SESTINA d'OC

Depiction of Lust, on a capital in the cloister of 

Lagrasse Abbey, Orbieu Valley, Languedoc.

Sestina d’Oc

Late October, on the side of a Corbières road,

A tuneless troubadour rests, in cool air, quiet.

Down from Quéribus, the last Cathar stand,

In the Langue d’Oc; oh the beauty of it, the language of yes, yes

He thought, to forsake everything and nothing for a reason to be,

And remembered she cried the same, at journey’s end.

Crusaders, parfaits and perfumed whores seeking a good end,

Had come this way once on the bitter twisted road,

Seeking consolation in whatever heaven be

Like Folquet de Marselha, once a flame in Dante’s paradise, then quiet

Of love, Fulk forgot his song and filled with mitred hate cried yes, yes

To a legated fratricide of Toulouse’s indignant stand.

As he looks towards the horizon where tall Lombards stand,

A cold tramontane from the massif heralds summer’s end,

And the leaves waft in the wind like Atlantic kelp and he thinks yes, yes

Here amongst the echoes of demagogues and demi-gods to take the road

North of a troubled troubadour; although less forgiving, less quiet.

And John Lennon on the car radio sang let it be, let it be.

Certainty of good and evil is not what he thought it to be;

For in Villerouge-Termenès he saw Bélibaste’s last stand,

Where betrayed by love, and hope, on a flaming pyre so quiet

Save a shepherd’s lament for the pure ones at journey’s end

But then a glottal cry, a final epiphany on the Paulician road.

And Madam-the-misbegotten-bitch Raymonde said yes, yes.

The traveller in Lagrasse rests, and a stonefaced lust invites yes, yes.

He looks at the cloistered withered tree, and wonders where he’d rather be,

Here stood Charlemagne and rampant Joyeuse before their Iberian road,

Yet on return, with Zaragossan gold, made at Roncevaux a fatal stand,

And marked for the land, language and love, in paradox, a beginning and an end

For Roland, the knighted voice of Oïl, lay not in chivalric legend quiet.

Clamouring northern Capetian hosts rendered southern chanson quiet,

As Innocent unleashed the hounds of God, with indulgent yes, yes,

Blessing crusading Louis and Leicester’s avarice and a bitter Occitan end.

And for this troubled troubadour, the torture of benediction an excuse be,

For power; as God and Mammon seldom, ever take a separated stand

Save in deceit, in ignorance, in denial of all times perdition road.

For the journey into his soul an end, this troubadour must elsewhere be,

Somewhere he can find the quiet, and hope to hear her yes, yes

With you, with you I will stand, and thereon we’ll take an unknown road.

©Roger Derham 2012

Reference: 
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sestina
http://www.medieval.org/emfaq/composers/trobador.html

Rihla (Journey 29): Blasket Islands, Ireland: Hy-Brasil and Hard Cases

Rihla (The Journey) – was the short title of a 14th Century (1355 CE) book written in Fez by the Islamic legal scholar Ibn Jazayy al-Kalbi of Granada who recorded and then transcribed the dictated travelogue of the Tangerian, Ibn Battuta. The book’s full title was A Gift to Those who Contemplate the Wonders of Cities and the Marvels of Travelling and somehow the title of Ibn Jazayy's book captures the ethos of many of the city and country journeys I have been lucky to take in past years.

This Rihla is about the real Blasket Islands, and Hy Brazil, an imaginary island off the coast of Ireland that existed on maps for 500 years.

‘Fil inis I n-eterchéin

immataitnet gabra rein,

rith find fris’ tóibgel tondat,

cetheóir cossa foslongat.

‘There is a distant isle,

Around which sea-horses glisten:

A fair course against the white-swelling surge, –

Four feet uphold it.

The Voyage (Immram) of Bran maic Ferbail, a 8^th century prose poem, 

translated by Kuno Meyer in 1895.

