Posted on 02/22/2005 4:28:09 PM PST by utahguy
Continue The Story: It Was a Dark and Stormy night. Attention Writers, Wouldabee’s, Wannabee’s, Amateurs, Hacks, etc. etc.
Now is your chance to perceive, pen and publish your punishing purple prose planetwide.
Just take the last line from this, or any post/comment and add your prose. No need for this turkey to come out linearly.
Any genre, any style. And without concern if it’s bad, it’s SUPPOSE to be.
Comments and Groans are welcome.
It was a dark and stormy night. The wind howled out of the north like a bereaved banshee, roaring over the moor, funnelling its fuming ferocity down the valley toward the opulent manor.
The gale twisted bits of flotsam, flora and fauna into the frigid air, creating a clammering cacaphony of wretched debris hurling headlong into the walls of the estate as if on some suicidal mission to find refuge.
Inside the manor Percilla pouted. Thurgood and Eason had undoubtedly cancelled their visit, since her butler had informed her earlier that the bridge had been washed out due to the storm.
The only other route was a narrow, twisted trail through the moors of which she was told no sane person would dare venture at night, much less in this weather.
And they could be such cowards at times, she thought, for she so looked forward to a rousing game of whisk.
Oh, bother. Nothing left to do but get tiddly.
She poured the sherry herself, as she had dismissed the servants early. Pressing her voluptuous lower lip to the edge of the glass, she took a long sip of the amber liquid while giving a blank stare toward the immense fireplace.
Percilla watched impassively as the flames flickered fluidly, like dozens of Dante’s dancing denizens, pirouetting upwards to a silent symphony.
She signed, placed the goblet on the table, which now was adorned with a baby's bottom of crimson on the lip of the leaded crystal.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door . . . . . . .
bttt
All day, the expedition had been preparing for its departure before dawn the next morning. Marcelle, true to his nature, kept his spirits and the others' high and light, as if they all were simply planning a holiday in the ski lodges of the Alps. But Percilla was pensive, and doubtful. The story related to her of Sir Gunther's affairs in Germany had made her think long and hard about many things. But one thread of the story began to burn in her mind, and she related this to Eason, as they walked along the courtyards, watching the gathering clouds. Percilla had told Eason of the terrible battle in Munich, two years past, and the outcome of that fight.
"That explains so much", Eason said after the story ended, "about his knowledge of so many things. The rank of Knight-Commander is truly something for the elite warrior to hold. Your great-grandfather, the Baron, must have been one such man as he."
"But, yet, the story has gaps in it, for all I've been hearing," Percilla said. "The way that Elder Melchior fought that agent? 'Putting forth power', and such? And do you recall, Eason, about the arguement last night, between Gunther and Lord Stavros?"
"Yes, I do", Eason said. "Terrible to behold, you know. I thought that Stavros was going to strike Gunther as he lay there, and I never would've imagined that older man able to floor someone like Gunther..."
"But he did, that's just the thing", Percilla said. "And, didn't you notice how he did it? You heard that loud explosion, like a gunshot, but he wasn't armed, I'm certain."
"It did rather sound like a gun, or a grenade, it was just a sudden 'Boom'", Eason noted.
"But, you didn't see, or feel, anything else? Nothing extraordinary?" Percilla asked.
Eason thought, "Well, there was the Elder's obvious wrath, of course, and everyone felt uncomfortable..."
"No, Eason, something else," she said. "When Stavros was berating Gunther, there was no after-effect of any gunshot - no smell, or anything. And when the Elder came 'round the corner, that storm passed by.."
"What storm?" Eason asked.
"Well, that thunderstorm that blew up suddenly. It made my hairs stand up, and I could've sworn I saw sparks in the Elder's hair..."
Eason was puzzled. "Percilla, there was no storm last night. No sparks, or breeze, or anything."
Percilla went silent. What had she seen, briefly, last evening? Sparks from the Elder; the feeling of a storm, and a sound, a crack...
a bolt of lightning?
Power, driving back an innocent looking girl?
And unbidden from memory, a voice seeming out of the poast rose up in Percilla's mind:
Are you, Cilla as adept at solving puzzles as you are at creating them?
