CHAPTER TWENTY

Late the next morning, October 29, near lunch, the day had dawned overcast with drizzle...


"Mum, dad! Here's another letter from Jonathan! One of the villagers brought it in. Do you want me to read it aloud?" Alex said as he came into the kitchen where Ardeth, Rick, Evie and Khuta were seated in the kitchen.

"Yes, please," his mother replied as she sat down on a large chair next to the fireplace and curled up next to her husband. Ardeth, with Khuta at his feet, was sitting at the kitchen table, inspecting the Bracelet.

Alex's deep tenor voice was quiet as he relayed Jonathan's latest letter. "Its dated 20 October."

"That was quick mail this time around," Rick noted quietly about the letter's date.


-----------------------------

Dear Sis,

My last letter failed to relate an event which occurred in our northern neighbor and there simply was not enough time to relate the event to you during my brief stay back in London. I trust you are satisfied with my letters, which I enjoy writing.

After arranging for the vaults, I had a most unusual meeting in a pub--the poet Hugh MacDiarmid (the pen name of Christopher Murray Grieve) and he and I struck up a friendship over mash and bangers. All right, I admit I ordered the mash and bangers while Hugh--a true Scotsman indeed--dived into a bowl of haggis!

The bashed neeps were rather good, though, and I consumed two bowls in exchange for more of my tea.

Really, sister dear, the government rations two ounces of tea per person per week! No wonder I made fast friends by exchanging tea and other sundries for services! I know I have made previous mention of Tallulah's enormous stockpile of food, clothing and supplies, but until I traveled several times by train through our mother land, I didn't fully realize the full effects of the government's rather stringent per-person weekly rationing.

Dear, sweet Tallulah! How much better we can help those made homeless by the Luftwaffe with the supplies she stockpiled!

Moving on, I've enclosed a copy of a chapbook of Hugh's which he presented to me. The poems are written in Scots but with your ability in languages, I trust you'll be able to decipher Scots and translate the poems.

Despite the daily bombardment of London, the plane ride to Liverpool was rather uneventful, although I had the scariest vision that a line of Messerschmidts would appear on the horizon, flying towards us, our tiny plane in their sights and the Germans would be ready to shoot Jonathan and Jonathan down over the English heaths.

Irish air is quite beneficial to the children, who grow more hale and hearty with each passing day. The fresh air ruddies their cheeks and their eyes smile as we've always heard how Irish eyes smile.

I watch the children, who, for the present time, laugh at seeing ruminants grazing alongside the rural lanes, and shout out their amazement upon seeing a dolmen or the ruins of an ancient castle. Their laughter rings out as they play, and I grow sad.

Their childhoods (and parents) have been cruelly stolen from them and once again you and I (along with the rest of the world) have to bear witness to the ravages of another war. This is no "Phoney War" (oh! but how we could use another period of inactivity again!) but a manifestation of the horrors their uncles and elder brothers told around the fireside about the trenches and mustard gas.

We ourselves had barely recovered from the first war when the winds of war were once again loosed and another generation of children are torn from the safety of their childhood and thrust into a forced adulthood.

In that sense, I am glad the Irish air is doing the children well and once again they can believe they are children, if only for a short while, for when they return to London, no matter what their ages, they will be forced to grow up sooner rather than later. Such are the invisible casualties of war upon the human race.

The children express concern for those youngsters left behind in London, for they hear the radio reports about the continuing daily bombing by the Luftwaffe. Being separated from their parents and all that they knew and being thrust into a foreign country unwillingly will undoubtedly take an emotional toll.

They are also feeling a bit of awe, for many of the children from London proper lived in cold water flats and rarely made it down to the council baths once a week to bathe in hot water. And in Ireland, hot water gushes from the taps. How the children squeal when they have daily hot baths!

Irish farming folk have developed quite the communications system for relaying the news to those folks not lucky enough to own a radio. To encourage exercise (not to mention sightseeing, and Ireland has castles galore), and each of the children gets a turn going round to the farms every few days carrying a 'newspaper' containing news on London, the war ("history in the making" the children tell me and they finished by saying "they need to know what happens so it may never happen again").

And the children, especially Irene Dunne, in the absence of regular library time, have developed an affiinity for making up stories and plays, which they enact in their own 'theatre'--unsuitably located in a windswept barn (I must make better arrangements for them if they are going to continue putting on plays, for winter is fast approching).