If on a summers day, in the crystal air of the lee of an Atlantic storm that is passing overhead, you stand on Dunmore Head at the south-western tip of the Dingle Peninsula, Ireland and look far out towards the west you could convince yourself that where the sky meets the curved horizon there is an island, an uncharted mysterious perception. And then draw your gaze closer towards land and let it fall on the group of islands known as the Blaskets  and you will see in the moisture-laden air of the lingering storm a blanket of cloud smothering the islands. Making them somewhat mysterious, somewhat of an Otherworld.

All of these atmospheric features surrounding these inshore islands of the south-west were to play a contributory part in the very Celtic Odyessian prose-poems known as Immrama, from the old Gaelic for 'rowing about' and the epic voyage sagas to the Faery or Otherworld known as Echtra. 

One of the earliest Echtra written down (8th C) was the Immram of Bran maic Ferbail, to the Island of Ciúin (Gentle Land), an island of women where Bran and his companions are drawn in by a spool of thread to dwell in absolute contentment for an ageless time until one of the companions expressed a wish to return home only to turn to dust on putting his foot upon the shores of Ireland. Needless to say Bran did not follow suit and turned about to return to the island of women and into mythology. In the poem there is a verse that alludes to the fact that to the west of Ciúin there are 150 further islands all bigger than Ireland.

A more famous Immram, but one with a very evangelical Christian intent, was that of St. Brendan the Navigator, born not far from Dingle in 484 C.E. Somewhere between 512-530 C.E. he reputedly set out on a seven year voyage of discovery to find the Island of the Blest, and this and other adventures were recorded in the Navigatio sancti Brendani abbotis around 900 C.E., a work that became very popular throughout Europe. As a consequence St. Brendan's mysterious (and mythical) islands entered a reality far above their parable intent and when the first charts of the Atlantic were being drawn St Brendan's Isle and the Isle of Brazil (or Blessed Isle) became a reality somewhere off the south-west coast of Ireland.

Hy-Brasil by tradition was permanently shrouded in mist and only revealed itself once every seven years. It is not surprising that this feature became part of folklore as one only has to view the more accessible Great Blasket and its cloud-blanket cover to determine the source. As a mythical island Hy-Brasil was to have a cartographic reality that lasted for nearly 500 years, until gradually becoming first a mythical rock, and then finally disappearing from reality somewhere in the 1840s. 

As an island and a metaphor Hy-Brazil became associated with some very hard cases. 

The Great Blasket island shrouded in mist and St Brendan's picnic 

on the back of a whale.

In the 1st Century C.E. the Sicilian Geographer Didorus Sicilus recounted the Phoenician legend of a paradise in the Western Ocean. This Phoenician legend has an interesting link to the Immram of Bran as it was a meeting with Manannán mac Lir at sea that convinced Bran to keep looking for the island paradise. Manannán is accepted in Irish mythology as being a Phoenician from a colony on the Isle of Man in the Irish Sea.

In 1139 C.E. another Sicilian, King Roger II established an Academy of Geographers in Palermo and appointed Abu Abdullah al-Idrisi as its permanent secretary. Their task was to map the known world and 15 years later al-Idrisi had produced a solid silver planisphere and an atlas called Nuzhat al-Mushtaq fi Ikhtiraq al-Afaq (The Delight of One Who Wishes to Traverse the Regions of the World), or more simply, al-Kitab al-Rujari (Roger's Book). The atlas mentions that in the Sea of Darkness (The Atlantic Ocean) there were the Fortunate Islands (The Canaries). It was al-Idrisi's legacy of gathering as much information as possible from sailors in ports that initially spawned the 14th century Catalan-Arabic mapmaking tradition in Majorca but also allowed a fusion of the Immram western island tales of St Brendan into these charts, resulting in the appearance of Hy-Brazil from 1300 onwards. 

Two maps by Angelino Dulceti/Dolcet/Dalorto/Dulcert.