Another puzzle to solve...
==================================================
Night arrived in fact, and the city was alight with its own luminance, made the brighter by the darkness of the storm approaching. The cathedral bells sounded dead and muffled as they tolled away the hours. And the Order's evening meal was as heavy as the gathering weather. Even Marcelle's and Pettibone's normal jocularity was muted.
The Elder sat at the head of the table, her colleagues of the Inner Court and the Paris enclave about her, with Eason and Percilla farthest from her. Joining them tonight, in addition to Sir Gunther, Pettibone and Marcelle, was to the surprise of the newcomers, Father Patrick, who had returned - from London!
"Father, I am glad to see you once again," Eason said upon their reunion, "but, however did you get back to London, then back here, in less than three days?!?"
Patrick hushed him, and replied quietly, "It's not your place to ask yet, Eason, not at all. The fact you see me here, is not to be questioned by an acolyte. I praise your inquisitiveness, laddy, but you've got to learn when not to sniff, eh?"
Eason was only mildly put out at the rebuff, being sincerely glad to see the good priest again. It made for a better time at dinner that evening, in light of the heavy atmosphere. It was actually a relief, when the meal was concluded, and the Elder simply stood up.
"As it is night already, with tomorrow's activities it should be prudent for all to take as much rest as possible", she said. "There are many challenges ahead, so rest in safety while you may. I bid you all a pleasant evening." All rose and nodded to her, and slowly departed.
Eason and Percilla gravitated to each other, Percilla catching Eason's eye, motioning him to follow her. They walked together, down the corridor, and out into the main cathedral, where they were cautioned not to appear until after the evening meal. Percilla sat near the columns on the west side of the massive cavern that was Notre Dame, gazing silently at the artwork above and around her. Eason gave her silence, as it seemed to be what she desired.
"Eason," Percilla said after a long quiet moment, "have you wondered about the Elder at all? What kind of person she is?"
Eason thought for a moment. "She is a woman of great strength, and a long history, certainly. Why do you ask? What do you see, in her?"
"I see something that's not real," Percilla said. "Or at least someone who does and knows unreal things. I am still thinking about that 'power' that the Elders wield. Now, follow me, Eason: if the Elders wield this 'power', then what happened to Gunther last night, when Stavros attacked him? Was is that Stavros used part of that power, but not the same way as the Elders? And if the Inner Court has knowledge of things, like Father Patrick obviously does, what else do they have knowledge of? And what knowledge are WE supposed to have? I refuse to believe that we are to be kept blind and in the dark about so much!"
"But what are we to do, Percilla? We can't simply walk up and demand more than we're supposed to know, can we?" Eason asked.
Percilla took both of Eason's hands in hers, drawing closer. "Eason. Dearest. I can't think that you're not wanting less information. You almost sound complacent, resigned. These people hold lives in their hands, even life and death, unless I'm much mistaken. They posess knowledge, and power, and strange gifts which I am compelled to understand. It's almost," she paused for a beat, "almost as if I am anxious to relearn things I already learned, and wish to get on with work, as if I already know these things, and I'm wasting time!"
Eason considered this speech. Yes, Percilla looked purposeful and anxious, and in truth, chafing at the bit, like she couldn't wait to depart for Romania. "Percilla, what has taken over your resolve? This is consuming you. Can you not tell me more? You know that you have my complete trust. And I shall be there at your side, always, no matter what you decide to do, need I remind you?"
"I know, oh I know, dearest of friends that you are," Percilla said, her eyes full of meaning, one hand releasing Eason's, and touching his cheek. "I am thinking of the tales I've heard, the things I've seen and done, and I wonder what is to come. Eason," Percilla said, her voice heavy, sidling closer to him, lowering her eyes, then raising to gaze fully into his, "I see that, when I was to make a choice as to someone with whom to share this adventure, I see my choice was guided by something, or someone. I know, it's true of what has been told us: “Devlesa avilan - 'It is God who brought you.'"
Eason was awash with sensation. Being this close to Percilla was unthinkable just weeks ago, sitting in the parlor at Whitebriar, with Thurgood mincing about, commanding all her attention and her thought. But here, in the timeless nave of Notre Dame, danger behind them and danger ahead, here he was, here he sat, with Percilla holding his hands, stroking his face, and gazing into the deep darkness of beautiful eyes.
