It is getting dark as Harwood steps out of Kensall Green station and walks down onto the Harrow Road. He can see the welcoming lights of the Mason’s ahead. His clothes chafe slightly, he hasn’t worn them for a while but given how this evening, well this morning, would probably end up he was better off out of a suit.
His reverie is shattered by a sudden scream of ‘Dead Man Rising!’ exploding from the dusk. A brief moment of hideous terror seizes him until a burst of scattering, laughing boys breaks past him, pursued by a small figure that had erupted from a pile-of-clothes grave. Now he has noticed them, he can see several small knots of children playing in the shadow of the cemetery. He dodges round a group of girls playing with a skipping rope, unconsciously falling in with the rhythmic chanting,
Down where the Thames flows, bottle in the smoke,
Old Blackfriars will make you choke.
Ravens at the Tower, looking ‘cross the sea,
How many years will he keep me.
One, two, three...
The voices fade as Harwood crosses the vestibule into the pub. The Mason’s Arms is a large open room, heavy with dark wood and decorative frosted-glass panels. The end of the post-lunch crowd has all but given way to the serious drinkers. Slightly self-conscious men in ill-fitting suits talk to dressy women with a hardness in their eyes. Young rips pose at the bar in sharp fashions and talk loudly. Scattered around them are those drinking with the commitment of the lost. Harwood ignores them all, strolling over to the back of the room, by the small wooden office built out from the wall. By the office door is a table surrounded by solid-looking men, obviously labourers, in dirty but sturdy clothing like Harwood’s.
As Harwood moves closer two men, cleaner than those around them, step out towards him and stop expectantly,
I’ve got business with Jake, Harwood says, and I bring a gift, he finishes, knowing the custom.
The two part, and Harwood steps between them and sits down. On the other side of the table is a large man, burly not fat, although his labouring days look behind him. He is dressed in a suit of respectable cut not quite fitted to his broad frame. A balding, gnarled face grins from above a starched shirt collar and cravat. His grin broadens as Harwood sits.
Professor, what a delight. How’s tricks?
Not bad guv, Harwood replies, knocking some of the edges off his accent, I see time has been kind.
Amazing the things people leave lying around with those what don’t need it no more.
Harwood grins slightly.
Ain’t that the truth. Speaking of such, I have something for your collection.
Harwood holds up a stone.
Young lady on Oxford Street the other day, you may have read about it. Unknown wound to the back of her head. I saw it. Passing delivery van, this little beauty shot out from one of the tires and caught her square. Never knew a thing. The stone bounced to my feet and it struck me I might know a man for such an item.
Harwood hands the stone to Jake, whose eyes light up.
A, what did you call it again? Ah yes, deodand. Very nice.
Jake hands the stone carefully to a minion who takes it into the office. He motions to another who heads towards the bar. The turns back to Harwood, the bonhomie gone, replaced with a calculating look.
Now what can I do for you?
Harwood leans forward.
A trade: my labour for your eyes and ears. I’ll do you a couple of hours gratis digging, or whatever you’ve got, in exchange for anything you can offer on a certain group of dodgy toffs. Strange types. Death obsessed, probably some doctors, might refer to themselves as the Collegium. They seem to have a habit of taking people off the street, getting them ratted at some posh club and recording their dreams. They seem to have a whim for summoning the dear departed by collecting dead men’s possessions to extract their essence, usually into bottles. Now, I’d never suggest you would be involved in such a thing of course, but I also know if anyone’s digging unlicensed ‘oles in this town you’d be right narked. If it goes in or out of a hole, you’re the only man to talk to. So I wondered if you might know of someone who might have found himself talking to such a group of well-heeled grave-robbers?
Edited for formatting error
Ancient Gentlemen (Day 2)
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Ancient Gentlemen (Day 2)
Ex ignorantia ad sapientiam; e luce ad tenebras.
Re: Ancient Gentlemen
Streetwise I think, as Jake is not an Occultist per se
Jake whistles and signals for beers to be brought to the table, afterwards indicating Harwood as the person paying.
"My advice, Prof" he says with characteristic bluntness "is don't mess with 'em. Lot of money there, lot of top hats and monacles and brass-topped canes, y'know?" He pauses to huff beer foam from his whiskers. "But, I know you Prof, you'll go digging anyway, and hurt yourself on something like as not. An' some of you lads could do with th'heducation. So, I'll tell you the tale.
"Being herudite, you know as 'ow some people get about things they treasure. One man it's clocks, one it's statues, lotta men it's books. An some of those men, being rich, they wants it all. They don't jest want a library, they wants to be patrons of letters an' have books and book writers that toady to'em. They wants the authors at their beck an' call, so they can ask 'im what he really meant on page hunnerd an fifty-seven, but really, just because they can.