The 1325 portolan was to depict Hy-Brasil for the first time. 

The Catalan Atlas 1375

John Cabot (Giovanni Caboto) was an Italian navigator who was kicked out of Venice in 1488 for being an insolvent debtor. Moving to England he was dispatched by the merchants of Bristol to find the Isle of Brasil, a project that the Bristol merchants had pursued for a number of years. It was on his second voyage in 1495 that sailing well beyond where Hy-Brasil was thought to exist he made his famous landfall in Newfoundland. Cabot is thought to have been lost at sea in a final voyage in 1498.

Lucas Janzoon Waghenaer's (1534-1598) sea atlas, Spiegal der Zeevaerdt  became so popular that in 

English the term 'Waggoner' became a generic term for sea charts of all kinds.

Sir Robert Dudley (1574-1649) was the illegitimate son who inherited the estates of his father Robert Dudley, 1st Earl of Leicester and Elizabeth I's favourite, but on failing to have his legitimacy confirmed in 1605 left England to become a shipbuilder and cartographer to the Grand Dukes of Tuscany. His seminal work Dell'Arcano del Mare (Secrets of the Sea) of 1645 has probably some of the most beautifully engraved charts ever drawn, in fine baroque calligraphy, never to be repeated by any other mapmaker.  Charles I finally recognised Dudley's legitimacy in 1644 but did not restore his titles. His charts were known for their accuracy yet Hy-Brazil still appeared.

Not all mapmakers of the 17th century were convinced of Hy-Brazil's reality.

Henrick Doncker of Amesterdam's charts were all of his own work, based on information he 

had obtained and were not copied from others.

Richard Head (1637-1686) was born in Ireland but left the country after his father was killed in the rebellion of 1641. A little like John Cabot he encountered severe financial difficulties and had to flee his creditors back to Ireland in 1659. Six years later he was to publish the English Rogue which became immensely popular and in 1675 his account of the island of O-Brazile. 

Earlier around 1663 a Morogh O'Lee in Galway reported that he had been taken to the Island of Hy-Brazil and had been given a magical book of cures that he was not meant to have used for seven years. Morogh was the scion of a famous family of hereditary physicians and the book in question had been in the family's possession for about 100 years. Morogh had fallen on hard times having failed in his attempt to get extensive lands owned by his family returned to him from a leasing arrangement with the Martin family of Galway. He wanted to use the magical Hy-Brazil 'provenance' of the book as a means of earning a living. The book was subsequently sold to a Thomas Keady, a merchant in Galway, and is now in the possession of the Royal Irish Academy. 

The Book of the O'Lees is an Irish translation of a treatise (Taqwim al-Abdan fi Dadbir al-Insan (Dispositio corporum de constittutione hominis (Tacuin agritudinum): The Disposition of Bodies out of the Constitution of Man) first written by Baghdad physician Ibn Jazlah and subsequently translated into Latin by a Sicilian Jewish physician, Faraj ben Salem around 1280 but not published in Latin until 1532. There was a distinct tradition amongst the hereditary medical families to translate some of the major medical works available into the Irish language. 

 

The Book of the O'Lees

Up to about 1060 C.E. the O'Flaherty clan, a descendant branch of the famous Uí Briúin kings, controlled a small kingdom called Maigh Seóla on the eastern shores of Lough Corrib that stretched from Tuam to the outskirts of Galway. After a bitter internecine conflict with distant cousins, the O'Connor kings of Connacht the fled across the Shannon to re-establish themselves as Kings of Iar-Connacht on the western side of the Corrib. The Corrib's original name was Lough nOirbsean after Orbsiu Mac Alloid the Phoenician in Irish mythology commonly called Manannan mac Lir, who I mentioned earlier in the Immram of Bran. 

The transmigration of the O'Flaherty's also resulted in the transmigration of some of their client clans. For example the O'Halloran's established their presence in the townland of Barna where I live and built their castle (no longer extant). Another subject clan were the O'Lees the hereditary physicians to the O'Flahertys. And this is where a final link to St Brendan occurs and to the origins of Hy-Brazil.