"I say the same thing, Cilla. 'It is God who brought you' - brought us together, brought me, to you."
And to the wonder of both, Percilla looked up and, in the twinkling of an eye, gently pressed her lips to his, not the kiss of a friend, but of more.
Much more.
The kiss was brief, all too brief, in Eason's mind. But as they broke apart slowly, Percilla looked in Eason's eyes. "Eason, we have so much to do. Take me to my chamber, please. Just walk with me, dearest. Quietly."
Eason took her hand, raised her out of the seat, placed her hand on his arm, and with a small, pleasant expression on his face, walked his friend back to the chambers.
Better and better and better....! :o)
But what happened to the fighting cocks?
Oh, wow, Feathers! That's MAGNIFICENT!!!!
I thought so, too.
Put him in your closet.
Near Grenoble, France
May 22nd
Our party departed on time this morning, after waking before the sun, scurrying out a hidden entrance to the cathedral, and rushing down the streets of Paris in a covered auto to the train platform, where the train was almost ready to leave. Our traps, as per instructions, were already aboard the train from the moment the engine stopped, pre-set there by agents of the Order. All we needed done was board the coach car, as everything else had been seen to.
The train was a special, and not simply the normal time route. This train would not stop until Lyon, not for fuel or other passengers. That ensured that no one could board the train oncve in motion, and we would arrive at Grenoble on schedule.
Which, of course, is exactly what happened. I fell asleep several times during our trip, as the rocking motion of the car lulled me into a stupor. And each time I awoke, I found a coat or a wrap draped across me, and Eason watching out the window, or to the door. Eason filled me in, dutifully, on the things I missed while I slept.
Eason. I kissed Eason, yesterday. I know that he has longed for me to do so, but he has never made an issue of it, all during this odyessy of ours. And that night, in the great cathedral, everything seemed so right, and so needful. But, Eason is more than friend, now. And I sense, so much more...
May 23rd,
just after midnight
I awoke in the middle of the night, on this leg of the trek, and felt compelled to write. We made the connection at Grenoble without incident, at least, that's what Marcelle tells me. Gunther has been a prowling watchdog, never still for long. Sometimes in the compartment with us, otherwise stalking the passages among the cars, always watching faces among the other passengers. What Alfred said was right: we shall be safer with Gunther along. His skills are formidable.
Eason, though, has rarely left my side, unless needing air, or food, or if Marcelle forces himself in between us, to take a turn. Between Marcelle and Alfred, the conversation doesn't lack. And it seems that this stage of our journey will be without incident.
22 MAY 1935
Percilla has been awake, then sleeping, then awake again, for most of this trip. The stress of the journey must be preying upon her terribly, to not be able to rest at all. It is everything I can do, to remain awake and alert for danger. But, even after many hours, Alfred chastised me for neglecting myself. With three Knights around us, we are guarded sufficiently, so he said, and I took his offer kindly at last. I only now awake, to see Percilla curled upon the sleeper couch, softly snoring.
Cilla. What posessed me to use that name for her, the other evening? The evening when she kissed me at last! But, why am I not more stirred by her kiss? A few weeks past, I would have killed for a moment such as that. But now? It seemed not wanton, but the right thing to do. As if it was natural and expected of us. Odd.
Alfred and I spoke long over a carafe of coffee earlier. He is pleased with the way the journey has progressed thus far, with no lost connections and no incidents. He is of the opinion that we shall reach Zurich ion the evening of the 24th, tomorrow night, if all goes well.
"There are still miles to travel", he said to me, "and a train, while reliable, is not the quietest of devices. It is easily traceable and can be followed from place to place. If it is boarded in secrecy, then the chances are good."
We take our meals in the compartment, avoiding the dining car. Only Gunther or Alfred make themselves visible, bringing meals or beverages to us. Marcelle and I turn sentry-go for Percilla. While she sometimes chafes at the confinement, her sleeping frequently is an aid to her comfort, and our job, as well.
And anOTHER lovely pic! Thank you!