Irene is turning into quite the young writer and back in England, I shall have to find some outlets for her writing else her creativity will wither and she will end up stamping her feet in frustration.

There is a dearth of writers in this, the second world war, and the reason, I suspect, is that our young men (and women!) of capable talent are being sent off to the front lines. I am keen to encourage Irene's nascent talent, for I shall have need of a good tale to read in my old age, when Ian's children are warm in their beds and, after a day of work, then caring for rambunctious children, Ian himself will have nodded off in front of the fireplace.

With that thought, I am reminded of the first stanza of Yeats' "When You are Old":

When you are old and grey and full of sleep
and nodding by the fire, take down this book
and slowly read, and dream of the soft look
your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.


Gaelic is still spoken here and there in the rural countryside of Ireland and learning a new language seems to suit the children and takes their minds off the Luftwaffe. Basic greetings in Gaelic befuddle me, but the children's young minds have allowed them to hold a simple conversation after just a few weeks in Ireland. Sister, dear! Now is the time I wish I possessed your ability with languages!

Ian is doing wonderfully and he and I have grown quite attached to each other. He's settled down quite a bit and is not so stoic and angry. He has developed a bit of a mischievous streak and is constantly pulling practical jokes on me and any other unsuspecting person who may have the misfortune of being around when he gets a prank into his head.

I think that knowing he has a permanent home with someone who's interested in him as a person instead of as a boarder has calmed him substantially.

A fresh, young intelligent mind he possesses and he uses it at every opportunity, quizzing me about our parents, my travels in Egypt and his memory is astounding! He is especially interested in the fact you and I are half-Egyptian.

It appears that Ian, like a good many people, is fascinated in all things Ancient Egyptian. So sister dear, I must ask you to write down myths and poems and the what not that you remember from Neferteri's lifetime so my Ian can read and slake his thirst for things Ancient Egyptian.

I've yet to relay to Ian the news about your past life as Neferteri. I am not quite sure how he'll accept that news, nor have I relayed to him about the events with Imhotep and Ancksunamun out in the Egyptian Sahara all those years ago.

There are times when I myself can hardly believe that Alex used a spell from the Book of the Dead to resurrect you. Sitting there with Alex, after Ancksunamun stabbed you, I was at a loss for emotions. How does one accept the fact he has just witnessed his only sister being stabbed to death?

For Alex's sake, I kept the proverbial stiff upper lip but I am truly relieved that Alex kept his mind and used "the Book" as he likes to say, and resurrected you, sister dear.

And speaking of Egypt, I have had dreams that I can not remember upon awakening, but something tells me I need to return to England--to London--shortly. Ian is rather sad that I will be leaving him for a time, but he is mollified greatly (read: highly enthusiastic!) by the fact that his new foster aunt not only lived in Egypt but knows all things Ancient Egyptian.

And Ian has instructed me to bring back books on Ancient Egypt, and especially books about King Tut. Ah! Along with the rest of the English population, he shares the still-raging fascination for King Tut.

Does Tut's tomb ever end?

I remain, your loving brother,
Jonathan



ps-- while rummaging in a village antiques store a few days ago, I found three pamphlets, the first of which was written nearly 30 years ago, by an older acquaintance of mine: Issac Rosenberg. This particular poem was published in 1922, four years after he died on the battle lines (April 1, 1918).



Break of Day in the Trenches

The darkness crumbles away,
It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand,
A queer sardonic rat,
As I pull the parapet's poppy
To stick behind my ear.

Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies.

Now you have touched this English hand
You will do the same to a German
Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure
To cross the sleeping green between.

It seems you inwardly grin as you pass
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,
Less chanced than you for life,
Bonds to the whims of murder,
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
The torn fields of France.

What do you see in our eyes
At the shrieking iron and flame
Hurled through still heavens?
What quaver--what heart aghast?
Poppies whose roots are in man's veins
Drop, and are ever dropping;
But mine in my ear is safe--
Just a little white with dust.


------------------------------


Alex's soft voice finished the last phrase of Issac Rosenberg's words when Khuta, ever a good watchdog, barked a greeting. The O'Connells and Ardeth looked up at the doorway to see to whom Khuta was barking.