St Brendan was to found a monastery in Annaghdown around 540 on the eastern shores of Lough Corrib (and a nearby convent for his sister Briga) and he died there in 577. The O'Lees in addition to their role as hereditary physicians also came to hold the hereditary Abbotship of St Brendan's monastery at Annaghdown.  

A modern sea-chart. Hy-Brazil how-are-you!

SAECULUM (A NOVEL: FINALE) – SOL ORTUS

SOL OCCAXUS (Sunset)  Monday, 19 September, 2011

CREPUSCULUM (Evening Twilight)

I. Friday, 23 September, 2011
II. Thursday, 29 September, 2011
III. Thursday, 29 September, 2011
IV. Sunday, 16 October, 2011

VESPER (Evening Dusk)

I.  Sunday, 23 October, 2011
II. Sunday, 30 October, 2011
III. Wednesday, 9 November, 2011
IV. Monday, 14 November, 2011
V. Monday, 14 November, 2011

CONCUBIUM (First Sleep – Coitus – Rest)

I. Thursday, 17 November 2011
II. Sunday, 20 November, 2011
III. Friday, 25 November, 2011
IV. Thursday, 1 December, 2011
V. Thursday, 1 December, 2011
VI. Thursday, 8 December, 2011
VII. Sunday, 11 December, 2011

INTEMPESTIUM (Midnight)

I. Sunday, 1 January, 2012
II. Thursday, 5 January, 2012
III. Saturday, 7 January, 2012
IV. Monday, 16 January, 2012
V. Sunday, 29 January, 2012
VI. Sunday, 29 January, 2012
VII. Friday, 3 February, 2012
VIII. Friday, 3 February, 2012

GALLICINIUM (Cock Crow)

I. Sunday, 12 February, 2012
II. Saturday, 18 February, 2012
III. Wednesday, 22 February, 2012

MATUTINUM (Dawn Goddess)

I. Monday, 27 February, 2012
II. Sunday, 4 March, 2012
III. Sunday, 4 March, 2012
IV. Friday, 9 March, 2012
V. Friday, 16 March, 2012
VI. Friday, 16 March, 2012
VII. Friday, 16 March, 2012
VIII. Friday, 16 March, 2012
IX. Wednesday, 21 March, 2012
X. Wednesday, 21 March, 2012
XI. Wednesday, 21 March, 2012
XII. Friday, 23 March, 2012
XIII. Friday, 23 March, 2012
XIV. Friday, 23 March, 2012

DILUCULUM (Dawn Twilight)

I. Monday, 16 April, 2012
II. Monday, 23 April, 2012
III. Friday, 27 April, 2012
IV. Wednesday, 2 May, 2012
V.  Wednesday, 9 May, 2012

SOLI ORTUS (Sunrise) 

Friday, 11 May, 2012

SOL ORTUS

SUNRISE

All that had happened, all the memories, faded as the nearby voices intruded again. It took a great deal of effort on Michael Mara’s part to try and concentrate on what was being said.

“We’ve got back most of the emergency work-up including CT and MRI scans. They show no obvious damage to the spinal cord, brainstem, or brain cortex. Direct trauma has been excluded and yet he has generalized paralysis. Septic screens, so far, are also negative,” a West Indian woman’s voice pronounced.

  I’m in a hospital, he suddenly realised and probably in an ICU from the way the women were talking.

“Where was he flying from?” the girl with a Scottish accent asked.

“Yerevan, Armenia. His passport shows that he’s a well travelled individual.”

“Tropical disease screen. Was that done?”

“Armenia is hardly the tropics but yes, because of his travels, they’ve all been done. Malaria and Typhus screen is negative. Stool for ova, cysts and parasites have been sent as well. We had to give him an enema to get that. His bowel is completely flaccid. ”

“Oh God! I hate giving enemas to coma patients,” the Scottish nurse groaned.

