The Gift of the Bone-Spear. (Nigel/GH, current day)

The tailor frowned, flipping the fabric to and fro, surveying the damage with  incredulity.  If the haberdasher hadn't himself crafted the jacket for the queer man in dark glasses  but a few weeks ago, he'd think  it came from the body of a murder victim who met an unsavory end after a night at the opera. 

 

 "I daresay it would be more economically prudent to order a new coat,  as one must  rebuild the collar, back, and front panels-- the bloodstains and these dreadful rips are simply too large to patch... I could start the work with a down payment of...lets say half, about three pounds, if you want that exact fabric. You see, there have been some shocking deaths among some very prominent men recently, and their widows have taken a fancy to that same brocade as you chose-- its already quite scarce, as there are these rumours of a motley group of vigilantes who have avenged the men's murders, one of whom wore black spectacles and a riding cloak over a rather dashing frock coat of this very same figured satin silk velvet--" 

 

The tailor paused, then raised a sharp,  judgmental eyebrow to the mysterious client, his voice now a whisper across the counter.    "I've seen a lot of things in men's clothing meant to be kept secret...and  I hope she was worth it--  Not sure how you could've survived such wounds from a duel for a lady's honor, unless you were a clever cheat and wore a cuirass, just to be sure to win her from her lover..."

Collecting the destroyed garment with a dour frown, Nigel was more offended by the insinuation he would wear the archaic chest armor used by lesser cavalry units than he was by the dishonor of cheating at a duel. The bit of gossip that obliquely fingered him and the Rippers of his lodge was also unsettling.  Pondering this during a long flaneur's walk through Manchester's eerie twilight, Nigel  eventually returned to the Lodge. With a frustrated sigh, he threw the ruined coat over one of the new plush chairs that had recently appeared by the parlor hearth, and looked for the mail in hopes of finding some invitations to interview for employment.

When Nigel wasn't obligated to any other task,  he spent the early evenings wandering alone through town, observing various businesses and trades open late at night, surveying what sort of occupation he could take up to resolve the unrelenting expenses that suddenly dogged him.  Despite his  fine schooling and considerable military experience, Nigel found himself essentially underclassed beyond anything his ex- father could have wrought through disowning and decommissioning.  At one point Nigel assumed he'd spend his lordly middle-age writing of Her Majesty's  glorious Empire and its victorious military exploits he led-- in between socializing at exclusive clubs or winning polo matches, saddled not with poverty, but a fine horse and some finely titled wife with requisite heir and spares. But now Nigel realized he was utterly bereft- if not completely contemptuous- of such a vacuous vocation as his past had imprecisely predicted.

With his former rank and honors allegedly cashiered from the rolls of the British Army and the Order of Precedence,  the forsaken son's many surnames were merely a cruel and ironic hindrance.  No matter if he wore his raggy military surplus or his nicer new clothes to seek a job, Nigel was met with  mockery or disbelief by clerical employers and  working-class tradesmen alike. He was seen as a mad itinerant veteran or another trickster gypsy-- if not an outright charlatan,  claiming an earl's heritage from the peerage out of desperation, delusion, or criminal deviance.  Why would  a noble Crowninshield, issue of the Earldom of D'arcy-Lorcan, seek to labour in Manchester like a common man of industry?

Even when he assumed the less provocative name  of  "O'Neill" (in honor of the nursemaid he suspected was his true mother),  Nigel was quickly shown the NINA signboards, or driven off by racist insults. In the Catholic neighborhoods,  a charitable prayer was sometimes offered with a shake of a pitying head from from Irish proprietors.   Alas, there was not any meaningful or steady work for a man who had to wear shaded spectacles at all times due to some war-related eye injury-- a man who wanted to work nights; and also  had an unreliable schedule.

Nevertheless, Nigel found odd jobs to  keep from relying completely on the benevolence of Avendale Lodge.  A few long days a week at the Bezborodov farm were spent tending to various tasks in exchange for good vegetables, the best of company, and some humbly accepted coin.  Nigel also found further opportunity working as a medical assistant of sorts at Ivan's new practice for the poor. The man's bedside manner--especially with rude babies--was one of  compassionate competency,  and he even did more menial tasks without complaint. Nigel gratefully accepted Ivan's more than fair compensation.

But none was his passion. After the harrowing missions in service of the Queen (and the Lodge), Nigel felt he was only play-acting at this mundane business of ordinary work, even if it was sorely needed charity for the less fortunate.  He increasingly found fulfillment in his ongoing exacting task, which was to create a comprehensive compendium of the artifacts, exploits, and observations he had experienced as a Ripper.

So the small hours of this very night found the man at the Lodge's study table, pouring over a response letter from Inspector Pond where he agreed with Nigel's suggestion that the property of the murdered Rosicrucian cult stay in their safekeeping. Furthermore, the  relics collected from the swamps of Wigan had been sent over to the Rippers.  A large crate delivered by the mysterious messenger loomed over the lancer, as did Hollis' dreadful bone-spear.  Nigel felt an unsettling vertigo as he looked upon the staff, yet forced himself to concentrate on studying the magical aspects (or lack thereof) of the crate's contents.

A great pile of common items, such as rifles, ammunition, boots, and personal effects including cash  was immediately segregated, for  Nigel could not stomach these sadly futile spoils of war. The party had agreed to donate these in care of the priest of St. Mary's, to be given to those in need of self-protection or clothing; along with a small cash offering for the poor in gratitude of the priest's role at this last battle.  Yet Nigel could not forget the horrific tale of the Wigan Witches being burnt,  and he readily recalled  the  charred remnants of the little hut amid the ghost lights of the forest. Nigel penned a short letter to the priest to go along with the donations; and added a simple postscript: "These items to be used only the peaceful procurement of food, protection, and shelter:TERRIFY NOT MAN LEST GOD TERRIFY YOU"

 Frowning from an increasing  revulsion, Nigel now took up the cultists' bronze athame, using it to carefully lift dreadful artifacts of the Rakshasa.  He flung the mundane items down into another box, dutifully penning his notes despite the nauseating nearness of the offending gold element.

"From the Rakshasa, supernatural extracts for speed, strength, and vigour were ripped; now stored in the Lodge Lab...also recovered were his grand robe of velvet, silk, and gold-stitches as well as elaborate amulets, necklaces, and baubles of gold depicting tiger-demons and devils of the Hindu sect-- fortunately, neither the vestment nor the ornaments hold any magical nature: yet the weight and quality of the precious metal should realize a good sum even when melted to scrap. We cannot risk preserving this evil iconography of the a-sura, lest it fall into evil hands once more, and become charged once more with hellish power."
"From the baneful patchwork beast  that so brutalized BlackJack, there is sufficient material preserved now on ice so the doctor may attempt ripping extracts of strength from the extant organs or perhaps reaping Spinner's invention of the Adrenal pump --- *nota bene, must update aftereffects based on further JM observations*
"From the black magician Hollis, unimportant fragments of his stag mask, and a most powerful staff which---"  Here Nigel paused, unnerved by the baneful weapon which had punctured his own body to almost deadly effect, just before the apocalyptic vision of the Huntsman swept Hollis away to some awful Wild Hunt retribution.  As the evil mage's staff lay there framed by bits of deer bone and antler, Nigel turned to look up at what remained  of the great staglike-god slain at Wigan's woods weeks ago and retrieved by Pride Mother.  Hanging unadorned, the massive antlered skull seemed hardly the relic of a forest god, and more like a garish hunting  trophy taken by aspiring gentry.

