempt brought great honour upon you, and the document was denied to your - and our - enemies. It is because of this, and your knowledge of the contents of that document, that these enemies fought against your rebirth. If they were aware of this awakening they would spare no efforts to accomplish your destruction. This place is thoroughly shielded against their observation, and has been for many years. While you are here, you are safe. Think deeply. Does any of this strike a chord within you? Does the name 'Lady DeWinter' mean anything at all to you?" "It has a familiarity about it - no, it's not me, it's like the Chinese stagehands and Holmes and Watson. I believe I've read it, too. Wait a minute - yes, Tiffany Thayer's 'Three Musketeers' - not the Dumas story. Wife of Athos, and by all report a bad lot, at least by the standards of the time. Of course; always referred to as 'Milady'. I'm confused. Why do I keep encountering fictional characters?" Watson chuckled. "We have much for which we can thank the writers of popular fiction. It is our theory that the characters, and to a considerably lesser extent the events, described in the best - the most popular - fiction are real characters who exist either in this world or in a similar world. Their popularity, we believe, rests upon a general recognition of their reality. We believe that their authors in some way sense their characters and build their stories around them. Your Dr. Watson, for instance, would hardly be acceptable as a fictional character if you could not recognise in him virtues and faults that you had yourself observed in living people. The real - by which I mean the here and now - Dr. John Watson based his literary Sherlock Holmes upon a Dr. Bell, a renowned diagnostician, whose methods he had introduced to his real life friend, Sherlock Holmes. Were you to meet the living Holmes, you would no doubt recognise in him characteristics that you would readily associate with the fictional Holmes of your memory. In short, we believe that you - here and now - are the living, reincarnated, reality of the person upon whom your Mr. Thayer based his book. Of course, some philosophers consider that we are ALL fictional, or at least the merest reflection of an undiscoverable reality. I believe that we must leave such determination to them, and address ourselves to present reality as we can best perceive it." "I don't know about the philosophers. I find reincarnation easy to accept, because I feel - I seem to remember - being someone else and - somewhere - when - else. Dr. Watson, I think I was a young man." "That is quite possible. There is evidence that sex may vary from life to life. One of my male associates clearly recollects life as a woman in Rome during the empire. Your conclusion is supported by the casual manner in which you disrobed in my presence and, if you will pardon the observation, your whistle when you first observed yourself unclothed. I must ask you to try to remember that, whatever your past was, that you are now a young and, may I say, very beautiful woman. I am a medical man, and thus more used than most men to the sight of unclothed female bodies. But as even I find it difficult to view your unclothed body with equanimity I suggest - request - that you bear that fact in mind in future. Now, have you any other recollections?" "When you mentioned the name Geraldine, I remembered the name Jerry. I also, previously, remembered that your - this - time, Victorian England, was renowned for it's sexual prudery. I believe that I am from your future." "Interesting. There are methods which we regularly use to bring out memories of past lives. I have little doubt that they will be efficacious in bringing out your memories of a future life. Do you feel ready to attempt them? Remember, since approximately two this afternoon, you have been exposed to a situation which would shake the strongest man. Your calmness and courage have amazed me. If you wish, you may like to postpone further endeavour until the morning? As for myself, I am accustomed to working far into the night, but it is to your comfort that I address myself." "I am anxious to know as much about myself as possible, and as soon as possible. I do find that I am hungry. Would it be appropriate for you to describe your methods of recollection while we pause for a meal?" "Excellent. We shall dine as I instruct you. I trust that you will forgive any informality with meals, but I usually dine here, in my study." "I find that very acceptable, Doctor." "Then, if you will pardon me for a moment, I shall organise a meal." During the meal, Watson - Dr. Michael Watson - explained his methods. "We believe that the key to recollection of past lives lies in contemplation of the last death. The eastern religions and their followers practice certain prescribed meditations to this effect. You may find their subject matter a little unpleasant, but efficacious. Our own methods are, we believe, more acceptable to members of our culture. As you may imagine, as this subject