"But authors, like Socrates, is mortal. They're born, they die, they go down the 'ole. An' lots of the time in between, they're drunk, or gone overseas, or just not inna mood, your romantic poets especially. Cantankerous lot, authors. Most of 'em got no money for decent burials, neither.
"So, a ways back, under Good Queen Victoria (God rest 'er), you would be too young to recall, but there was a lot of hinterest in things that is more properly left to professionals, like myself and the lads 'ere. Table knocking and what not. I myself knew a young lady 'oo could pump out a fair bit of hectoplasm, but it took a bit more than 'oldin' 'ands to get 'er spiritual juices flowing, knowwhatimean?" He leers reminiscently.
"An' so, some of these rich gentlemen I mentioned, being readers of peculiar books an' in this up to their necks (as we say in the trade), get to thinking, why shouldn't we keep our favourites on the staff, even after they've shuffled off the coil? That way we'd always be able to talk to'em, and they couldn't plead other appointments or leave the country neither. An' so - this was all when I wuz just a wee apprentice, hardly worn out me first shovel, y'understand - some of these gents starts flashin' a lotta wergild at the Master Diggers, to give'em the pickin's of so-and-so, famous author of such-n-such. An they're still at it." Jake takes a final swig of his beer and waves for another.
"I ain't so certain of the methodology of it all. Back then they wanted the whole corpus delecti, now they can do it with just a rag, a bone and a hank of hair, a bit of gravemold, sometimes just the intimate possessions. But they keep'em in bottles, I hear. Whatever the scribbler's favourite tipple was, for preference. An' if they want a quick question answered, like, they do the old table-rappin' tricks. But if you really want to know what your scribbler was really thinkin, and feelin when he wrote, really get inside his skull, why, you take a swig. Get a bit of that spirit from the acqua vitae. Or, if you don't fancy sharing your skull with a dead man, very wise in my opinion, you get some other sap to take a swig of your witches' brew, and then you ask him, dontcha?"
"Now, I've named no names, Prof, an' I think that's for the best. It don't make me that easy, thinkin' of England's finest minds bottled in the wine rack, but a bargain's a bargain an' we honour ours, past or present. Now you've 'eard the tale, my advice is, leave it lie."
Jake whistles and signals for beers to be brought to the table, afterwards indicating Harwood as the person paying.
"My advice, Prof" he says with characteristic bluntness "is don't mess with 'em. Lot of money there, lot of top hats and monacles and brass-topped canes, y'know?" He pauses to huff beer foam from his whiskers. "But, I know you Prof, you'll go digging anyway, and hurt yourself on something like as not. An' some of you lads could do with th'heducation. So, I'll tell you the tale.
"Being herudite, you know as 'ow some people get about things they treasure. One man it's clocks, one it's statues, lotta men it's books. An some of those men, being rich, they wants it all. They don't jest want a library, they wants to be patrons of letters an' have books and book writers that toady to'em. They wants the authors at their beck an' call, so they can ask 'im what he really meant on page hunnerd an fifty-seven, but really, just because they can.
"But authors, like Socrates, is mortal. They're born, they die, they go down the 'ole. An' lots of the time in between, they're drunk, or gone overseas, or just not inna mood, your romantic poets especially. Cantankerous lot, authors. Most of 'em got no money for decent burials, neither.
"So, a ways back, under Good Queen Victoria (God rest 'er), you would be too young to recall, but there was a lot of hinterest in things that is more properly left to professionals, like myself and the lads 'ere. Table knocking and what not. I myself knew a young lady 'oo could pump out a fair bit of hectoplasm, but it took a bit more than 'oldin' 'ands to get 'er spiritual juices flowing, knowwhatimean?" He leers reminiscently.
"An' so, some of these rich gentlemen I mentioned, being readers of peculiar books an' in this up to their necks (as we say in the trade), get to thinking, why shouldn't we keep our favourites on the staff, even after they've shuffled off the coil? That way we'd always be able to talk to'em, and they couldn't plead other appointments or leave the country neither. An' so - this was all when I wuz just a wee apprentice, hardly worn out me first shovel, y'understand - some of these gents starts flashin' a lotta wergild at the Master Diggers, to give'em the pickin's of so-and-so, famous author of such-n-such. An they're still at it." Jake takes a final swig of his beer and waves for another.