Standing  resolutely, Nigel's mind now honed in on  the unorthodox courage and inexplicable will which  kept him alive through all the traumatizing toils of his fateful life. Steeling himself, one gloved hand grasped his notebooks; the other dared to take up the skeletal staff.  Nigel rushed through the once forbidden basement door.  Eyes flashed metallic in the dim gaslight as he halted stiffly before  the marvelous mechanized Master.  The bone staff  was hoisted  parallel to his side,  mindfully prevented from touching any surface of the Lodge.  However, Nigel's voice quavered as he addressed the sentient system of contraptions: the outcast doubted his own worth more than ever, so his words coming fast and awkward and numerous in his impetuous rush.

"Good evening, Sir! Forgive me, our Generous Host, it is me, Lieutenant Nigel Crowninshield...ahm...With your permission, Sir, I would be most grateful to obtain the honor of your guidance and wisdom. Ah,  for even if no monsters warrant the party's attention tonight, I know we must never stop the fight...and...well, to be perfectly truthful...I should also very much enjoy the kindness of your company in these lonely late hours....Sir?  We needn't discuss business, of course...unless you'd like to-- but, oh, yes!  I've obtained a recording of Tannhauser, and I think it would be quite something to hear!

"But...I'm afraid I must first seek your assistance with Hollis' staff of bone here!  I'm quite loathe to house it at  Avendale without better understanding the implications...especially with that skull of Belghast upstairs, you see..."  Nigel could no longer  restrain his curiosity regarding the arcane world. He desperately wanted to understand his nascent mental powers that, until his strange surgery,  were mostly a latent quirk.  Even now that he had a better idea of his capabilities,  his execution was still highly variable. It was doubly disturbing  to him that in  Hollis alone (so far)  Nigel could recognize some of the same weird abilities, albeit twisted by wicked hands. 

"This nasty old shaft,  it very well near did me in! I thought perhaps...you might be able to scrutinize it, please, Sir? Do tell me anything and everything, for I have so much to learn!" 

The machine sat idle and quiet - steam engine purring quietly as the gears slowly turned, clacking like whispers in the dark basement.  Indeed, faint music -was- playing, a selection of opera - Faust, at a volume that had been inaudible from the top of the stairs. Indeed, he even heard the strange, crisp voice that likely had once been the voice of Alister Randall - Prince Solomon, of the Oldham Lodge - humming along to the particularly memorable parts.  At the sound of Nigel's approach, the cylinder ceased playing - the gears clacked more rapidly, and the hiss of steam as they shifted up and down was more audible.  G.H.'s voice was stronger now, more focused.

"Ah, Nigel, pray do not address me as such.  I was never a man of terribly high birth... and even now, I am safely out of the clutches of the stodgy social order."  Nigel imagined that he could hear a smile in the machine's voice, "Of course - I am still not immune to the temptations of the senses.  It would be my pleasure to speak with you - and if you could humor my taste for Opera, I would be quite in your debt."  There was more clacking and whirring, and the wax cylinder that had been gracing the gramophone was placed gently into a velvet lined box.  "I do so love a tenor's clear voice, don't you?"

Once the opera had begun at a volume suited for conversation, G.H. continued.  "Ah, yes - no doubt the weapon of Bertrand Hollis.  Black Jack told me of his defeat before he left - though he was curt enough... he wouldn't even stay for a cigar.  I quite disliked his habit in life, though now in this...curious state I now inhabit, I admit smoke does not worry me overmuch.  Pray, place it against the wall beside my obscura, would you?  I shall see what I can see."  The camera moved into place, a funnel releasing a good amount of what seemed to be flash powder.

 With a child's wonder, Nigel clearly delighted in observing the mechanical ballet of gears and gasses that enabled to the lodge's mysterious resident to communicate. The lancer seemed to be alone among his ripper-mates in taking an comfort in the disembodied voice, which came clear and strong now, embellished but not overcome by the strains of the German orchestrations. 

"Ah, thank you, Alister, if that is how you wish to be addressed...and no, its no debt, for I love opera! Tenors are indeed fine, but right now I'm quite taken by the nightingale throat of Miriam Constantine." Nigel fell quiet for a moment as his mind pictured the noble lady, but then he blushed at his boyish proclamation of love that had gone unanswered-- and probably straight to the rubbish bin when read by her butler.  "Ahm, I  enjoy any good music really-- so if you'd like, I will see if I can procure a membership at the Manchester Library--surely they have other cylinders we can enjoy. Or if you want me to read you the newspaper--whatever you wish! I would very much like to have company when Murphy's not around, as otherwise I find myself thinking myself into circles." The young man frowned a bit, realizing he also was talking in circles-- and not by virtue of any cylinder. 

 Steadying the staff as directed, Nigel stood close by in case anything strange caused it to leave its place, and lifted one hand to his eyes, prepared for the inevitable flash.  "I actually do agree with you on the social order bit; in fact, I'm wondering if any of my colleagues should be using our real names anymore, or if we should follow Pride Mother's and Prospero's example...it seems our enemies care not a whit about using their real names as they go about their business-- at least in the case of Spinner and Hollis. I would like to know the origins of your title, Prince Solomon, should you care to share it with me after you've made your observation here."

 

"Ah, yes - she has quite a lovely voice.  Unfortunately, there are not many recordings of her... though that may change.  What a wondrous time it is, when I can stay here and listen to the greatest in their native halls."  The gears whirred in their silence, as G.H. absorbed Nigel's piece of conversation.  "If you would like, certainly!  You know, with my current state... if opera could be recorded on punch cards, I daresay I could listen to them at the speed of thought - imagine!  Four hours in just as many minutes!"  G.H. seemed to think on this for a moment, before he finally said, "That would be very kind of you, Nigel.  Please, feel free to visit whenever you like."

The flash was extra-blinding, though Nigel's protection assisted him in remaining un-dazed.  "It was a precaution born of Prospero's wariness to reveal his face."  G.H. chuckled.  "It's really just a silly, small thing.  My own jaunt into the realms of sorcery began when I was very young... I practiced quite diligently to master the Key of Solomon.  Of course, from the Bible we have King Solomon...but I was still a young man seeking the crown - so to speak - so that Prince Solomon seemed apt."  The gears clacked a bit more rapidly as G.H. let fly a triumphant "Ah-ha!  I knew that rascal was a thief as well...  Here is quite a unique spear indeed.  The vertebrate are a ghastly addition and not necessary, you'll find that the spear's core is made of alder wood.  The important part are the arcane bindings and the bone head of the spear itself."  Indeed, if Nigel poked about, he'd find a waxed wooden core, with several sigils burned into the material.  "It isn't harmful, at least, not until one strikes with it."

"Unless my research was mistaken, I believe this is the Gae Bulg - the spear formed of the bones of some ancient monster.  It was the weapon of an Irish hero named Cu Chuliann, said to be from the bones of a sea-dwelling Formian giant.  What a find it is!  As to it's powers... well, the texts are confusing, as the old ones tend to be.  It clearly does not have seven heads... or any barbs.  It is, however, said to be universally deadly."  G.H. informed, speaking as a man reading over a book whilst he divulges the information.

 

The young lieutenant's mind raced as he tried to absorb all the information Alister imparted, and he began to take quick notes in the back of one of the journals he'd brought down, occasionally flipping to other passages already written. Nigel then gingerly removed the morbid vertebra trophies, revealing the sigils carved upon the sacred wood, whose forms  he copied into his book. Suddenly everything seemed to converge, although he was hesitant to make the wrong conclusion.