"Jonathan!" Evie, Alex and Rick cried, as Evie jumped to her feet and ran to hug her brother.

"We just got your last letter just now!" she told her brother as she hugged him.

"Jonathan!" Rick said as he too hugged his brother in law and Alex copied his father.

"So I heard," he said, extracting himself from Alex's embrace before continuing, "And Ardeth, greetings. I believe I have somebody here that you're looking for," Jonathan told Ardeth, who smiled as he saw who was walking up behind Jonathan.

"Martin!" Ardeth said and stood up. Khuta barked happily, wanting to join in the general commotion of Jonathan's and Martin's arrival. She went up and sniffed at the two men, each of whom bent down to pet her.

Nasally, Martin replied when he finished petting Khuta, "Ardeth! You are well. I wish I could I say the same. I developed a case of pneumonia and was laid up in a hospital in Salisbury. Dreadful time there."

"You are here, and that is all we need," Ardeth replied. "I am glad to see you well."

"Alex! Some tea for Jonathan and Martin!" Evie said. "Hello, Martin. We've been awaiting your arrival. Sit down here, by the fire," she said, showing Martin to the chair she had just vacated.

"And hello to you, Mister and Mrs O'Connell. Alex. I am pleased to finally meet you after hearing many tales about your and Ardeth's experiences in the Sahara," he said as he accepted a cup of tea from Alex. "Is there honey? Honey is good for my throat."

"Call us Rick and Evie. Our late housemaid Tallulah laid up a lot of supplies and honey is one of them. Alex? The honey pot is in the lower left hand drawer next to the stove."

"So that's where you hid it!" Rick teased his wife, as he put his arm around her. Alex went to fetch the honey pot.

"Now for business, for I know what's all on your minds" Martin continued as Alex put the honey pot down and extracted a spoonful, which he dripped into Martin's tea cup. "The Bracelet needs the Spell of Osiris to be incanted. I am at a loss as to how to gain access to the spell, except by trying to contact Taita in the Crossroads of Time."

"I have failed to find a copy of the Hermetica," Ardeth said. "But I trust that our friend Taita will have the answers."

"I wish it were that easy. I have had trouble contacting Lostris and Taita as of late," Martin told Ardeth.

"You have been ill and your mind has been wandering," Ardeth replied and Martin nodded.

"He is a clever one, that Taita. Without knowing the Spell of Osiris, there will be no way to incant the spell," Martin said.

"Very powerful spell indeed," Jonathan murmured as he too took a cup of tea and sipped.

"It's the spell which will expel the Luftwaffe's bombers from London. Perhaps forever," Alex said hopefully as Ardeth's eyes narrowed a bit as he remembered something. Ardeth walked over to the kitchen table where he picked up the Bracelet. Breaking it into three pieces, he carried the pieces over to Martin.

Jonathan's eyes lighted up as he looked at Taita's exquisite workmanship. The emeralds were quite large--not tiny emeralds as one usually found in modern jewerly.

"Does this writing make sense?" he asked Martin, who held up one of the Bracelet's links towards the firelight. Martin squinted carefully at the pieces.

"Do you have a magnifying glass?" he asked Rick.

But it was Alex who answered. "Sure do!" Alex exclaimed, jumped up and ran out of the room. Khuta barked when Ardeth returned to the kitchen table to sit down. Ardeth reached down to pet her.

"What's this? Writing? Let me see," Evie asked as she examined another piece of the Bracelet. She addressed Martin, "We'd meant to ask, but does the power of the Bracelet diminish when it's in three parts like this?"

Martin shook his head. "No. I think it increases the power."

"This writing looks familiar," Evie said, "but I can't place the language. It's a Semitic language, judging from the sentence structure, and related to the languages of Arabic and Hebrew."

Rick stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Could it be the language the Hyksos spoke? Can you decipher it Evie? It could be the spell of Osiris written on the Bracelet, just in case there were no copies of the spell available."

Martin nodded in agreement. "The Hyksos invaded Egypt during Taita's lifetime and he was a student in languages. He might have used the written language of the Hyksos if he wrote something on the Bracelet."

"Why would he use the language of invaders when making the Bracelet? Why not use ancient Egyptian?" Alex wanted to know as he came into the room carrying a magnifying glass.