"I ain't so certain of the methodology of it all. Back then they wanted the whole corpus delecti, now they can do it with just a rag, a bone and a hank of hair, a bit of gravemold, sometimes just the intimate possessions. But they keep'em in bottles, I hear. Whatever the scribbler's favourite tipple was, for preference. An' if they want a quick question answered, like, they do the old table-rappin' tricks. But if you really want to know what your scribbler was really thinkin, and feelin when he wrote, really get inside his skull, why, you take a swig. Get a bit of that spirit from the acqua vitae. Or, if you don't fancy sharing your skull with a dead man, very wise in my opinion, you get some other sap to take a swig of your witches' brew, and then you ask him, dontcha?"
"Now, I've named no names, Prof, an' I think that's for the best. It don't make me that easy, thinkin' of England's finest minds bottled in the wine rack, but a bargain's a bargain an' we honour ours, past or present. Now you've 'eard the tale, my advice is, leave it lie."
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Re: Ancient Gentlemen
Harwood sits, caught by Jake's cadence. He could feel that familiar cold prickle running over his brain as his mind started to run with the possibilities.
This was insane, this was incredible. Even as Jake spoke of taking a swig he was muttering They fed him Stevenson. The ultimate extension of the Friar's work, drinkable dead men. My God, he could barely stop himself from continuing out loud, they want to drink Irving.
So how to parcel this out? The Don wanted the manuscript - he was probably after something in that, a hint to a 'Key', something that could stop the brewing civil war - but these guys might not. They want the desk and the pen, would that be enough for the essence? We might be able to discount them as a problem if we can cut a deal. This doctor of Wellington's doesn't sound like a rich man. Perhaps he is employed by them and he's the one trying to get the book back? They need the book for their work, perhaps we could cut out the middleman. The book returned in exchange for an arrangement not to bid on the pages? Might get them off our backs; might open them up as patrons. That just left the Spanish problem. Wonder what... whatsisname... has found. Although, who was this Berg chap - was he the source of the note in German? And why is everyone suddenly mentioning a German language shop? Talk to Verity, she knows everyone, she's been asking after that Enochian anyway. Why the Hell was the Contessa involved, we've been running around chasing everyone else and not looked at her, what's she really after? We need to work out everyone's real desires, see if we can make the largest number happy, stop everyone bidding against each other and driving up price.
He looks up, suddenly aware the table has been quiet.
Keeping away is good advice that...that might be harder than I'd like. We're already in, and all by happenstance. I think we have their recipe book. Fair price asked and given, but not so sure on the seller's finding. The seller is...
He pauses and shudders slightly.
Spirited away. I think we need to find a way of living with them. We may find ourselves in conflict at auction for another writer's possessions in the very near future, and from what you say it would be best not to annoy them. Money means power mostly, and there is no need to upset people in the same sort of business as yourself.
I won't ask you to say more than you'd want, ancient pact sworn on bone, must be respected, but if we wanted to try and talk to them is there a way?
This was insane, this was incredible. Even as Jake spoke of taking a swig he was muttering They fed him Stevenson. The ultimate extension of the Friar's work, drinkable dead men. My God, he could barely stop himself from continuing out loud, they want to drink Irving.
So how to parcel this out? The Don wanted the manuscript - he was probably after something in that, a hint to a 'Key', something that could stop the brewing civil war - but these guys might not. They want the desk and the pen, would that be enough for the essence? We might be able to discount them as a problem if we can cut a deal. This doctor of Wellington's doesn't sound like a rich man. Perhaps he is employed by them and he's the one trying to get the book back? They need the book for their work, perhaps we could cut out the middleman. The book returned in exchange for an arrangement not to bid on the pages? Might get them off our backs; might open them up as patrons. That just left the Spanish problem. Wonder what... whatsisname... has found. Although, who was this Berg chap - was he the source of the note in German? And why is everyone suddenly mentioning a German language shop? Talk to Verity, she knows everyone, she's been asking after that Enochian anyway. Why the Hell was the Contessa involved, we've been running around chasing everyone else and not looked at her, what's she really after? We need to work out everyone's real desires, see if we can make the largest number happy, stop everyone bidding against each other and driving up price.
He looks up, suddenly aware the table has been quiet.
Keeping away is good advice that...that might be harder than I'd like. We're already in, and all by happenstance. I think we have their recipe book. Fair price asked and given, but not so sure on the seller's finding. The seller is...
He pauses and shudders slightly.
Spirited away. I think we need to find a way of living with them. We may find ourselves in conflict at auction for another writer's possessions in the very near future, and from what you say it would be best not to annoy them. Money means power mostly, and there is no need to upset people in the same sort of business as yourself.