is usually fraught with painful, or at least unpleasant emotions, it is seldom easily approached. These emotions function as what the Viennese Dr. Freud describes as blocks." "Freud, of course. Dr. Watson, Freud has become, in my time, the generic term for psychiatric practise. His name is generally known, though his methods, although somewhat discredited, are still practised. Are you aware of his contemporary, Adler?" "Indeed. I find his work more to my taste than that of Freud. Do you know of it?" "Yes. His conclusions have better survived the test of practice. Doctor, I find that when you mention a name, or a subject, my memories - past life memories, I suppose - come to mind." "Last life, rather than past life, would be more correct. You remember the name Jerry, and 'Victorian England', and Drs. Freud and Adler as facts, while other things are remembered as fictions. You were an adept, and your life as Madame De Winter proved you a high adept. I am not surprised that memories of your last life return easily to you. Memories of earlier lives generally return first as a familiarity with a method, followed by memories of the life in which it was learned. Once the barrier of the last death is overcome, the rest is relatively easy. Do you remember 'Jerry's' death? Try to think of it as his, not yours." "I think I - he - ... it doesn't seem to make much difference - was poisoned." "Murdered?" "No, not really murdered. More of a stupid, irresponsible, prank. It's strange, Doctor - see, I am calling you Doctor now. I think I'm now relating to you and not to a half fictional character. I'm glad of that. I find that I like you, Dr. Watson." "Thank you Milady. Pray continue." "Certainly. As I was saying, it's strange. I remember being Jerry - no, as if I had been someone watching Jerry. As if, even then, I was him, but not really him, if you understand me." "I do. You remember being what we call the oversoul, watching you latest incarnation develop. That is excellent. It is why you are not suffering badly from the shock of this experience which, by the way, has been known to result in death." "I can quite imagine, but Doctor, you described me as an adept. What is an adept?" Watson paused, "There are things, Milady, that I am not at liberty to divulge at this point. Could we, perhaps, return to them later?" "If you wish, but I'm very interested." "Let us, for the moment, return to your last death. What I will ask is difficult, but unavoidable. I want you to actually be there. Are you prepared to try?" "Yes." Watson rose, extinguished the oil lamp, and fetched a small, polished wood case, like a very large cigar box, from a desk. From it he took a tiny brass stand, on which he placed and lit a pinch of what smelled like church incense. He then turned his chair so that he was facing her, their knees almost touching. His back was almost totally to the fire, now the only source of light in the room. She could not distinguish his face, merely the impressive bulk of his form facing her. He threw his head back and, in an amazingly resonant voice, intoned - almost sang - strange, but somehow familiar, words: "Ateh Malkuth, ve Geburah, ve Gedulah, le Olahm, Amen." To her total surprise, she felt her head throw back, as his had done, and intone the same words in reply. Her words, like his, filled the room with echoes. His next words seemed to fill and extend those echoes, so that nothing seemed real but the voices. "There is one here that has returned by the path from the well to the white cyprus tree." "I have returned." As these words came from her, she felt herself filled with fear. It was as if some vast figure faced her while another, equally vast, stood behind her. Each word that came from her felt like ice. "I have returned by the path from the well to the white cyprus tree." "Is it well with you?" "It is well with me." "What would you have known to you?" "I would know my last life on earth." Fear turned to terror. She wanted to run, but her feet were frozen to the floor, her body rigid, spine straight as a ramrod. A picture filled her mind: two Egyptian figures, seated, facing each other. Her locked pose was exactly like theirs. The fear receded, and she had the feeling as if the vast figure behind her merging with her. It was as if her feet remained on the earth, but her head touched the stars. The globe of the earth was at her feet, another vast, seated figure facing her. Without volition, her arms lifted from the chair arms and extended themselves, hands bent back from the wrists, palms facing forward. The facing figure mirrored her movement, 'till their palms almost touched. It was like touching a live power cable. Power erupted between their upturned palms. A sense of contracting, shrinking. She was back in the study, as soaking wet as if from a shower. Watson's expression was unchanged, but his face was brick red and his forehead glistened wetly. His shirt and collar were soaked. "My God." she gasped. "What was that?" "Tell me, Jerry." At the words, the name, memory returned. Babyhood, boyhood, the pain of adolescence, young manhood. Death. Then, before that..... Her composure vanished, like a punctured bubble. She sobbed uncontrollably. Watson lifted her to her feet, took her in his arms and held her, like a father, like every father since time began. She cried and held, like every child, since time began. After a time, the sobbing ceased. "Is it well with you?" "It is well with me, and you?" "It is accomplished, daughter?" "It is, father." (Comment on this)