"Generous Host-- if I may share with you some of my own observations regarding this spear, the Gae Bulg--- even though we've only met with Hollis  three times-- it seems...well forgive me, I do not know the source of your information. Is it taken from Savage, and translated into these punch cards? If he was mutinous, how can you be sure your data is correct? Or perhaps it is just incomplete, or outdated?  If you want to take another image, I can show you where I've been trying my best to record notes on everything we've encountered-- from allies to enemies, magic, weapons, relics, monsters, even Rippertech and folklore. Honestly I've been concerned about having it all in one book, so I keep several journals-- but perhaps if you could show me how to make these punch cards-- I could share it with you more readily and also keep it safe.

"So bear with me here, my friend-- I learnt at Wigan when we went to investigate the plague  that alderwood was  considered a folk-magic shield against curses,  or curative for poison. Forgive me if I don't recall correctly, but I want to say Dr. Hollis would remove these boughs or would perhaps conjure a sickly mould upon them, as his patients continued to worsen.   I also learnt that Belghast,  who appeared in the woods where the ley-lines make curious green lights, was called the deity of poison. Belghast was slain by us-- although, I admit I was hesitant to harm such a noble-appearing creature,  as I did not know for sure if he was a protector or foe. Anyway, Hollis got away, declaring his revenge on Pride Mother.

"Our next sighting was at the Tameside festival--  Hollis now wore this wooden staglike mask meant to emulate Belghast. Yet he didn't seem to understand whatever deadly qualities this spear had? For he simply used it to conjure his magic, striking into the ground.  He seemed to favor this mostly ineffective earth-shaking type attack, and conjured some goblins.  A sickly, glowing green gas seemed to illuminate his workings. I observed that Hollis preferred to keep his distance, and I realized that some of my own powers could perhaps counter his.  But in my fury I charged him-- but completely missed him with my shashka, as he apparently uses the same shielding power I can conjure. However, when Black Jack appeared next to Hollis, I tell you the old boxer's skin smoked and roiled like a cigar lit by hellfire itself, and demon horns grew from his brow! Hollis seemed to give up instantly, and disappeared.

 

"At our third meeting, in the swamps at Wigan,  Hollis arrived only after the rest of the cabal had mostly been defeated.  Again he wore the deer-mask, and talked of performing a great sacrifice 'as the gate was open. ' The five hands of the Rosicrucians were made into  a pentacle, lit with candles that seemed to give Hollis superhuman constitution-- I tell you, he was shot clean in  the head, then lanced fatally through the heart with a rapier, but to no avail!  He finally knocked me  to the ground with a blast of trembling earth, and stabbed twice me in the belly by that very spear. I can assure you, it did not suddenly splinter into many heads or barbs-- although I was wounded badly.  Worst of all, he ruined my nicest frock-coat, that scoundrel!  I was infuriated--hacked at him wildly-- slashing open his face and groin. Ah, I know that's dishonorable, but, sorry, but he deserved it--plus I was prone. But finally, once  until Ivan guttered the candles, the good doctor got Hollis with another kill shot.

"But--Hollis still would not die, Alister!  He  babbled through his own blood as the horrific Great Huntsman appeared with this fearsome steed, and stood between me and that wicked man, who foolishly kept ordering the Huntsman to kill us. I was frozen with awe and terror, but could not look away as the Huntsman bellowed back, 'Mortal you do not rule Me!'" Nigel's voice shuddered, mindful of the dark vision he witnessed while stiff as a corpse upon the ground.  "The Huntsman ran the blasphemous wizard through upon His great tree-lance, and carried his prize aloft in the sky-- Hollis screaming like a mouse in a raptor's claws... the Gae Bulg crashing with an enormous thud  at my feet."