“Tell me about it.”

“He looks very comfortable. Have there been any consults?”

“Yeah. Doctor Cameron, the new neurologist, was called in. He thought it might be an acute poisoning with a plant toxin or curare-like compound. He has tried reversal with no success and thinks that our friend here probably suffered irreversible brain hypoxia when he collapsed and couldn’t ventilate. We’re waiting for lab results on a toxic drug screen and metabolite spectroscopy.”

Poisoning! Brain hypoxia!

“His current status?”

“Flaccid paralysis. Ventilator settings are pretty constant. Input and output satisfactory. Core temperature is elevated but not spiking. Pupils are dilated and unresponsive, eyelids taped closed. No evidence of papilloedema. He’s for a repeat MRI and EEG tomorrow. The contrast is in the fridge.”

The voices drew closer.

“Are you on your own tonight, Kathy?”

“Two of the regular staff are on holidays in the States and have been caught out by the shutdown in the airports. The night manager said that there’s an agency nurse coming in. Delayed in the traffic I think.”

“I still can’t believe what happened there.”

“I know. It’s unreal. I’ve been glued to the telly all day. Listen, finish your report Janice, and get off. I can cope until she comes.”

“Michael. Michael, can you hear me? Unlikely. The poor sod. Michael! This is Nurse Devine and she will be looking after you tonight. I’ll see you again in the morning.”

Janice, the West Indian fatalist, was leaving him. Don’t go! he tried to scream out.

“Good night Janice, enjoy the party. Give Peter my best,” Nurse Devine teased.

The departing Janice laughed. “Not on your life. I plan to give him mine. See you.”

The footsteps receded.

“The lucky tart. Did you hear that Michael? You and I will just have to manage. My name is Kathy. Can you move anything for me? Move something if you can hear me.” The accent softened to a plea.

There was an expectant pause. He did try for her. The sweet voice was disappointingly quiet. He could almost hear the pity in the silence. Then there were footsteps again, this time louder and quicker as if the person was running, he thought.

“Oh, Kathy.” The voice was breathless.

“Yes, Janice. What’s wrong?”

“There’s one other thing I forgot to mention. When he came in, our friend here had a peculiar burn on the palm of his right hand. It’s a full thickness injury, almost as if he had tried to hold a hot exhaust pipe or something. We’ve been dressing it two hourly and the next change is due shortly. The tray is ready.”

“Thanks, Janice. I’ll see to it. By the way, has there been any contact from relatives?”

“No, not yet. Admin are on to it but fat lot of good that’ll do.”

“Why?”

“I tried contacting them earlier but apparently there was nobody available to deal with it. A management staffing shortage, it seems.”

“That’ll be a first in the NHS,” the nurse called Kathy said sarcastically.

“Yeah! Perhaps the coffee machine was broken. Blimey, look at the time! I’ll be late. I must fly Kathy. See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Janice. I’ll see . . .”

Michael heard the footsteps disappear at a running pace. Kathy didn’t bother finishing the sentence and from the soft sound of her breathing, he knew she remained close by. He began to feel drowsy and found it was hard to concentrate.

“Hmmmm. Your oxygen saturations are falling a little Michael. I’m just going to increase the rate a bit. Nothing to worry about,” Kathy reassured.

Do it. Do it! He screamed silently.

Sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup -

The mechanical noise increased its rhythm. With the frequency change came a strange sense of euphoria. Michael’s mind became clear.

“That’s better, sweetheart. Your sats are coming up nicely,” Kathy’s voice broke in.

Good for you my angel.

“You’ll be more comfortable now, Michael. I’m just slipping out for a minute to check your blood gases. Don’t go away – Oh! Hello.”

“Hello,” a different voice answered.

“You must be the agency nurse.”

“Yes.”