After a moment, Ardeth was the one to respond, "The Spell of Osiris is such a strong spell, anyone with literacy could read aloud the spell. And incanting the spell, even inadvertantly, would activate the power of the spell."

"And that would cause catastrophe," Rick observed, looking at his wife. "When your mother incanted a spell," he began to tell Alex, but Evie cut him off with a sharp glance.

"Ardeth's right. I'll tell you about the Egyptian myths later on, Alex, and Jonathan, I'll write them down for Ian."

"Ian is quite keen on learning ancient Egyptian as well," he told his sister.

"I'll teach him! Will he come home with you?"

Jonathan nodded as Alex asked, "What were the dominant languages of that time?" Alex wanted to know as he watched Martin inspect the three sections of the Bracelet.

His mother responded, "Egyptian and Hebrew for the inhabitants of Egypt. Babylonian to the immediate east and further east, other Semitic languages were spoken, and Berber languages to the west of Egypt. There were hundreds of other languages, mostly primitive like the Dinka language, and especially to the south and west of Egypt the languages were varied..."

"Mum!" Alex moaned as Rick said, "Evie," then kissed his wife to quiet her upcoming speech on ancient languages.

Martin was peering intently through the magnifying glass. "I do believe these are instructions for activating the Bracelet. We shall have to spend some time deciphering the language."

"That reminds me!" Evie exclaimed. "Last night, when the Bracelet was first taken apart, there was a man's voice coming from the golden light. He tried to address us but he faded out."

Martin stroked his now bearded chin in imitation of Rick. "Hmmm. Taita is very clever, and a puzzle lover."

"I was right!" Rick interjected, smiling.

Martin chuckled. "Yes, he loved puzzles, and the bao board, and constructing clever mazes to confound those who tried to solve his mazes. The voice you heard was probably his, and if it was his voice, he might have constructed a gateway to the Spell of Osiris."

"And he's the gatekeeper?" Jonathan inquired.

"That would make sense. Taita would want to ensure the spell wasn't inadvertantly incanted," Evie noted.

"I would have to agree with you, Evie," Martin said. "Taita fashioned the Bracelet to help repel invaders of Egypt and if he used the Spell of Osiris in its creation, the puzzle lover in him would have created a gateway."

Ardeth commented, "And the ancient myths tell about the misfortunes of those who tried to use the spell of Osiris for their own benefit. Placing a gateway to the spell would be appropriate for Taita to have done."

"Martin, could you try to contact Lostris and Taita while Evie tries to decipher the language?" Rick asked Martin, who nodded as Evie said, "Yes. I think that's an excellent idea. I'll make some lunch as until we know the spell of Osiris, there's nothing much we can do."

"Would there be any problem with me having a hot bath?" Martin asked. "I'm rather chilled."

"Ditto," Jonathan said. "A hot bath after traveling is always a treat," he said as he took another sip of his hot tea laced with honey instead of sugar this time around.

"Of course," Rick said. "Alex? Show Martin the guest bath." Martin followed Alex and the two left the room.

"And I shall be outside," Ardeth put in, standing up from the kitchen table. Khuta stood up to follow him. "Khuta, go find Ducky," Ardeth told the retriever, and she obediently left the kitchen. Ardeth, too, left the kitchen, his black robes swirling around him and threads of golden light enveloping him.

"He's been doing that a lot," Evie whispered. "The Gods are speaking to him. He seems to take comfort from their words."

Jonathan nodded in response. "Gods are like that, I hear." He rubbed his hands together, then continued. "Is that some of the Cheddar folks' rather surreptious contribution of cheese to London that I notice on the kitchen table?" Jonathan inquired of his sister, a mischievous grin on his face. "And might I add unbeknownst to the Crown's rationers?"

Evie smiled. "Yes, it is. And just as clandestinely, we're distributing the cheese. The recipients are more than happy to alleviate the rationing, even if it's just for a while. I know Cheddar can't send cheese to London forever."

"Cheddar stockpiled cheese wheels in the caves throughout Cheddar Gorge. Crown toilers don't know that, so don't let on!" Jonathan told his sister in a conspiratorial whisper as she went over to the kitchen table and sliced a piece of cheddar cheese. Placing the cheese on a plate, she took a small loaf of warm black rye bread and placed it next to the cheese, walked over and handed the plate to her brother.