Wednesday, November 6th, 2002
9:47 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 002 Darkness again, but with a sense that one was there, rather than nowhere. No longer so cold, and a silken feel of sheets and soft, warm blankets. The door opening and a barely visible figure holding a burning candle in a simple candlestick entered. Again the recently familiar, strong voice. "Good, you seem to be more awake now. I trust that you will pardon our precautions, and our apparent discourtesies in leaving you in these surroundings, but important, indeed vital, matters were at stake. But, before moving you to quarters more suitable to your rank and style, I needed to speak to you. Do you know where you are?" "No." The voice was wrong, almost like a child's. "As we expected. Do you know who you are?" "No." "That is not surprising to us, though regrettable. No matter. In time, no doubt, ... But, at this moment, you are in fear? "Yes." "Try not to fear. You are among friends; friends dedicated to your well being and your full recovery. You are as well protected here as is possible. Is your mind clear?" "I...think so." "Then, Milady, I will have your quarters prepared for you. For tonight, sleep well. It is with the greatest honour that we welcome you back, Milady." Milady???? Who was she? Why was it strange to think of herself instead of....what? She slept. .......... In the morning there were servants; quiet, respectful servants, who helped her into soft slippers and a vast rainbow coloured wrapper and led her through corridors and up staircases and, finally, into a huge bedroom. There was what seemed like acres of velvet testered, feather mattressed, polished brass bed... wide bow windows with velvet cushions on a wide polished wood window seat and soft Chinese carpets almost covering a polished oak floor. Near the window seat was a small table with two light chairs. "Would milady be ready to have the doctor join her for breakfast? He sends his compliments and says that, if you wish, milady may eat alone and he will call upon milady afterwards." Whoever she was, she was beginning to feel at least someone of consequence. Three 'milady's in two sentences, indeed. She also felt infected with the servants manner of speech. "You may return my compliments to the doctor and assure him that I would like nothing more than his company for breakfast." With a silent bow, the servant departed. Breakfast and the doctor arrived almost together about two minutes later. Breakfast, pieces of fish, heavily smoked and yellowish, but with a delightful flavour, was served from what looked like a solid silver tray onto fine white porcelain. The cutlery also appeared to be fine silver, marked near the handles with an heraldic crest. The doctor - as she had expected, the strong voiced figure from the previous night - entered with a quiet 'good mornin' milady' and, after waiting for her to be seated, sat opposite her at the small table. "I suggest that you first eat. I've no doubt that it will make you feel better. After that, we'll talk over a cup of tea." Nothing more was said until the meal was finished. As the meal tray was replaced with a tea tray - more silver - two man servants entered carrying between them a tall cheval mirror, set it up near the door and left as quietly as they had entered. "Like Chinese stage hands." she thought. "After confirming that you did not know who you were, I ordered this mirror for you." First, however, allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Watson." Her reply was irresistible. "My dear Watson, how pleasant to find you here." "You know me? You have remembered?" "Pardon me, doctor, no. I merely find that certain things bring certain phrases to mind. When the servants brought in the mirror I thought 'Like Chinese stagehands'. I realised that I knew what Chinese stagehands were. Your introduction of yourself as Dr. Watson reminded me of the stories of Sherlock Holmes. I could not resist the reply in the idiom of those stories." "I know of Chinese stagehands, and I suspect that I recognise the subject of the stories that you mention. A namesake of mine, Doctor John Watson, late of India, if I am not mistaken." "Yes. That's the man, but I thought he was fictional." "His friend and central character, Mr. Sherlock Holmes is, I suspect, at least part fictional, but both are living men." "Where am I - where are we - (damn this super politeness and precise language) and, I think I need to ask, when?" "I had intended not to introduce that subject until I was