I won't ask you to say more than you'd want, ancient pact sworn on bone, must be respected, but if we wanted to try and talk to them is there a way?
Ex ignorantia ad sapientiam; e luce ad tenebras.
Re: Ancient Gentlemen
"Hmmm" says Jake. "They mostly come to us, when a scribbler's passed on, like. I can take a note for yer against then. Don't think I can do more. Doesn't do for us to go knocking at the Quality's doors." The flat tone indicates his mind is pretty set.
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Re: Ancient Gentlemen
No of course, sorry to ask. I'll have to talk to my guv'nor, hopefully something will shake itself out. Cheers for the background, a rum lot. If we come out the other side I'll be sure to tell you the tale.
Harwood pauses to take a swig of his pint.
So, where do you want me?
Harwood pauses to take a swig of his pint.
So, where do you want me?
Ex ignorantia ad sapientiam; e luce ad tenebras.
Re: Ancient Gentlemen
"Well, Professor, it might be more your book-learnin' we need. 'Ave you 'eard tell of 'golems', like? There's a story that some of the clay is walkin' around. Me, I like clay to stay where it's buried. Can't tell you much more, I gotta get 'ome to the missus - post us a letter 'ere if y'ear summat."
"Last orders, please!" Yells the publican.
"Last orders, please!" Yells the publican.
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Re: Ancient Gentlemen
Golems? I'll keep me eyes open. Take care guv, love to the family and thanks once again for the lowdown.
Harwood nods to the table and gets up. He walks out into the cool air of the night. Golems? What the bloody Hell was going on in this town? He mentally shrugs and plots to drop the lovely Verity a swift line about drinks.
Harwood nods to the table and gets up. He walks out into the cool air of the night. Golems? What the bloody Hell was going on in this town? He mentally shrugs and plots to drop the lovely Verity a swift line about drinks.
Ex ignorantia ad sapientiam; e luce ad tenebras.
Re: Ancient Gentlemen
John "Long John Copper" Cooper wearily limps home to his ratty bedsit in Wormwood Scrubs. For most of the day he has been almost oblivious to passers-by and customers as his mind struggles to integrate the whirlwind of memories, thoughts, impressions that the arrival of his "guest" has brought. He desperately hopes that sleep will bring some equilibrium.
As he nears his resting place, his bowed head involuntarily snaps up. Just as the common Londoner's ear can tune out the regular noise of the city to hear an ambulance siren, or the smashing of shop-window glass, John's inner sense has, since a few nights ago, become sensitive to certain disturbances - and it tells him that, somewhere to the east and south, something large has penetrated the skin of the world from the Other Side.
Responding to inner prompting, John begins to limp in that direction, looking around for an omnibus (they'll often give free rides to cripples, particularly at night), when he passes a pub with a crossed hammer and chisel on the sign - the Mason's Arms
His senses already straining after the liminal alarm, John's ear catches the words "They fed him Stevenson. My God", said, not loudly but with a hissing intensity, floating out of the door through a pause in the hubbub. He bates - could someone be talking about him? A few minutes later, a slim, furtive-looking man in a battered coat emerges from the door, muttering in the same voice - something about Veritas? ("Truth, in Latin" the Guest suggests).
As he nears his resting place, his bowed head involuntarily snaps up. Just as the common Londoner's ear can tune out the regular noise of the city to hear an ambulance siren, or the smashing of shop-window glass, John's inner sense has, since a few nights ago, become sensitive to certain disturbances - and it tells him that, somewhere to the east and south, something large has penetrated the skin of the world from the Other Side.
Responding to inner prompting, John begins to limp in that direction, looking around for an omnibus (they'll often give free rides to cripples, particularly at night), when he passes a pub with a crossed hammer and chisel on the sign - the Mason's Arms
His senses already straining after the liminal alarm, John's ear catches the words "They fed him Stevenson. My God", said, not loudly but with a hissing intensity, floating out of the door through a pause in the hubbub. He bates - could someone be talking about him? A few minutes later, a slim, furtive-looking man in a battered coat emerges from the door, muttering in the same voice - something about Veritas? ("Truth, in Latin" the Guest suggests).
Re: Ancient Gentlemen
" 'Truth,'? guvnor. Beg pardon, couldn't help overhearing, don't mind me, I'm nosey, I am. I-talian--a beautiful language!"
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Re: Ancient Gentlemen
Harwood is so distracted by his thoughts he does not even stop to consider the source of the question. He pauses, temporarily baffled.
Truth? Ital...Oh, veritas. No, no, Verity. A delightful young lady I...hang on, sorry do I know you? Can I help?