"There you go," she said as she kissed Jonathan's cheek. He smiled at her and put the plate down on his lap, as Evie commented, "Why would I tell? I've been on the dreaded cheese ration as long as the rest of England--since January!"

"You said that Ian will be able to come home with you. I thought Children's Services were evacuating the children to the countryside until the end of the war, whenever that might be," Rick wanted to know as Jonathan took a bite of the warm black rye bread. Rick reached for his tea mug and took a sip of tea.

"CS is evacuating the children until the end of the war. Ian's legal status is in limbo, for when he was evacuated, he was an orphan and a ward of Children's Services. Now he's my foster son and I've agreed to allow him to stay in Ireland. He enjoys being a farmhand."

"What's this about becoming an adoptive parent?" Evie asked her brother as she sat down on her husband's lap. "We're keen to meet Ian and we're happy for the both of you."

Rick smiled then said,"Yes, tell us."

Jonathan returned the smile, then sipped tea to chase the bread down his throat. "That's where I threw a spanner into the works. Ian's legal status changed when I filed adoption papers. And, uniquely," he said, taking a sip of his tea and swallowing, "I will be able to send Ian to and from the farm in Ireland as I please."

"He'll be able to see his new father on a regular basis, unlike the other children who will have to wait until the end of the war to see their parents again," Evie noted.

"That he will," Jonathan replied, sipping his tea. "Most of the evacuated children won't be so lucky," he added.

Rick looked at Jonathan. "You found the needle in the haystack that we've been searching for these last weeks. How did you run into Martin?" he asked.

"Now that's a tale!" Jonathan replied, sitting back in the leather chair and sipping his tea. "In short, I thought from his face that he was Jonathan Wilkes standing on the train platform at Salisbury when I knew I'd left him in Liverpool after flying in from Edinburgh."

"They're brothers! I thought they merely shared a common surname," Rick exclaimed.

"Twins. Fraternal, but so close in appearance as to be identical. Martin had just been released from the hospital. It was pure chance the train was passing through Salisbury, else he would have had to thumb it to London."

"Chance? More like the Gods are arranging everything," Rick observed. The fire crackled as Alex's laughter rang out from upstairs. Shortly afterwards, a loudly quacking Ducky flew into the kitchen, followed by a barking Khuta.

"She's obedient, if anything," Jonathan drily observed, sipping more of his tea.

"Khuta! You found Ducky as Ardeth ordered, now stop chasing Ducky," Evie commanded the retriever, who ignored Evie and continued to bark at Ducky, who had flown on top of the sideboard. "She's trying to retrieve him. It's her job," Evie told her smiling brother. "She doesn't try to hurt him."

"Where did you find her?" Jonathan asked, taking a sip of his tea then picking up the cheese slice.

"Down by the Docklands," Rick replied as he too sipped his tea.

Jonathan nearly choked on his cheese. When he was able, he asked, "The Docklands? Do you remember the name or the house address?"

"McClure. Why?"

"Her name is Buttercup. Cuppy for short," Jonathan replied. "I accompanied David McClure to Ireland. He'll be glad to know he hasn't lost everyone. His parents are overseas and his sister died of a brain tumour in July."

"Cuppy will be good news for him, then," Rick observed, a tone of sadness in his voice.

"Cuppy! Stop that!" Evie ordered, and for the first time in weeks, the retriever came over and sat down in front of Evie. "Guess you didn't recognize your name had been temporarily changed, did you Cuppy?" Evie asked the dog. Cuppy barked in response.

"She did respond to Ardeth," Jonathan commented.

"We did need to call her something, instead of just 'here, doggy'," Rick said, reaching over to pet Cuppy.

"She's barely left his side since we found her in the rubble of the McClure's home," Evie stated.

"Here, Cuppy! Catch!" Jonathan said, flicking a small piece of the cheese into the air. Cuppy caught it in her mouth and wolfed the cheese down. She barked happily. "Good girl! Did you know I found David for you, Cuppy? Would you like me to take you to see David?" he asked the dog, who barked again, then came over and lay down at Jonathan's feet.

"Guess she would," Jonathan next commented, petting Cuppy then sitting back and sipped his tea.

Evie and Rick followed suit, and the three waited uneasily by the fireplace for the inevitable air raid sirens. And today, the 29th of October, was destined to be the last day of intense bombings.