::snickerchortlesnort::
It was a writer, drooling and gasping for air, carrying a mysterious box.
He cast a dark, threatening glance and ran over to the table that had come West with the Gilmores, an orthodox familiy that had immigrated to Brooklyn in the 1890's.
He glance around the room and, without warning, screaming and pulled off the cover.
It was a typewriter, a 1957 Remington Quiet-Writer portable.
He pulled out the chair and sat, wriggling his fingers and furrowing his forehead.
He hit one key:
T.
Another.
H.
He look, took a deep, sobbing breath, then briefly slapped away the tears in his eyes. He struggled on with the sentence:
e. . .r. . .e was a girl form Nantuckett. . . .
But the worst check came when we pulled into the station at Bern. Marcelle and Alfred were with us, preparing to leave the train and stretch our legs during the break in travel, when Gunther re-appeared, motioning us all away from the windows, closing the blinds, and huddling us all in one compartment.
"The line from Bern to Zurich has been closed to us", he said. "I have just been contacted by a member of the Zurich enclave, who has been waiting for us to arrive. We must leave the train here, and proceed to Zurich in another fashion. Take what you can carry, and follow me!"
We quickly grabbed what luggage we had stored in the room, and followed Gunther out into the passage, and swifty got off the train - in between the cars, having to help Cilla to the ground, and furtively moving into the shadows of the train station, Gunther leading, Marcelle trailing, the rest of us in a file. Quietly entering a warehouse kind of arrangement, we were confronted by two men, working as freight handlers, who nodded to us, and joined by a third, who after a nod from Gunther, properly presented the now-familiar coin for our inspection.
"Greetings, friends," the man said, "I regret the haste, but we must leave this place. There will be time to talk once we're gone, but quietly for now."
Gunther explained to us, as we watched the three others hurriedly loading our cases into a delivery truck, "These are our friends from Zurich. Jean-Marie, here, is in charge, and will take us to safer lodgings. Follow him." One thing I have noticed of Gunther: no wasted words or actions, everything is efficient and ruthlessly executed. Following his commands seems the natural thing to do; he has the qualities of a born leader.
We were all hustled into the back of the truck, which was empty save for us, and our luggage. Jean-Marie and one Zurich man sat in front and drove; the third Zurich man sat in back with the others, a man by the name of Rudy, a friendly fellow who immediately tried to put us at our ease.
"We have been told of the mission from Paris, headed this way", Rudy was saying, "and we had guaranteed poassage for you, but now things must change. There is no danger from The Enemy, but we also must not upset your journey's schedule. Had you stayed on the train route, you would've been delayed further. This way, we shall keep you on schedule, and perhaps even save time for you, as well."
"Thank you for your help," Alfred said. "Shall we expect to be proceeding on to Zurich, or shall we be resting here tonight? The train was supposed to carry us through, and we were sleeping aboard."
"All has been arranged, sir," Rudy said. "We maintain a safehouse in Bern, and lodging will be more than adequate."
Which is where we find ourselves tonight, as I set these words down. The four men of our party are lodged in two rooms, Alfred and Gunther in one, Marcelle and I, and Cilla in her own room. Earlier, a rather spare dinner was shared, though much wine was served to compensate. And I got a little more information than I had bargained for. I had wondered where Gunther had gone off to, again, and when I heard voices, I followed, keeping secretly close.
Gunther was in a room off the kitchen in this house, seeming to be having a telephone conversation with someone - but the phone was in the main room, and the three Zurich men were there. I pressed myself closer, hearing the one-sided conversation with open jaw and disbelieving ears.
"Yes, Your Grace. The delay is averted. With the help of Jean-Marie, we shall arrive in Zurich on schedule, and to Budapest on time, as well... No, Your Grace, all is otherwise good. Dame Percilla travels well, and listens to orders... Sir Eason is a good man, and trainable in what is needed... There has been no contact with Them, of any kind. All feels safe, for now. I will, in truth, not be concerned until we reach Vienna. It is the route from there on, which concerns me... Madam, is there no other way? I insisted we should use the Way of the Elders... (a long pause, and Gunther's voice was strained) Forgive me, Madam, I spoke out of turn... (a longer pause) That was not my meaning, Your Grace! You should remember my gratitude... Thank you, Your Grace. I shall report upon reaching Zurich."