Truth? Ital...Oh, veritas. No, no, Verity. A delightful young lady I...hang on, sorry do I know you? Can I help?
Ex ignorantia ad sapientiam; e luce ad tenebras.
Re: Ancient Gentlemen
"Long John Copper, at your service," he tugs his forelock, "and this fella"--indicating the bird on his shoulder--"is me parrot Marmaduke. Say hello, Marmie."
"Pieces of eight!"
John lovingly strokes the parrot's wing, thinking.
"Thought someone called my name, me real name--Stevenson. And then you appeared--I was curious."
"Pieces of eight!"
John lovingly strokes the parrot's wing, thinking.
"Thought someone called my name, me real name--Stevenson. And then you appeared--I was curious."
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Re: Ancient Gentlemen
A pleasure, my name is Harwood, Doctor Harwood,, says Harwood, his brain not quite processing what he just heard. No, hang on. Did you say Stevenson?
He pauses. He opens and closes his mouth a few times whilst he thinks. He comes to a decision. He casts a sidelong look at Long John.
Did you write 'Far from the ocean's starry sky, Up from my grave where I did lie''? I believe you and I may have an organisation in common. A certain group of well heeled gents in a club with an interesting taste in whiskey. You're are a storyteller, yes? I suggest a trade. I will swop you my story for yours.
He looks around.
This is probably a conversation probably best not had in the street. I don't suppose you know of a place round here a man might find a drink?
He pauses. He opens and closes his mouth a few times whilst he thinks. He comes to a decision. He casts a sidelong look at Long John.
Did you write 'Far from the ocean's starry sky, Up from my grave where I did lie''? I believe you and I may have an organisation in common. A certain group of well heeled gents in a club with an interesting taste in whiskey. You're are a storyteller, yes? I suggest a trade. I will swop you my story for yours.
He looks around.
This is probably a conversation probably best not had in the street. I don't suppose you know of a place round here a man might find a drink?
Ex ignorantia ad sapientiam; e luce ad tenebras.
Re: Ancient Gentlemen
Long John replies to the verse:
"Gladly did I live and gladly die.
"Yes, somewhere to talk--a snug, nice and private"--he smiles, gently--"The Lamplighter: it's the pub for our conversation--only a few streets away."
"Gladly did I live and gladly die.
"Yes, somewhere to talk--a snug, nice and private"--he smiles, gently--"The Lamplighter: it's the pub for our conversation--only a few streets away."
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Re: Ancient Gentlemen
Excellent, says Harwood to Long John, Then lead the way good sir.
As Harwood strolls through the night his mind is racing. What a bizarre coincidence. What an excellent chance to find out more about the group, their goals, their membership, their methods, their...who knows? A chance to speak to Stevenson, well a version anyway. Or was that really too fantastical? He brightens. Verity will love this, she will be fascinated. Rituals with a juicy cult behind it? Even more reason for contacting her, and seeing her.
His mind whirling with strange speculations and pleasant fantasies he follows on into the night.
As Harwood strolls through the night his mind is racing. What a bizarre coincidence. What an excellent chance to find out more about the group, their goals, their membership, their methods, their...who knows? A chance to speak to Stevenson, well a version anyway. Or was that really too fantastical? He brightens. Verity will love this, she will be fascinated. Rituals with a juicy cult behind it? Even more reason for contacting her, and seeing her.
His mind whirling with strange speculations and pleasant fantasies he follows on into the night.
Ex ignorantia ad sapientiam; e luce ad tenebras.
Re: Ancient Gentlemen
Long John leads Harwood down a side street and a gloomy alley, until they find themselves before a brightly lit pub--The Lamplighter--that has an array of oil lanterns round the entrance. Long John seems apprehensive to cross the threshold of the pub, but he does so, and Harwood understands the reason why when he follows the tramp inside. The burly barman is scowling and in the act of shouting "Get out!" when he spots Harwood--a better class of customer altogether; the barman wipes a glass with his apron, and picks his nose nonchalantly, as if he wasn't intending to speak at all. Long John hobbles over to a table that is screened by curtains, and sits down on a plum coloured velveteen cushioned bench; he motions to Harwood to draw up a chair.
"Ahhh! That's better--I suffer terrible-like with rheumatics in me stump. Now--"
The curtains are thrown back and the barman enters the snug.
"What'll it be, sir, and you too, Copper?"
"Ahhh! That's better--I suffer terrible-like with rheumatics in me stump. Now--"
The curtains are thrown back and the barman enters the snug.
"What'll it be, sir, and you too, Copper?"