certain that you were strong enough to face your situation, but you appear to be in remarkable control of yourself. You are a very brave young lady, although I should have expected no less." "Bravery has little to do with it, doctor. The situation is so unreal that I can only accept, wait, and try to discover who I am and what is happening - or has happened - to me. May I use the mirror that you so thoughtfully supplied and look at myself?" "You are welcome to do so, but be warned that you will almost certainly not recognise the person that you see there. I had the mirror brought because there is a slight - a very slight chance - that you will." She walked to the mirror and looked. A tallish, slim figure, fair haired, with what she could best describe as an aristocratic face. The skin was pale, the features regular and well shaped, fair, finely shaped eyebrows over deepset and somewhat challenging blue eyes, the mouth a trifle wide, the lips red and disturbingly curved. Without thinking, she slipped the robe from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Involuntarily, she whistled softly. Her body was magnificent. Slight, but strong, with shoulders wide for a woman, as wide as the hips, whose swell was emphasised by a tiny waist. The breasts were small, but perfectly shaped. Hands and feet were small and neat. "The body of a sexy swordswoman." she thought. A small silver cross hung on a fine chain encircled her long, shapely neck. Her thoughts were interrupted by a noise like a choking whale. "By the powers, woman. Stop that. Clothe yourself." Watson's face was crimson. Averting his eyes, he controlled his voice. "I'm sorry, milady, but I hardly expected you to disrobe in that manner." "It's all right Watson - I hope you don't mind me calling you that - it seems to have stuck in my mind, and I feel the need to hang onto anything familiar. I'm covered now. I felt so comfortable with you there that I dropped the robe without thinking. I apologise." Watson returned his eyes to her. "And I apologise, milady. As things become clearer to you, we will no doubt discover much about each other. If it is comfortable for you by all means address me as Watson. It has a professional sound about it and I find that I need the shield of my profession in talking to you at this moment. But I beg you to warn me in advance if you intend to disrobe again." Watson had regained his composure with a speed that she could only admire. "Tell me the rest, then." "First let me tell you where - and when, since you ask - you are. We are in my nursing home near Kingston, in Surrey. The year is 1895." "England. Victorian England. No wonder that you were so shocked at my behaviour. I can only apologise again." "Quite all right, milady. We suspected that everything, especially your appearance, would be strange to you. That is why I first made myself known to you by candlelight, in a bare room without mirrors. There were also, he paused, other considerations." "You mean the cross, and the prayer?" "You remembered that, then. Yes. The cross and the prayer. "And you said 'It's human'. What had you expected?" "The operation that we had performed was new, and, we suspected, perilous. There was a possibility that all that we would have achieved was possession. We were fortunate. But can we leave that topic until later, please? I'd like to tell you who you are, and why you are here." "Shoot. I mean continue, Dr. Watson." (Comment on this)
Monday, November 4th, 2002
6:59 pm	Juanita. Gates of Life. 001 "What's this one for?" White and green rush hour in a mad scientists lab. An emergency room in a Los Angeles hospital, a busy Friday night. "Don't know. Coma - pretty deep - vitals all reasonable. Shot up something, I suppose - no needle marks. Better do a stomach contents. Possibly acid. Have to be a lot. Next." "Still got that one? Anything new?" "Yeah, analysed stomach contents. Acid, and beer. Thought it was." "Acid in beer? What'll they try next?" "Seems like this wasn't his idea." "Involuntary?" "They think - know - someone slipped it to him. Barman saw it. Perps already in custody. Cops want a prognosis. I suppose the DA's office is hanging on that. Better have a really good look. Try an ECG. See if there's any brain left." "Yes, officer, I know you want to get on with your case, but there's really nothing more that I can tell you. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe never. Right now, a vegetable - not really a vegetable - involuntary brain traces OK, but 'persistent deep coma', unquote. Simply means he's deeply unconscious. May recover, may not. The dose they slipped him was about three times that usually used 'recreationally', again unquote. God, what's happening to the language? Recreational cyanide next, I suppose. No, I'm glad I don't have to decide what to charge the idiot your holding with. Should be attempted murder, but you'd never make it stick. Try Public Mischief. That will probably draw a ten dollar fine these days. Legally - and maybe medically - best thing could happen is for this one to die and haunt the idiot. Sorry, I know you take your job seriously, but I take mine seriously too, or as seriously as I can without letting it kill me, and these drug cases don't help. Specially when, like this one, we don't know if they'll ever recover. Here's an idea. Turn your homicidal idiot perpetrator loose on bail pending verification as to whether or not this is physical as well as mental murder. I think that's the worst that you could do to him at this stage. It might even worry him. At this end, all we can do is wait". It had started out as a bad night for Jerry, and hadn't got any better. Yesterday he had graduated, tomorrow he was to commit matrimony. Right now he didn't feel good about either situation. He had escaped the group of fellow students - ex fellow students, thank God - who had tried to insist on the traditional 'bachelors last night' party, and was now drinking a quiet beer in a bar close to the University. There were good reasons for the forthcoming marriage. She was a pretty, presentable girl. With a father that rich, she almost had to be. But who was she - what was she - behind that facade? With a visible shudder, Jerry realised that he didn't know. What he did know was that she had no capacity at all to arouse any emotional response in him. An uproar at the door at least stopped that subject for a minute. The six or seven person uproar seemed to be a group of the 'Peace, love, drugs, disorder and equality (specially in marking assignments)' section of the student body. Jerry disliked them even more than the 'friends' surrounding him - not surrounding him, he suddenly noticed. He had managed to become part of the outskirts of their impromptu party, and sat directly in line with the forerunners of the dirt and disorder group. "Jerry, what's a nice respectable boy like you doing in a joint like this? Aren't you supposed to be getting ready for your cubical but profitable marriage?" Jerry decided to follow his usual policy with people who annoyed him: polite disinterest. "Frank, we all know she turned you down, and reported you to the narks. They didn't get you for anything, so let's leave it cool. Have a drink with us." "The day I drink with you nerds is the day after you shoot up with us. Seeing you wouldn't know where to get any stuff and none of us would tell you, that's never." As he turned away he knocked over Jerry's beer, but before Jerry had time to react, began to apologise and insisted on buying a replacement. "See", he exited, "I even believe in being fair to nerds." He left, motioning his friends to follow. "Hey, Frank, why not stay and bother them some more?" "Nah, they're nerds. Besides, I just slipped the chief nerd some acid." His lacing of the beer with acid amused him and his group for all of three minutes before being forgotten with the thought "waste of good acid." First, the world had turned florescent. The dimly lit bar shone with it's own light, filled with significance. Wonder filled him. He was nowhere, the light was everywhere. Suddenly he was filled with fear. Round the edges of the light were circling occasionally visible shadows. All the faces were strange, most fearsome where most familiar. The room tilted. Slowly, noiselessly, his vision changed from the magical vision of the bar to bare white painted ceiling. The shadows approached again, now filling him with terror. Then, like a crowd parted by a tank, they were moved aside. Menacing, impenetrable, populated darkness encroached, sniffed, and silently, shriekingly, swallowed him. He was... What was he? He seemed to be floating. he could see around him, but could not see - nor feel - a body. He was... a centre of perception. There was a sense that he was needed somewhere. His reaction to this sense was a half amused, half resigned 'Again?' He floated above a countryside. He felt as though something was pulling him. He was approaching a house, old and quite large. Now he was inside the house in a smallish room. There was a bed. Someone lay on the bed. Words came to him. 'Of course. There.' He was rushing towards the body. With an almost audible 'click' he was in the body. The first sensation was cold, then a coarse rasp of hard blanket on skin. Then dim light, slowly - almost imperceptibly slowly, like the movement of a clock hand - becoming brighter. There seemed to be walls, dark and none too clean, a wooden cabinet beside the bed, but little else. A window, heavily curtained, but bare walls. A wooden floor without covering. The first thought - frightened - "Where is this?" The second thought - panicked - "Who am I?" The scream, then, again, darkness. The next awakening was no improvement. There were figures, and something wet cold touched to his forehead, chest and shoulders, then something merely cold, like a thin chain, was placed around his neck. Then a strong voice. "Repeat after me... Then a faint, faltering, foreign voice repeating. "Our Father..." The strong voice again. "Thank God, it's human." Darkness again. (Comment on this)