Nigel halted, his inhuman eyes glinting with astonishment as he caressed the bone-edge of the storied weapon that had rent his own flesh. "Alister, what is a Formian? And you called Hollis a thief-- from whom did he take this Gae Bulg? How may we return it to its rightful owner? Should any of us attempt to wield it-- will the Huntsman to come reap the user when He rides out on his Wild Hunt once again?" 

~~~

"I can, of course, only relate tales of what I know of Bertrand Hollis.  I had heard of him in the occult circles - before my becoming one of the Oldham Rippers - as an audacious man who was willing to risk everything with each and every command of the supernatural.  In the occult, such men are dangerous beyond belief, for they care nothing of damning themselves...and with certain creatures, a good many innocents to a fate worse than mere death."  G.H. stated, in somewhat of a resigned tone.  "I'm sure I could instruct you in the punch cards - they are not terribly difficult, if a bit time consuming.  I would quite enjoy taking photographs of your journal, however... I may be better suited to aid you."  

G.H. listened, his gears clicking as he took heed of the information being offered.  "Hollis may have used the spear's power in a different way - I apologize, but not being possessed of hands, I cannot fathom as much as I could in life.  Perhaps the spear merely accents the wielder's own might, making him deadly in ways suited to his own powers."  G.H. sighed, the gears clacking.  "Ah, yes - Black Jack's... curse.  I'm afraid the old fellow is ... content with his burden.  I won't speak upon it without his permission, however; I hope you shall forgive me."

G.H. answered in a brisk tone, "As it should be.  Calling something like The Huntsman is an ill omen...  I am not surprised that he could not bind the creature to his will.  As to what it means for us, however... I do not know.  The Huntsman's legend is that he can ride down and slay most anything.  Perhaps he will depart this world like so many of the creatures before him.... but who can say?  Certainly not I at the moment."

"A Formian,"  G.H. began in a scholarly tone, "was what the heroes of Irish myth defeated to give their gods, the Tuatha-De-Danaan, purchase upon their island.  They were said to be evil giants, twisted as much in soul as in body."  G.H. actually huffed, the sound audible alongside a puff of steam.  "Most certainly he stole it away from some forgotten crypt - I shall wire to the Irish lodges to see if any are missing their artifact, but for the meantime, we should put it to good use.  The spear has never been connected to the Huntsman in legend.  You were a lancer, were you not?  Perhaps this spear would aid you most of all..."

 

 

 Nigel's eyes grew wide, and he turned from the G.H. to regard the Gae Bulg with  humbled veneration and awe.  The long-ago legends recited to him by his Irish nursemaid  came  in bits and pieces--  half-remembered Celtic myths that seemed to rise and reverberate in these haunted lands once again. The idea that he should take up such a powerful artifact seemed an impossible destiny-- how could he be worthy?   Nigel could not help but feel excitement and honor-- the same sense he had when asked to experience the vision of the cultists' chalice.  Wasn't it every young English lad's dream to be chosen  to partake in some mystical modern ritual reserved for the heroic Knights of Arthur? 

 

 Nigel recalled the illustrations he'd drawn as a boy of the nobly celibate Galahad-- the only knight worthy of winning the quest for the Grail. But Galahad's quest ended when he found the sacred chalice-- taking as his reward, the power to choose his moment of death-- and so Galahad went to his glory. Touching the incised shaft with  reverence,  Nigel felt as if his quest was only begun. 

But, the cavalryman did not want to admit his many doubts. Despite his regiment's knightly pretensions, he as an officer wasn't even issued a lance in the field. He carried only a useless rifle, his own pistol, and a terrible British imitation of a Hussar's sabre ,  performing vedette reconnaissance or rear command duties behind the actual lancers.  Regimental standards limited the officers' experience with its trademark weapon  mostly to parades or the 17th's pompous "equestrian ballet" -- not fixed in the front line battle-charge.  

But Nigel's ruminations now gave way to the reality of his experience: at how often military protocol all fell apart in the chaos of the bloodbaths he'd somehow survived. How often did he take up the jettisoned lances of his destroyed men? Extracted the assegai spears skewering their stomachs-- when the ammunition ran out and the sorry sabres proved useless in the tall switchgrass of South Africa. How when the other mens' horses had all fled or fallen,  Nigel had to forgo the prescribed orderly charge with set lances-- and instead improvised either as a lone horseman or  dismounted-- desperately using shattered shafts to parry attackers or  spearheads to pierce the skulls of the reanimated dead, or ripping open guts and heart to mercifully set free a dying warrior's soul. He now forcibly dismissed his meek hesitation, and accepted his fate by placing a hand on his chest, stoutly addressing the G.H. after his thoughtful consideration.    

"Yes, my Generous Host, I was a lancer-- I am also gifted with some of the powers I saw Hollis misuse with this spear.  The Gaelic names you say are vaguely familiar-- but I understand better, now.  What you call Formian, my nursemai-- my true mother-- called Fomoiri in her heritage tongue.  I barely remember all her stories, as I was very young-- but when you spoke of the Tuatha-De, I just remembered a fragment of the tale of them arriving in Eire, under cover of a black sun that lasted three days. If it is your guidance that I take up the spear, then I accept this honor with humble gratitude, and shall make it my solemn duty to learn to wield it properly whether for magic or might in respect for its noble origin."

Nigel stared at the technical machinations of the intertwined contraptions that held Alister's  disembodied spirit. The lieutenant wished he had better understanding of these inventions, in order to reconcile this curious juxtaposition of information oracle and tragically imprisoned human soul. Suddenly the lancer's dreams of destiny were eclipsed by the compassion that often concerned his heart. 

"Forgive me, Generous Host, I have been impertinent in my  demands of you, yet you have been so patient and kind to answer me so many things. I would be most grateful to share my writings and drawings  with you via your camera  if you prefer that over punch-cards. I'm not a scholar, so I'm sure my chapters are in dire need of corrections, although I spend a great deal of time going back and refining my initial observations." Coming closer, Nigel knelt down, studying the various tubes and gears that connected the camera and gramophone to the steam engines. 

"Is there a way to move you from here? It seems ludicrous to keep you hidden here in the dark, all alone. I'm sure you'd love to see the outdoors, or travel with us.  Can we figure out a way to harvest the steam from the pipes upstairs, situate you there with us? It would be so much easier to take pictures in the study, to take in the various artifacts we have-- and also, join Murphy and I for supper where we can converse about goings-on in the world, or maybe we'll have a game of cards. But if you must stay here with all these workings, I will see if I can procure some mirrors-- maybe put together a type of periscope, or heliograph system like we used at the Khyber Pass, so you can see upstairs? At the least, surely we can have a speaking tube installed-- or purchase one of those Bell crank telephones like father has?"

 

"Very good!"  G.H. trumpeted from his enclosure.  "I would have clapped you upon the shoulder, had I arms."  He chuckled.  "No, no.  My mind inside this metal body is... oddly free.  A moment for you is an eternity for me, and I do keep myself busy, reading the books that have been given to me via the cards.  Also, my opera keeps me quite engaged... but I believe I would enjoy seeing your work."

The machine was complicated, the gears and springs fitted so exactly that it was painful to behold up close.  Though made of steel and brass, it was a delicate mechanism, and a single strike might wreck an incalculable amount of harm to Their Generous Host.  "I do not believe so.  I am loathe to attempt it, for there is still much that I do not understand of my current state.  When I ... slept between turns of the crank, I can only say that it was more horrible than pain or agony... such things are bliss, compared to oblivion."  G.H. chuckled.  "I do not think your fellows would enjoy that.  I'm told that I have been a divisive presence in this lodge as I was in Oldham.  No, better they let me to my studies here.  I would not have my fellows see me as another monster to be pulled apart and examined."

 

The officer nodded, conceding to the wisdom of his Host, despite his concern for the inhumane state of such a vibrant soul confined alone in a basement. "Perhaps then, I shall dream of a way to give you arms and hands one day, Alister-- but until then,  I will visit you as often as you wish, and will bring down my book and operas and our artifacts for you to see.  It means so much when you reveal yourself--you see,   there was a bleak time just before you summoned me here. I existed not quite in sleep and not quite awake, without the peace of being dead but with none of the joyful senses of being alive, my mind given to terrorized abandon without the recourse of any  reason.  I can never find words to describe it correctly, but...when you describe this awful oblivion...the complete absence of anything...that sounds utterly bleak-- like the death of one's eternal spirit--which is something that it hard for me to imagine, since I believe that the soul lives on forever, even sometimes in inanimate or man-made objects...."