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Re: Ancient Gentlemen
Harwood catches the atmosphere immediately and smiles broadly, but slightly superciliously at the landlord, I'll take a pint of best I think, whatever my friend here will take, and perhaps you would care for one to keep out the chill at the bar?. Harwood smiles magnanimously, inwardly mourning the mounting costs of the last few days.
After the landlord has departed, Harwood's face becomes serious again.
Well, I promised you an exchange, and exchange there shall be. If your tale is as I suspect, it will fit much better at the close of mine, so...I shall tell you a tale of strange science and religious heresies.
A few scant days ago, we received into our bookshop a strange tome. Bound in wood, it was part recipe book, part magical grimoire. The man who sold it to us, claimed to have bought it from a down-on-his-luck, wine-distilling doctor. The man who sold it to us, one Wellington by name, later reappeared in the shop, panicked and drained, and before our eyes vanished into thin air leaving only his clothes behind. I believe I am telling you little more than you know at this point, but you may not be aware that this links strangely to a modern auction. In a day or so the possessions of the American author, Washington Irving, go under the hammer at Christie's. Amongst those seeking to own them are a Spanish nobleman with Catholic Scottish roots. Possibly also after them are a certain group who seek out the ownership of the possessions of dead men. Again with that, I do not believe I tell you anything with which you are not already familiar.
Harwood pauses to allow the arrival of the drinks. He smiles graciously at the landlord and waits pointedly for him to move off. When they are again alone he drops his voice and continues.
This wooden book, about which all this revolves, appears to be a family affair. Our story opens in the mists of sixteenth-century Scotland. A friar at a Scottish monastery in Glencoe - one John Cor - is cast out with the other friars during the Mouldwarp Henry's dissolution of the monasteries. Cor blames Protestantism, and the rejection of Transubstantiation, and becomes obsessed with proving the truth of the conversion of bread and wine. Now our friar was the licensed whisky distiller of the monastery, so he uses his skills to distill Communion wine - aided by strange books he gathered from the monastery library before he left. His aim is to extract not alcohol, but the Blood of Christ back from the Communion Relic. He collects texts and binds them in a wooden book, and thus leaves a purpose to his descendants. His authority, he claims, comes from a 'Hidden Pope' and it gives him the right to conduct alchemical experiments. For his sins he is finally executed at Smithfield by Catholic Mary.
A strange fragment of doggerel you may appreciate survives and commemorates our Friar John:
Jack be Nimble, Jack be quick
Jack springs out of your bailwick
Caw, Caw, Jack-a-Daw
A bauble and a bottle and he'll spring no more.
Intriguing, yes?
Some years later, the religious and political turmoil of Scotland continues on, as I am sure you are aware. It is 1607 and one McDonald of Glencoe, accompanied by an unnamed Catholic priest, flees with the Earls of Tyrone and Tyrconnell to Spain. This MacDonald becomes the forebear of our latter-day Spaniard.
Interestingly, some point in the late 1600s, an Earl of Tyrone and Baron de la Poer, ends his days in the Tower on heresy charges, specifically relating to sacramental perversions and odd transubstantiations.
Here we must jump foward to 1828, Washington Irving travels to Granada and joins the US consul. After a few years in the country he produces the Alhambra, a collection of Moorish legends and tales. The manuscript survives in the embassy collection.
Now this is where I think your story has its roots. Through the Victorian era the descendants of our high-minded heretic Friar, the Cor family, seem to lose their way from theology to spiritualist treasure hunts. They refine the Friar's process. Forgive me if this is unpleasant for you, rather than distilling an existing liquid to find spirit within, they use the spirit in items to distil a liquid which they can bottle, trapping the spirit. This spirit they question using a pend...
Harwood pauses, suddenly dropping out of lecture mode, his eyes dart round the room, and his face is momentarily ghastly. He smiles nervously, and continues.
Sorry, interrogate with a, with a pendulum. They use the spirits to learn secrets and find treasure. This brings them to the attention of certain people, with whom I believe you are familiar. Certain gentlemen, and I use the word advisedly, who feel that money should remove the bar to that undiscovered country, desire to own more than simply the words of their favourites, they wish to own the favourites. They discover the skills of the Cor family and desire them to extract for them the essences of writers and poets. They approach the Master Diggers of London's necropoleis for a supply of raw material, and the Cors for the knowledge.
For the last few generations then, the Cors have supplied ghosts to this 'Collegium', robbing graves to distil the essence 'for the club's entertainment and education'. I shall just finish with what we know. Some of Irving's possessions come up for sale, a sale which pulls a number of members of the aristocratic occult set to London. The manuscript is annotated and corrected mentioning, amongst other things, 'plombos' (possibly a pendulum source) and the Glencoe translation. Amongst the visitors is a Spanish aristocrat, one Glencoe, who traces his ancestory back to that flight of Earls.