I heard something being slid into cloth, then footsteps. Gunther was coming. I silently slid towards the door, making it look as if I was simply turning a corner. But to my surpise, Gunther wasn't there. How did he do that?
BTTT - got a lot of reading to do!!!
Magic, secret passage way??
It was a dark and stormy night.
And, as Shrillery Antoinette de Fosterizer de Marx de Machiavelli de Stalin de Sade
purposed in her hollow heart to seize the White House and paint it black,
the storm grew more menacing; the darkness grew tangibly thicker.
Breathing became challenging, as death flooded the land like in the tendrils of a strangling fog.
Each death left Shrillery Antoinette . . . feeling more emboldened; more empowered; more in control; more supreme.
She looked forward to the diversion of the orgy with the Dark Lord from hell and some of her selected goon dykes.
But mostly, she got high bringing others low--terminally low.
. . .
WOW!!! Good stuff.
This has been a journey most interesting, for me. Here I am, writing by soft lamplight in a room in one of the Order's safehouses, concealed from the outside world, and from The Enemy, whoever They are, trying to compose my thoughts of the last few days.
The train from Paris to here was uneventful, up until Gunther ordered us off at Bern. The members of the Order have been every kind of accomodating, and have seen to our needs, inasmuch as in their resources.
One thing I have divined about the Order of the Dragon, is that they are scrupulous in the application of their resources, whether wealth, property, or especially peoples' lives. Nothing wasted, or spent needlessly. And Sir Gunther is a prime example of that. He wastes nothing, not even words. If he is an example of what a Knight-Commander is all about, then my great-grandfather must have been such a man. And that's where this journey leads me: the wilds of a land called Transylvania, and a family and people I have never known.
Earlier this evening, Eason knocked on my chamber door, as I was getting ready for bed. I was wearing a nightgown, and I threw a sweater on for covering before I let him in. Eason had a serious look on his face, and I asked what was wrong. And he proceeded to tell me of his eavesdropping on Gunther's conversation with, who he truly thinks was, the Elder!
"Percilla, I tell you,", he said, "it was as if I was listening to a telephone conversation, where one can only hear what this side's speaker is saying. He was most definitely talking to the Elder. But I checked later - there is only one phone in this house, and it is in the parlor, and not in the room where he was."
"Perhaps," I said, "he was simply having a talk with someone in the room, and you mistook it for something else?"
"But, there was no one else in the room! And Cilla, he mentioned something else. He mentioned that he was concerned about the rest of the journey, and that he had insisted on taking someplace called, 'The Way Of The Elders'. Apparently, the Elder reacted very badly to even the mention of it."
"'The way of the Elders?' I can't imagine what that means..."
"Whatever it is, Gunther backpeddaled hard from saying it. Most apologetic, he was. I suspect that it might be something he wasn't supposed to name at all, even something he's not supposed to know about. A breach of security, maybe."
"Eason, there are so many things we know now, and even more that we don't", I said. "And the Order has dark corners we can't shine light upon yet. Gunther has his reasons, I'm sure. However," I added, "this might be one of the things that was mentioned, that the Order has communications better than anything known. Hmm..."
I looked at Eason. He was so consumed by this incident, so intense, that I was moved to comfort him. I took his hand, smoothing it with my own. "Eason... I am compelled to trust the Knights of the Order, especially with this mission of theirs. Until I can learn all I can, to defend myself, I must trust them. And Eason," I said as I took both his hands in mine, "so do you. Please. If for nothing else, than my own sake."
Eason looked at our hands, joined, for a minute, then his eyes rose to meet mine. "You have to know that all I'm doing, all I can do, is to keep you safe and well," he said. And, he hugged me. I threw my arms around his neck, and he held me. Nothing else, just held me. It felt wonderful, and safe. Just what I'd expect from Eason's so dependable heart. No girl, or woman, ever had a more caring protector.
After a while, a sweet while, we broke apart. Eason simply bid me goodnight, touching my cheek, and left. Nothing further. And I feel like a blanket is about my shoudlers tonight, knowing he's protecting me. And so, good night.
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