Nigel looked away, feeling he was speaking far beyond his place, when he had nothing but immense gratitude to the voice that so kindly tolerated the incessant questions and talkative discourse.  Long pale fingers began to collect the morbid vertebra  stripped from the shaft of the Gae Bulg, which were stacked atop Nigel's notebooks and in his tunic's cargo pockets. "I'm sorry, Alister...I didn't mean to imply that you were some mechanism to be simply modified to our advantage--- I only thought it might lift your spirits, and also let the others get to know you better. But from what I've gleaned of Oldham and Avendale's contentious history, and with the disparate opinions and methods my small group of colleagues have...I can see your side of it too.  I also fear some my corpse may be pounced on just for these monstrous eyes...or maybe, now-- that spear...or perhaps even my mind. But  I won't let them dissect or disassemble you, even if it is the only way they think they can accept you. It  saddens me how quick  humans are to destroy the things we do not understand, whether out of fear, curiosity, or misguided moral code-- like poor Belghast, I fear."

Balancing bones and books in the crook of his left arm, Nigel stepped forward to the obscura, slightly bowing down as he rested his right hand gently atop of the plate where objects had been previously been placed for observation.  "Thank you, Alister, for seeking me out and accepting me--- I look forward to hearing more about you, as you were and how you are, as I have no other mentor-- nor friends who care about opera, or the pointy-headed business of documenting what horrors and wonders we have seen. Good night, Generous Host...may your dreams be sweet."  Taking up the spear with his right hand,  Nigel's wan face was without its usual grim slack, sapphire eyes gleaming with adventure tales yet untold and lips curved upward with esoteric happiness as he took his leave back upstairs.

 

Notes on Lance-Training.

The Lancers.
The Poles had fueled a "lance craze" that swept the armies of Europe
and inspired tens of regiments to clad in outfits modeled
on the uniform of the Polish uhlans.
The Polish Guard lancers knew how to fight and they intended to do just that.
It was Napoleon who said: "These men only know how to fight !" after
they charged in their usual impetous, stormy fashion at Somosierra. The Poles used to say that every commander loved the lancers for their looks, but not every man wished to carry the heavy weapon for all year long. The lance was traditional weapon of the Poles. First the Polish legendary Winged Knights (husaria) used it with great success against their enemies. Husaria's lance was approx. 5 m long. They attacked frontally smashing everything on their way. The times changed and the Winged Knights were replaced with uhlans (ulani) - armed with 2.5 m long lances. During march the weight of the lance bore down on the stirrup, where its lower end fitted into a small 'bucket'; carried on the march slanting back from a small sling around the rider's arm.
Mastery with lance required training and strong hand. "It took a lot of extra training to produce a competent lancer. A British training manual produced some years after Waterloo stated that he had to master 55 different exercises with his lance - 22 against cavalry, 18 against infantry, with 15 general ones thrown in for good measure." (Adkin - "The Waterloo Companion" p 247)
Giving lances to poorly trained men didn't make them good lancers, they were 'men with sticks' not uhlans. Lancer was a formidable opponent. Mr. Wilkinson "have watched and recorded hundreds of competitions between men equally experts in the use of their weapons but lance won by the every large majority of them."
In 1809 in Vienna, Polish NCO Jordan of Guard Lighthorse, called upon dragoons of Napoleon's Old Guard, to "fight" him. Two battle-hardened veterans stepped out, he unhorsed both. (see picture -->)
The friendly duel was watched by Napoleon, Marshal Murat and several French generals.
Napoleon was impressed with the Polish lancers and ordered the formation of nine regiments of lancers in his army. In the memoirs of Waterloo, the French lancers, galloping at will over the battlefield, sending saber-armed cavalry fleeing before them, and calmly stopping to finish off the wounded without even having to dismount, appear as an image of horror. Wyndham of the Scots Grays saw the lancers pursuing British dragoons who had lost their mounts and were trying to save themselves on foot. He noted the ruthlessness of the lancers' pursuit and watched them cut their victims down.
The Poles had fueled a "lance craze" that swept the armies of Europe and inspired tens of regiments to clad in outfits modeled on the uniform of the uhlans. The Russians increased number of uhlan regiments from 5-6 to 12 and armed their 12 hussar regiments with lances. The Austrians increased from 3 to 4 regiments and the Prussians from 1 to 8 regiments. All lancers were uniformed in Polish style and design. Even the British formed their own lancers styled on the Poles. Uhlans were also formed in Italy and Spain.
Right: the legendary charge of British lancers at Balaklava, October 25th 1854. Their uniforms closely resembled the dress of the Polish Vistula uhlans.
Left: German lancers in 20th Century. In 1914 the German Army included nineteen uhlan regiments, and there were eleven regiments of uhlans in the Austro-Hungarian cavalry. The Russians also had cavalry armed with lances.  The 9th (Queen's Royal) Lancers was originally one of the dragoon regiments and served under Wellington in Spain. "After 1816 they became Lancers, on the model of the celebrated Polish Lancers, who rendered Napoleon such devoted service."

French officer de Brack on lance. Q: Is the lance a very effective weapon?
A: Its moral effect is the greatest, and its thrusts the most murderous of all weapons.
Q: In war, should the use of the lance conform to the directions contained in the regulations?
A: No; as a general rule the trooper must consider himself the centre of a circle whose circumference is described by the point of his weapon; but the lancer must limit his points to the half-circle in his front, and cover the rear half by the "around parry."
Q: Why?
A: The points are certain only so long as the nails are up and the forearm and body control the direction of the weapon. Where these two indispensable conditions do not exist, points which the enemy might easily parry, and which might disarm you, should not be risked. The very least objection to thrusts thus hazarded would be their uselessness, and, in war, uselessness is the synonym of ignorance and danger.
Q: What then are the "points" to which one should confine himself in action?
A: The "right-front" and "left-front" points; the "right" and "left" points against infantry; the "right," "left," and "around parries."
Q: But, should the hostile cavalry follow and press you closely?
A: Use against them the "right," "left," and "around parries," which become powerful offensive movements, when properly employed. In fact, the point cannot fail to reach the man, or the head of his horse, and the weight of the arm doubling the force of its impulsion, the enemy will be at once overthrown, or the horse be immediately stopped by the thrust.
I have witnessed a hundred illustrations of the truth of this, and, among others, may cite the case of the intrepid Captain Brou (now Colonel of the 1st Lancers), who, while near Eylau, in a charge which we made upon the Cossacks, believed himself already master of one of them, whom he had taken on his left side, and who held his lance at a "right front;" but the Cossack, standing up in his stirrups, and executing rapidly an "around parry," threw the Captain to the ground; his horse was captured, and he would have been made prisoner also, but for a courageous and skilfully executed charge made by Major Hulot, then commanding the 7th Hussars. I saw the Captain's wound dressed, and his shoulder was gashed as though cut with the edge of a sabre.
…. I have seen old Cossacks, charged by our troops with their short weapons, face and await them firmly, the point of the lance not to the front, because they judged from the boldness of the attack that their points would be parried - and that once closed in upon they would be lost - but with the lance to the right front, as in the first motion of "left parry," then responding to the attack with a "left parry," brush aside the attackers by this movement, volt to the left, and find themselves, in their turn, naturally taking the offensive by pursuing the enemy on his left.
Q: How should lance thrusts be made in action?
A: I repeat, the lance must always be held with the whole hand closed upon it, the fingers upwards, and no movement requiring the fingers to be held downwards, should be attempted, because the weight of the weapon may cause it, if parried by the enemy, to escape from the hand.
… To carry the hand to the rear only to thrust it forward again, is both useless and dangerous. Your point will always have enough spring, strength, and reach to traverse the body of a man.