The current Cor, a wine-distilling doctor down on his luck, sells some books to Wellington who brings them to us. However Wellington got them, one of the books is the Burton, the other the not-Codex. Wellington ends up vanished, we end up with the books. And that is where we seem to stand. I would apologise, and suggest it all sounds rather fantastic, but I suspect you are rather aware of the fantastical, Mr Stevenson.
After the landlord has departed, Harwood's face becomes serious again.
Well, I promised you an exchange, and exchange there shall be. If your tale is as I suspect, it will fit much better at the close of mine, so...I shall tell you a tale of strange science and religious heresies.
A few scant days ago, we received into our bookshop a strange tome. Bound in wood, it was part recipe book, part magical grimoire. The man who sold it to us, claimed to have bought it from a down-on-his-luck, wine-distilling doctor. The man who sold it to us, one Wellington by name, later reappeared in the shop, panicked and drained, and before our eyes vanished into thin air leaving only his clothes behind. I believe I am telling you little more than you know at this point, but you may not be aware that this links strangely to a modern auction. In a day or so the possessions of the American author, Washington Irving, go under the hammer at Christie's. Amongst those seeking to own them are a Spanish nobleman with Catholic Scottish roots. Possibly also after them are a certain group who seek out the ownership of the possessions of dead men. Again with that, I do not believe I tell you anything with which you are not already familiar.
Harwood pauses to allow the arrival of the drinks. He smiles graciously at the landlord and waits pointedly for him to move off. When they are again alone he drops his voice and continues.
This wooden book, about which all this revolves, appears to be a family affair. Our story opens in the mists of sixteenth-century Scotland. A friar at a Scottish monastery in Glencoe - one John Cor - is cast out with the other friars during the Mouldwarp Henry's dissolution of the monasteries. Cor blames Protestantism, and the rejection of Transubstantiation, and becomes obsessed with proving the truth of the conversion of bread and wine. Now our friar was the licensed whisky distiller of the monastery, so he uses his skills to distill Communion wine - aided by strange books he gathered from the monastery library before he left. His aim is to extract not alcohol, but the Blood of Christ back from the Communion Relic. He collects texts and binds them in a wooden book, and thus leaves a purpose to his descendants. His authority, he claims, comes from a 'Hidden Pope' and it gives him the right to conduct alchemical experiments. For his sins he is finally executed at Smithfield by Catholic Mary.
A strange fragment of doggerel you may appreciate survives and commemorates our Friar John:
Jack be Nimble, Jack be quick
Jack springs out of your bailwick
Caw, Caw, Jack-a-Daw
A bauble and a bottle and he'll spring no more.
Intriguing, yes?
Some years later, the religious and political turmoil of Scotland continues on, as I am sure you are aware. It is 1607 and one McDonald of Glencoe, accompanied by an unnamed Catholic priest, flees with the Earls of Tyrone and Tyrconnell to Spain. This MacDonald becomes the forebear of our latter-day Spaniard.
Interestingly, some point in the late 1600s, an Earl of Tyrone and Baron de la Poer, ends his days in the Tower on heresy charges, specifically relating to sacramental perversions and odd transubstantiations.
Here we must jump foward to 1828, Washington Irving travels to Granada and joins the US consul. After a few years in the country he produces the Alhambra, a collection of Moorish legends and tales. The manuscript survives in the embassy collection.
Now this is where I think your story has its roots. Through the Victorian era the descendants of our high-minded heretic Friar, the Cor family, seem to lose their way from theology to spiritualist treasure hunts. They refine the Friar's process. Forgive me if this is unpleasant for you, rather than distilling an existing liquid to find spirit within, they use the spirit in items to distil a liquid which they can bottle, trapping the spirit. This spirit they question using a pend...
Harwood pauses, suddenly dropping out of lecture mode, his eyes dart round the room, and his face is momentarily ghastly. He smiles nervously, and continues.
Sorry, interrogate with a, with a pendulum. They use the spirits to learn secrets and find treasure. This brings them to the attention of certain people, with whom I believe you are familiar. Certain gentlemen, and I use the word advisedly, who feel that money should remove the bar to that undiscovered country, desire to own more than simply the words of their favourites, they wish to own the favourites. They discover the skills of the Cor family and desire them to extract for them the essences of writers and poets. They approach the Master Diggers of London's necropoleis for a supply of raw material, and the Cors for the knowledge.