“Hi. I’m Kathy. Listen, I was just about to run off this man’s blood gases and I need to check on the other isolation patient. Can you hold on here for a few minutes and I’ll come back and give you a report?”

“But of course. Is there anything you want done?” The question was formal, another woman, accent European.

She sounds strangely familiar, Michael thought.

“No. . . oh, yes there is! He has to have a burn dressing changed on his hand. The tray is all set up. Can you handle that?”

“No problem.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Kathy’s footsteps faded. Michael could hear a tap being run and the snap slapping on of latex gloves. The next moment, the voice of the new nurse was very close. “Hello, Michael,” she whispered gently.

He convinced himself that he sensed her breath on his face. She has an angel’s voice, like my mother! he suddenly thought, adding to his confusion. He desperately wanted to be able to see. I’d love to be able to . . . The wish faded, unrealised. Michael felt himself drift off again, a traveller of the night. Throughout his life, in those moments suspended between sleeping and being awake, between dreaming and having dreamt, between the spectral and the tangible, he had often felt an acute sense of vertigo as he became aware of the edge of his world. The physical safety net of a gentle awakening in the sleep-warmed embrace of another’s arms was not for him. He always needed to get moving, to get away, and by moving, paradoxically, ease the vertigo. Powerlessness would become power as he controlled the direction.  He now needed that direction again, that determination. His brain screamed at him, to rise and rush towards the light of day and away from the night’s horizon, but his body again refused to move. As he lay there, he felt trapped in a sarcophagus of his own flesh. Just the noise:

Sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup-

There are some compensations however, he suddenly thought, as a dazzling glare of euphoria enveloped him. His thoughts raced and were clad in vibrant colours. Three men were walking towards him with the sun at their backs. One of them is Gilgamesh, the hero of the Babylonian epics, who had searched long and hard for the secret of immortality, and who when put to the first test by Uta-napishti, the Distant, was unable to even defeat sleep. He is explaining to two other men, one of whom is Michael’s father, how the survivor of the flood had taunted him:

‘See the fellow who so desired life!

Sleep like a fog already breathes over him.’

Michael could hear Gilgamesh tell the others of how he dived to retrieve the secret coral plant of immortality, the ‘Plant of Heartbeat’ only to watch helplessly as a serpent snatched the immortal coral before he had a chance to distil its powers, its essence, before he had a chance to help himself . . . Or others:

 

‘Now far and wide the tide is rising.

  Having opened the channel I abandoned the tools:

  What thing would I find that served as my landmark?

  Had I only turned back, and left the boat on the shore!’

Gilgamesh, Michael’s father and the other man stood there in their radiant light looking pityingly at him. Their words repeated again and again. ‘Had I only turned back!’ Indeed! he thought. The other man then suddenly smiled at him. It was a tormented but kindly smile. He spoke softly:

‘The mind is its own place, and in itself

Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.’

An alarm rang. Shrill and sharp. He heard running footsteps. Coming closer. “What happened?” A concerned Kathy asked.

“I’m not sure. His core temperature shot up suddenly and he developed a tachycardia. It has just begun to settle again. Were his gases ok?” the agency nurse answered.

“Yeah . . . although the pCO2 is low. We’d better slow the rate again; otherwise he’ll get alkalotic. We’d also better make a note in his status chart and let the senior resident know when he makes his rounds,” Kathy said, concerned.

“I can handle that.”

“Are you sure? Thanks. I need about twenty minutes with the other fellow. I’ll be with you then.”

“Sure. Take your time. No problem.”

Sheshhhhhhshup  . . . . . . . . . . . . . sheshhhhhhshup –

The alarm stopped. Time hitched a ride.