… In campaign an officer should frequently inspect his lances, and see that they are kept sharp and well greased. Wounds made in the body by lances kept in good condition are almost always mortal. I have seen troopers of our army receive as many as twenty wounds, made by Cossack lances, without dying of them or even being disabled.
Q: To what do you attribute that?
A: To the inferior quality of the Cossack weapons, to the little care taken of them, and, above all, to a cause worth while to explain. The lances of the Cossacks who used to fight against us were not shod at the butt end, so, when the lancer dismounted, to avoid leaving the lance lying on the ground, he stuck the point into the soil, and thus blunted it. Hence you will remember that, under no pretext, are you to stick the point of your lance into the ground, and that it would be a hundred times better to throw it on the ground than to keep it standing up at such a cost.
The French lance needs improvement; the ash of which the staff is made is so heavy that it makes it difficult to handle, and, when carried in the socket, injures the horse's withers. The wood does not, by its strength, compensate for this disadvantage; for being cut in blocks and the grain crossed, it breaks easily and in a way that makes repairing difficult.
Another fault is the too great size of the pennons which present to the wind so large a surface that the staves are quickly bent, so that points cannot be made as accurately as they should be; quickness and lightness in handling them are diminished, and on the road the horse and the lancer's arm are uselessly fatigued by the constant backward pressure.
To correct these faults, in route marches the pennons should be removed, and attached only when it is desired to make ourselves recognized by friends or enemies; to shift the lance alternately from the right boot to the left, and frequently to remove it entirely from the boot, so that it may be carried by the lancer himself.
The rolled coat may be considered a defensive weapon. The habit of rolling it, and crossing it over the chest, in view of an engagement, has three advantages: first, it clears the opening of the pistol holster; second, it allows the bridle hand to be carried nearer to the horse's neck, which facilitates the control of the horse; and, third, it protects the trooper. But the trooper must be careful of two things: first, to so roll and cross his coat as not to be constrainted by it, and, second, in a charge to avoid being seized by it, and unhorsed and captured.
Although to lose one's arms is, generally speaking, a shame, yet there is one case where a lancer is excusable for losing his lance - that is, when he has run it clean through an enemy.
Several times, I have seen lances so well used that the weapon, caught between the ribs, after having penetrated the shoulder blade, could not possibly be withdrawn; the dying man, convulsed with pain, carried away by his horse, drew along with him the lance and the lancer vainly struggling to disengage his weapon. At Reichenbach, the bravest lancer of my regiment was killed under similar circumstances, in disobedience of my orders, through a misunderstood, stubborn sense of honor. In vain I called out to him, "Your lance is well lost"; he did not believe me, and being cut off from his comrades, was overwhelmed by numbers, and killed.
Near Lille, a young soldier of the same regiment found himself in a similar condition; I made him abandon his lance. The Prussian whom he had run through fell about 50 paces from the spot where he was wounded; we retook the ground which he had been obliged to yield for a few minutes, and my lancer having dismounted to recover his lance, succeeded in doing so only by carefully pushing it through in the same direction in which it entered.
At Waterloo, when we charged the English squares, one of our lancers, not being able to break down the rampart of bayonets which opposed us, stood up in his stirrups and hurled his lance like a spear; it passed through an infantry soldier, whose death would have opened a passage for us, if the gap had not been quickly closed. That was another lance well lost. “

Lancers vs Cavalry.
Lance was the most dangerous in the
first contact during line-vs-line combats.
Lance was the most dangerous in the first contact during line-vs-line combats. The long weapon allowed cavalrymen to wound or kill an enemy armed with shorter weapon first. Once the enemy had got past the point of the lance then the lancer was vulnerable. General Jomini wrote that lance is the most aggressive weapon as one can simply outreach every opponent.
Jomini writes: "Much discussion has taken place about the proper manner of arming cavalry. The lance is the best arm for offensive purposes when a body of horsemen charge in line; for it enables them to strike an enemy who cannot reach them; but it is a very good plan to have a second rank ... armed with sabers, which are more easily handled than the lance in hand-to-hand fighting when the ranks become broken. It would be , perhaps, better still to support a charge of lancers by a detachment of hussars... the advantegeous use of lance depends upon the preservation of good order..."
De Rocca described how lancers were defeated: "... they [Spaniards] marched in close column; at their head were the lancers of Xeres. This whole body began at once to quicken their pace, in order to charge us while we were retiring. The captain commandimg our squadron made his four platoons ... wheel half round to the right. This movement being made, he adjusted the front line of his troop as quietly as if we had not been in presence of the enemy. ... The Spanish horse, seized with astonishment at his coolness, involuntarily slackened their pace. Our commandant ... ordered the charge to be sounded. Our hussars, who in the midst of the threats and abuse of the enemy had preserved the strictest silence, then drowned the sound of the trumpet as they moved onwards ... The Spanish lancers stopped; seized with terror, they turned their horses at the distance of half-pistol-shot, ... our hussars mingled with them indiscriminately ..."
But more often than not the lancers routed the hussars. In 1815 near Gosselies the excellent French 1st Hussars met Prussian 6th Uhlans and 24th Infantry. The uhlans attacked and drove the hussars back in disorder, only to be attacked in turn by French lancers of Pire's division. Heinrich Niemann of 6th Uhlans writes: "By command of Gen. Ziethen we engaged the French; but it was nothing more than a feint; they retreated before us."
Disadvantages of lance:

- the preservation of good order was a must for the lancers. It was however difficult to keep order during charge, as abandoned equipment, trees and bushes, falling horses, stress and over-excitement could put the riding men into disorder. It was one of the reasons why not all cavalry were lancers, and not every uhlan charge was successful.
The regulations for Saxon cavalry recommended an unusual attack against the lancers. It was called a la debandade and was executed in the widest intervals and only by the hussars (excellent horsemen and swordsmen) or cuirassiers (with body armor). The wide intervals allowed them to get behind the lancers. It was assumed that the effectiveness of the lance was reduced because the target was not concentrated and the lancer would have to constantly aim his lance at a moving target rather than just point it forward.

- in a melee where one has to parry blows from the left, right and rear and do it quickly the lance was too long and too heavy. In such situation many lancers discarded their weapons and fought with sabers. It happened in 1809 at Wagram where the Austrian uhlans threw away their lances after being attacked by Polish Guard lighthorsemen (not yet armed with lances).
According to the Journal of Prussian 1st Leib Hussar Regiment: "When a lance-armed cavalry is charged home and when the melee begins, it is lost when opposed by any other cavalry armed with shorter arms. Proof for this is given by the attack of the regiment on the 2nd and 4th Polish Lancers at Dennewitz. Both regiments belonged to the cream of the French army. They were defeated easily, we took 10 officers and 120 others prisoner, the battlefield was covered with dead, and we had not a single serious casualty caused by lance stabs. The shorter cold steel arms are, the more secure and deadly. French cuirassier and dragoon swords are definitely too long, and maybe even our own sabres are."
(There are several problems with this story. At Dennewitz was present only the 2nd Uhlan Regiment, the 4th Regiment was with Dabrowski's corps. The single unit (2nd Uhlans) faced not only the Prussian hussars but also infantry. George Nafziger wrote in his "Napoleon's Dresden Campaign" (p 260) "...the Polish cavalry operating with Bertrand's IV Corps threw itself through the skirmish line and attacked the formed infantry behind them. The Prussian 4th Reserve Infantry Regiment formed square, as did three battalions of 3rd East Prussian Landwehr Regiment. The Poles then passed on and were engaged by Tauentzien's cavalry... The 1st Leib Hussar Regiment also joined the attack. The Poles were crushed, losing 9 officers and 93 men..."
Thus the casualties were inflicted not only by the hussars but also by 6 battalions of infatry and by Tauentzien's cavalry. Ney sent orders to the Westphalian Cavalry Brigade to support the Poles but the Westphalians refused. Furious Ney sent the colonel of the Westphalians to Napoleon after "ripping off his epaulettes." Lancers vs Cuirassiers.
Lance's point couldn't penetrate the armor.
Some of the Polish veterans however
used lances as battering rams