For the last few generations then, the Cors have supplied ghosts to this 'Collegium', robbing graves to distil the essence 'for the club's entertainment and education'. I shall just finish with what we know. Some of Irving's possessions come up for sale, a sale which pulls a number of members of the aristocratic occult set to London. The manuscript is annotated and corrected mentioning, amongst other things, 'plombos' (possibly a pendulum source) and the Glencoe translation. Amongst the visitors is a Spanish aristocrat, one Glencoe, who traces his ancestory back to that flight of Earls.
The current Cor, a wine-distilling doctor down on his luck, sells some books to Wellington who brings them to us. However Wellington got them, one of the books is the Burton, the other the not-Codex. Wellington ends up vanished, we end up with the books. And that is where we seem to stand. I would apologise, and suggest it all sounds rather fantastic, but I suspect you are rather aware of the fantastical, Mr Stevenson.
Ex ignorantia ad sapientiam; e luce ad tenebras.
Re: Ancient Gentlemen
Harwood speaks and Long John listens, at first wearing a puzzled expression upon his grimy face. If eyes can be said to have a light inside of them--perhaps the eyes are a window to a man's soul--then, the light fades, and John's body sinks--subsides, yet, and at the same time, his posture becomes erect; the illusion is subtle and bewildering, as if Harwood sees the tramp through a glass darkly.
"My father is Mr. Stevenson, please, call me Robert. One question: Washington Irvine's book Alhambra, is it to be auctioned?"
"Now, I shall tell my tale . . ."
. . . Mr Stevenson.
"My father is Mr. Stevenson, please, call me Robert. One question: Washington Irvine's book Alhambra, is it to be auctioned?"
"Now, I shall tell my tale . . ."
Re: Ancient Gentlemen
Marmaduke blinks, caws, and with wide-eyes, cautiously side-steps off of the tramp's shoulder, and edges its way along the back-rest of the bench. Robert watches the parrot with a sidelong glance.
"Don't be alarmed, Marmie, your master will soon return.
"Our story . . . I'll speak for John as well--in the third person, he is . . . elsewhere at the moment. John was arrested? anyhow, picked up by a peeler in a Black Maria, where a bag was put over his head. Marmie escaped capture by flying away. John found himself sat amongst "toffs," who gave him a very large whisky, treated him well, and the upshot is that he passed out.
"And this is where I come in. How they did it? I'm unsure, why they did it? well, it seems a ghoulish curiosity and greed was the motive. I was asked questions about my life-story, told to sign my books, flattered--needless to say I was disorientated and confused--I did everything they wanted. . . . I want to return to the empty void from whence I came." Robert Louis Stevenson adds in a poignant whisper: "And maybe there I'll meet Fanny, once again."
"John was dumped in a gutter, returned to the same street in South London. Marmie flew down from a rooftop where he had sat, patiently, all night."
"Don't be alarmed, Marmie, your master will soon return.
"Our story . . . I'll speak for John as well--in the third person, he is . . . elsewhere at the moment. John was arrested? anyhow, picked up by a peeler in a Black Maria, where a bag was put over his head. Marmie escaped capture by flying away. John found himself sat amongst "toffs," who gave him a very large whisky, treated him well, and the upshot is that he passed out.
"And this is where I come in. How they did it? I'm unsure, why they did it? well, it seems a ghoulish curiosity and greed was the motive. I was asked questions about my life-story, told to sign my books, flattered--needless to say I was disorientated and confused--I did everything they wanted. . . . I want to return to the empty void from whence I came." Robert Louis Stevenson adds in a poignant whisper: "And maybe there I'll meet Fanny, once again."
"John was dumped in a gutter, returned to the same street in South London. Marmie flew down from a rooftop where he had sat, patiently, all night."
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Re: Ancient Gentlemen
Harwood sits and considers for period.
I have their notes, at the shop. I had already intended to spend my time tomorrow examining their methods, I want to see how they do it as...I wanted to find a defence, and perhaps a way to reverse the process. I have some knowledge of these arts, although little real experience. Perhaps I can help you.
I have their notes, at the shop. I had already intended to spend my time tomorrow examining their methods, I want to see how they do it as...I wanted to find a defence, and perhaps a way to reverse the process. I have some knowledge of these arts, although little real experience. Perhaps I can help you.
Ex ignorantia ad sapientiam; e luce ad tenebras.
Re: Ancient Gentlemen
"Yes, please help me. It is what I desire--my return to death--ironic, ha! You, Harwood, seem to be the one to do it. John, by the way, will be glad to be rid of me, I'm sure."
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