Sheshhhhhhshup  . . . . . . . . . . . . . sheshhhhhhshup –

Michael’s father was beside him again, wrapping him up in the warm towel of love. “Remember, Michael, Time, is the castrator of the heavens, it severs the link between man and the Creator. Saeculum of the Romans; al-dahr of the Arabs, is our Time, both here and now and from beginning to end, until resurrection. Do what you will with it, Michael, for it’s measured by the appearance and disappearance of light, not darkness. Light bathes the ascent of man, the night his descent. The ancients feared that descent and divided up the night. From crepesculum, the evening twilight, until diluculum, the morning twilight, the seventh division, they hurried its passage. In the Twilight you will find your destiny. You must take that journey, Michael, but have no fear. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Sheshhhhhhshup  . . . . . . . . . . . . . sheshhhhhhshup –

Michael’s father disappears again. He feels as if he is a feather falling like a stone in the vacuum of space. He is the geometric point of Foucault’s pendulum but no longer has a physical dimension. He has become opaque, a fugitive. There was no corporeal him!

Sheshhhhhhshup  . . . . . . . . . . . . . sheshhhhhhshup –

The footsteps came back again and squeaking wheels. “Michael, it’s me,” a familiar voice tenderly intoned. “Michael. My poor, Michael!”

  Her concern entombed him in a casket of silk lined pity. I don’t want pity! he screamed silently. I want to be free from the darkness to fly towards the blinding light of day. I want the sounds to be that of a nightingale, a harbinger of the dawn. The voice . . . he knew that voice.

  “Michael. It’s me.”

It’s Isabella! he realised. She’s here. Isabella is here with me. She’s alive. How? How did she find me?

  Sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup

  Michael became confused again. The mechanical repeating sound hypnotised him.

Sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup

  Perhaps his notion of Isabella being there, is also imagined. The faithful transport of an abstract notion from one medium, the medium where she existed without him, into his.

  Sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup

 

  “Michael! It’s Isabella. I know you can hear me. The heart monitor is displaying your response. It’s like when I danced for you, I am able to sense your soul.”

 

Don’t torment me Isabella. I cannot see you dance. I cannot hold you close. There is nothing else. Don’t leave me again!

Sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup.

“I am always with you Michael. It was Gaiane and I whom you saw moving in the shadows of the carpark in Armenia. I saw what happened to the seal and how the sands of its existence crumbled from your hand.”

Gaiane! I don’t understand Isabella.

“Gaiane from the hotel in Yerevan! She was one of Alexander’s women, one of his bassarides, waiting patiently for Saclaresh to show itself.”

Her ear. I knew it! I sensed something when she left the taxi! What about Zoë and those other women at the villa? There was a defect in their left ear lobes too. Why?

“Charles Alexander was a Corsican. It is the way that Corsican shepherds used to identify their sheep. He never marked me, Michael.”

What about Saclaresh?

 “He always knew that Saclaresh was in Armenia somewhere, and that it was just a question of time before it surfaced. When I told him that I suspected that you were to be its next guardian he telephoned Gaiane from the villa and alerted her to your possible arrival. She was waiting, yet was very surprised when you, almost instantly, materialised.”

How did you get to know?

“Gaiane tried to contact Alexander at the villa and when she couldn’t, she left a message for me. I only received this about eight hours after escaping from the villa.”

Corsica! How did you get away?

“I always had the authority to use Alexander’s jet and after alerting the crew I was able to fly directly from Bastia to Zurich. From there I flew on to Yerevan. I arrived while you were at the monastery.”

What happened to Alexander? They never found his body.

“I don’t know what has happened to Charles but his opportunity has now gone. Even if he did survive, he no longer would have any power. 9/11 has changed everything, but then of course, Michael, you knew nothing of that, as you rested in your coma.”

What happened to me Isabella?

“I followed you back to the airport and took the same flight as you and Dave Asha.”

I never knew his surname!

“It was Asha, one of the Keepers, who poisoned you on the plane. Remember when you stumbled over his foot in the aisle?”

He thought he saw someone. Was that you Isabella?