- striking at tops of opponents' helmets
with force.
When in 1809 Napoleon's horse carabiniers suffered heavy casualties from Austrian uhlans he gave them armor. Lance's point couldn't penetrate the armor.
In 1812 at Shevardino, the lancers fought with cuirassiers. Thirion writes: "General Nansouty orders the Red Lancers of Hamburg to charge the Russian cavalry and throw it back. This regiment flew to the attack, delivered its charge and fell on the enemy with felled lances, aimed at the body. The Russian cavalry received the shock without budging, and in the same moment as the lance heads touched the enemy's chests the regiment about-faced and came back towards us as if in its turn had been charged. We, the [French] 2nd and 3rd Cuirassiers, thought this is a poor show, and moved briskly forward to support them and repulse the enemy cavalry." Britten-Austin add "... nothing can induce them [Hamburg lancers] to launch a second attack."
In 1813 in the Battle of Leipzig the Austrian Sommariva Cuirassiers went into action against Berkheim's French lancers. The lancers broke and fled closely followed by the Austrians. A Saxon officer recalled the event as follow: "When we [Saxon cuirassiers] reached Berckheim, his men were mixed up with the enemy in individual squadrons, so that there were Austrian units to the north of the French lancers. We Saxons had only just come up wwhen Berckheim rallied his men to face the ever-increasing enemy pressure. But they could not stand even though Berckheim - bareheaded, as his hat had been knocked off - threw himself into the thick of the melee. He was also swept back in the flood of fugitives ... Despite this chaos, we stood fast and hacked away at the Austrians. Shortly before they charged us, the Austrians had shouted to us to come over to them; we ignored them. However, we were overpowered and broken. The chase now went on at speed, friend and foe all mixed up together, racing over the plain."
Antoni Rozwadowski of Polish 8th Uhlans described fighting with Russian cavalry at Borodino: “On that day (Sep 5th) the 6th Uhlans formed the first line, and we the 8th were formed in echelon” when Russian dragoons attacked. According to Rozwadowski the soil was dry and a huge, thick cloud of dust made his 8th invisible to the enemy. The Russians continued their advance against the 6th before the 8th attacked the left flank of the dragoons. The enemy fled in disorder. After this action the 8th and 6th Uhlans moved to a new position behind a wood. The regiments were now formed in column, one after another and only the brigades stood in echelon. Soon the uhlans noticed Russian cavalry again charging against them. At a long distance the enemy looked similar to the dragoons just recently defeated and the Poles rushed forward certain of victory. When both sides were closer the uhlans realized that these “dragoons” were cuirassiers and the 6th fled toward the 8th. The 8th became disordered and both regiments fled and broke the Prussian hussars who stood in the rear. Only the next cavalry brigade who stood in echelon to the Poles counterattacked and threw the Russian cuirassiers back. (Rozwadowski Antoni - “Memoir” Biblioteka Zakladu Ossolinskich, rekopis 7994)
Only few lancers were able to deal with armored cavalry. In 1813 at Leipzig, Polish 3rd, 6th and 8th Uhlan Regiment, mostly veterans, didn't shy away from the cuirassiers. Near Auenhain Sheep-farm the three regiments charged numerous times against six Austrian and two Russian cuirassier regiments. The Poles pointed their lances at cuirassiers' faces, necks and groins. (According to P. Haythornthwaite "lance can be aimed at a target with greater accuracy than a sword.") They also used lances as battering rams - striking at tops of opponents' helmets with force.
Lancers vs Infantry.
"a cavalry charge against infantry in square
would be thrown back 99 times out of 100."
- Mark Adkin
According to Mark Adkin "a cavalry charge against infantry in square would be thrown back 99 times out of 100." Simple mathematics was against the cavalry when they attacked a square. An average strength battalion with 600 men formed a square 3 ranks deep, this meant that on one side were some 150 soldiers, all of whom could fire and contributed bayonets to the hedge. They covered a frontage of about 25 m (50 men x 0.5 m). The most cavalrymen that the enemy could bring to face them were 50 in 2 ranks (25 men x 1 m). But only the men in first rank could attack at a time, some 6 muskets + bayonets confronted a single lance or saber.
The man with saber could not strike the infantrymen behind the bayonets - he did not have the reach.
A lancer had a better chance although he was still outnumbered by 6 to 1. Either the lancer or his horse was far more likely to be spiked than he was to inflict any damage at all."
In 1812 at Borodino and in 1813 at Leipzig masses of lancers and uhlans were unable to break a single square. However, if the infantry was not in square formation the chances increased for the lancers. In 1811 at Albuera one regiment of Polish uhlans and one of French hussars, demolished the entire British brigade, captured several Colors, several cannons, and hundreds of prisoners. I know only few cases where the lancers broke infantry formed in square.

In 1813 at Dresden the Austrian square repulsed French cuirassiers but surrendered without a fight to lancers. Another square also repulsed cuirassiers but broke when 50 French lancers attacked them. The frustrated cuirassiers joined the lancers and together finished off the enemy.

In 1813 at Katzbach the lancers were called after the 23rd Chasseurs was repulsed. The lancers came and broke the square, inflicting heavy casualties on the Prussians.

In 1813 at Dennewitz one squadron of Polish 2nd Uhlan Regiment attacked Prussian battalion of 3rd Reserve Infantry Regiment. The infantry was formed in a column with skirmishers as its screen. The uhlans routed the skirmishers killing several and attacked the column. The Prussians were "savagely handled". The 2nd Uhlans also broke 2 other squadrons at Dennewitz.

Letters sent after the demise of the Cabal.

Nigel would read this to Murphy, before sending duplicate letters via the lodge messenger to Ivan & PM:

Dear Lady and Doctor,

I hope this finds you both well in your respective houses, and enjoying the small measures of peace we are sometimes afforded in between our onerous tasks.  As you know our meetings at the Lodge offer little time to see to secretarial concerns, so I hope you do not mind me taking the initiative to see to some unfinished business, and also, to inform you of some recent happenings at Avendale. Burn after reading, please. 

1. The chalice/wood sigil/athame borrowed from the Order--Insp. Hood has refused my return of these items, and has agreed to allow us to retain them for safekeeping and study in our archives. Unfortunately it seems the gold cup may no longer have its visionary properties.

2.  The relics collected by the priest and constabulary at the swamps of Wigan. 

•  while we are without tigerclawed paws, there are some potions from the Rakshasa said to be for strength, speed, and vigor which I have placed in the laboratory. 
• enough of the horrible remnants of one of Spinner's creatures was preserved to afford several more Adrenal pumps* or strength extracts. I have placed the  parts on ice/in preservative until the Doctor returns.
• The Rakshasa's  gold-threaded sherwani robe and gold amulets were also retrieved. While these items are purely mundane, they do depict Hindu devils and demons-- I had the antiques & curiosities purveyor ( from whom I purchased my Bohemian dress suit). Look them over, and he has agreed to pay 5 pounds for the robe and also, to see to the melting of the evil idols. The scrap value is 25 pounds. If this is agreeable to you, I shall make the trade and we can determine the use of the proceeds when we meet again. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
• To my dismay, it seems some poor quality rifles, ammunition, old boots and pocket-money were collected from the fallen and sent our way-- probably about 3 pounds worth at most. I suggest we send these items to the priest, along with an additional supplemental donation, for him to use to help the poor who can use these things for peaceable means. I think we should do this as a token of our thanks for his assistance in the fight, and also for retrieving the items of more note to us. He also saw to the burial of the severed limbs in separate consecrated grounds. 
• Hollis' bone-spear was also retrieved, and is being studied by the GH, as it is obviously very dangerous. We also received parts of his shattered deer-mask, which have no arcane effect or value. 

3.  *Be careful NOT to agitate one who has had the pump placed inside! 

4.   In addition to giving a donation to the priest, I would ask you to consider giving Prospero some measure of the monies obtained from the Rakshasa's golden items.  If he is not interested in monetary rewards, perhaps we should consider offering him one of the extracts?  His defeat of Henry "The Knife" Blackwell and his razor-slinging thugs, along with other recent contributions to our cause, should not go unrecognized. We may discuss this at our next meeting. 

I ask for a response within two days, so that I have time to arrange for the necessary delivery of the goods to the priest and the antiques dealer, if you are in agreement that this is the proper course of action. 

Yours very truly,

NC.

PS. I read this to JM, so he is thus aware of the same information and also may share with us his opinion.  ~NC.