“He thought he recognised me and that’s what caused him to panic. I saw what happened. The Keepers had decided to protect you, and your guardianship of a Voice, by having Dave Asha follow you. When he thought he saw me, thought that I might be alive, he panicked. He assumed that I was working in league with Alexander to recover the seals and decided, there and then, to remove you from your obligation to Alonzo and the guardians, lest I got to you first. He knew how you felt about me.”

You were there and did nothing to help me!

 “And you thought Michael, that I might love you or that I could, or would, change my destiny for the devotion of one man. Poor Michael . . . though I must thank you for the warning shout in Corsica. It gave me a chance to retrieve the other seals and get away. I also had time to detonate the explosives that Alexander had the house rigged with as a security measure. He never planned on being there to witness the effect himself.”

The verse of a poem intruded in Michael’s consciousness:

And when at last that murder’s over

Maybe the bride-bed brings despair,

For each an imagined image brings

And finds a real image there

“I do not have much time, Michael. That kindly nurse Kathy will return soon. She has big sad eyes, you know . . . A little like yours.”

Isabella stopped talking. He heard trolley wheels moving and something like a plastic bag been ripped open. Her breathing came in short excited breaths.

“I nearly had them all, Michael. But for your interference, all the Voices would be mine. Syrbeth, Abrape, Nergimmel, Ayatau, Nefradaleth and, of course, Saclaresh. I could never allow an evil man like Alexander to have their power.”

You don’t have Saclaresh!

 “It doesn’t matter though, Michael. For all his faults, Charles Alexander showed me that. The only link left to the ancient images of Saclaresh’s legacy are those that are burnt into your hand. I just need to see them.”

Michael suddenly remembered Alonzo’s story the old man Ebabu’s instructions to the six pathfinders of the Weiministan people to learn the marks of the others. That’s what Alonzo had meant in the story! It is the marks and not the seals themselves that are important.

“Exactly, Michael. I just need to record the ideas and now I can . . . ah there . . . that’s the bandage off. Let me finally look at the legacy.”

Please keep my hand closed!

Sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup.

“Good.” Isabella sounded pleased with herself. “The burnt tattoos are as clear as the day they were carved in stone. I can copy them easily and then I will have them all. I will be the gatherer.”

What about Ammonkaph? Isabella had never mentioned the last seal.

“You never really understood, Michael! Did you? Alonzo suspected but he could never be certain. Nefradaleth and Ammonkaph were always together. Twin destinies: sunrise and sunset. Ammonkaph is the judgement Voice waiting to welcome you over the Bridge of Separation. I am also Ammonkaph. There! That’s the copying finished.”

What about me Isabella? Don’t I exist? Don’t I have a choice?

“You did exist once Michael. But now look at you! Your hearing is the last gift of Saclaresh. Without it you do not have a definition and when it is gone so will your being.”

But that is nothingness! His father was waiting by the black funnel. I can be something again. Please Isabella!

“I’m sorry Michael. This is the turning point. Being something is nothing like being.”

Sheshhshup . . . . . sheshhshup . . . . .……. sheshhshup

The rhythm slowed.  Michael was unable to fight anymore. His father was smiling at him as he came closer. There was a wonderful light on the horizon. He could walk again.

Sheshhshup . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . sheshhshup . . . . . . .

He saw a bridge. His father and mother were waiting there, waving him forward. He moved towards them, feeling safe. Caroline was also there.

 I’m ready, Caroline. He tried to call out.

 Isabella is beside him again, her breath in his ear.

“Goodbye, Michael. You were the last of the Magi and we will meet again on the Bridge of Separation. There we will be bathed in the essence of the Creator. Receive your consolamentum and trust in my intuition.”

The night has fallen; not a sound

In the forbidden sacred grove

Unless a petal hit the ground,

Nor any human sight within it

But the crushed grass where we have lain:

And the moon is wilder every minute.

O! Solomon! Let us try again.

Sheshhshup . . . . . . . . . . . . . . shesh . . . . . . . . . .sh