~~~~~~~

 A letter would be sent a little later in the day back to the lodge via courier:

Lord NC,

I see no reason to destroy the artifacts we recovered from the Rakshasa. If they are no longer a threat or dangerous perhaps we should create a trophy room for relics we have recovered. These types of antiquities could bring the lodge some serious credibility. Perhaps we should talk with Lord Hood on how best to proceed for creating a room to display such items?

As for equipping the men and women of Wigan, I do think this is a good idea. Perhaps a donation to them for the troubles caused by the recent incursions could be set in place as well. If Prospero wishes to claim any trophies from the battle, that is fine as well. He proved an exemplary member of the conflict and he helped buy us the time we needed to stop whatever Hollis was trying to accomplish.

The spear is an interesting weapon. I would be very interested in finding out exactly what it's properties are before anyone dare use it. If the thing is malign in nature we should have it destroyed. If it could prove beneficial to our cause and not be a corrupting presence I would like to see its use turned against the very things we combat.

Hoping this finds you in good health and peace,

PM

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Delivered to the lodge later that evening:

Dear Nigel,

I am in agreement with your suggestions regarding those items we have acquired from our latest struggle. The Priest, and Prospero especially, should be compensated for their contributions to our cause.

Further regarding Prospero, in lieu of placing my own monetary value on his services, I am content with what he and all involved deem fair.

I very much appreciate you seeing to this task.

Sincerely,

Ivan Olegovich

 ~~~~~~

The next morning, via the Lodge messenger, a new letter appears-- along with a small unostentatious bouquet of orange spotted tigerlilys and a few gold petaled, dark-centered sunflowers mixed with some wild-gathered fluffy clouds of autumn grasses. The letter has not been copied to Ivan nor read to Ivan.

Dear PM--

I am no Lord, but thank you so kindly for your rapid response. Unfortunately, it seems there may be some dissension on what to do about these golden amulets.  I should not say unfortunate, for our party's strength is indeed in its different abilities and mind-sets. So upon our next summoning to Avendale we will  discuss their disposition.

Know I am grateful for your opposing view, for that is how we reach greater understanding--  however I do want to remind you that sometimes objects which do not seem to have any latent magical power on their own can be activated by ritual.  Was not the Lord God quick to command the destruction of golden idols, too? It is my deepest concern that we inadvertently let evil objects fall into evil hands. I am not sure about creating a display or calling them trophies. But I am not any better, for my referring to them as "artifacts catalogued in the library" is a false sheen of gentility.  It  is no different than a hall of decapitated game heads and preserved bottles of animal corpses  whereby one may  learn from by observation if unable to witness them in life. Know I am biased by my belief that certain objects may retain a soul as certainly as a human, an animal, or a saint's relic.  I am recording all we know and placing the artifacts in the library for now, except for the bone-spear.

As of this moment I'm afraid I have more questions than answers. It is a formidable artifact, perhaps something so significant we are not capable of destroying it without destroying ourselves. I do not intend to sound secretive-- I simply do not know yet. I will share with you in confidence that until we fully understand, no one should wield it.

Now, please accept my apologies as surely you have begun to recognize some of the weaponless powers I have. Despite whatever happened in that swamp that caused that scream, know I do not intend to harm any of us, ever!  It also may seem I am not sharing these gifts equally with you as the others-- I am still learning and try to prioritize defensive protections over offensive glories. However, if you feel that the latter shall best serve our cause, I will endeavour to help your blade and shot strike true, and pray that your person be protected by the wings of your heavenly guardian.

Be well, my brave and strong Pride Mother. Please accept this small bouquet-- I don't intend to invoke any foolish floriography this time. Instead I thought you would be cheered as I was by the sunlit colors of these blooms, which seem to be a last glimpse of summer as the year wanes. It is my sincere hope that one day soon these flowers are the only surprise lions and tigers to enter our lives.

Yours with fond respect,

 ~NC.

A glimpse of home in the country. (Nigel/Ivan/Oleg & Cecelia Bezborodov; the week before the battle with Spinner & the Cabal)

The western descent of the day's setting sun illuminated the hillocks of pastureland outside of Manchester's center of industry in the warm colors of autumn. Greens and Reds and browns and golden yellows shone brightly in contrast to cold impersonality of steel and filthy stone, while fresh air rolling from atop peak-pierced clouds greeted the lungs instead of the soot and particulate-laden smog  that stalked the streets of the city left behind. Together, the doctor and the lieutenant were destined for the small station of Hadfield on a Sheffield-bound train line, and, in that trek of about a dozen or so stops, were given scenes blessed with beatific expanses of nature once the sight of Manchester had ebbed. They passed by rock-studded riversides were bridged by tall viaducts and scaled minor inclines upon which flocks of roaming sheep grazed, napped, and played. Grasses swayed in the last breaths of the day and the shale covered highlands they approached were flecked in cast shadows that complimented the tint of distant ridge points darkened by both their making and the night that was beginning to consume them.



Even outside of the lodge Ivan proved to be rather dull company, appearing to be a quiet man who was more invested in the secrets of his contemplations than any sort of shared conversation. Though he made that journey between the two destinations a couple times a week, Ivan still found himself harboring an undercurrent of loathing for the land to which he felt no connection. In such moments of idle pondering, he wondered if he had been ushered between England and Russia as a child, would he have felt less contempt for the knotty countryside? Perhaps. It certainly would have been an easier explanation to accept were it not for the fact that he was unable to shake the notion that it might’ve been himself who was to blame for his current situation. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so tactless back in Nikolskoye, then he would still be there among the snow-dotted pines of the north, waiting for an assignment of more prestige, instead of trapped in a land that was bereft, fulfilling a duty he was less than prepared for.



Though the doctor was very unaccustomed to making small talk, he did not want his nature to come across as being purposefully rude to his traveling companion after having offered him a home-cooked meal and minor retreat away from the curiosities of the lodge. Ivan turned and spoke with his gentle accent, “Have you been out this way before? If not, it’s worth a journey all the way to Sheffield just once to see the tunnel they made past Woodhead. Goes straight through the Pennines instead of over them.”

Fortunately for the reticent doctor, Nigel spent a good bit of the journey so far lost in his ever-turbulent thoughts as he started out the window from behind his ever-present shaded glasses. With a strange sense of deja-vu, he marvelled at the eerie similarity of the landscape to the cursed vistas he'd traversed throughout southern and eastern Africa. While the fauna and flora were a bit less untamed, formidable rocky plateaus rising up from the grassy vales and cairns of jagged rocks recalled the harrowing fronts where the British army flailed and failed in their foolhardy determination to dominate what would dominate them. He knew from back in his school days that some of the larger plinths and high piles of stone were remnants of Roman, Celtic, and Viking forts, roads, burial sites-- all but forgotten, chewed up by time and spat back into the landscape to forever hide the mouldered bones of the impertinent invaders. In a thousand years, who would pass by the similar cairns of Islandlwana, gazing at falling piles of stone, which Nigel had watched his troops stack hastily over the heaps of broken horses and mangled men who had lain there forsaken for over six months? Maybe no one, as he had heard that even the Zulu were loathe to return to the cursed plains below Rorke's drift, so haunted was the river valley. 



There was, despite the idyllic picture of grazing animals and autumnal leaves, an equally sinister aspect to this English countryside.  Nigel allowed his mind to focus, briefly closing his eyes and then reopening them, to see the unseen. 



And it was terrible indeed: skeletal ghosts of fallen warriors clashed in a preternatural,  eternal battle, a long column of moaning women and weeping children wandered over the hillocks, bereft of whatever shelter had been taken from them so long ago, even wild beasts like oxen and lions-- creatures he never dreamed could have actually roamed in England outside of fanciful medieval tapestries-- thundered over the rocks that glowed with ghostly inscriptions.



 But even more terrifying than the horrors of the past were what he could only think could be the horrors of the future: large metal birds, strange and mighty war  contraptions like gun carriages with fixed wings and gatling-guns or worse, huge mortars strapped to their bellies awaiting to be born in a ground-shaking strike of fire and earth. These machines appeared swift and menancing, rising suddenly from an eerie grey-blue smoke, rapidly climbing toward the sun itself,  then capitualting wildly back toward the earth in a plume of black flame.  Metallic parts littered the hills, cracking open the great plinths, shattering deep mounds where the dead had lain for so long unable to reach the ordinary air. But now they too could escape, and spilled forth from their ancient tombs in great numbers, spectral-swords raised in revenge against the unsuspecting modern world. 



Had Nigel been this way before, long ago, in some ancient army, and that is why it so filled him with dread?  Or would he return to this place, in a future time, to see the horrors of his vision unleashed by the strange flying weapons?



He watched this nightmarish progression of bellicose phantoms that were animal, man, machine-- - and then, as the haze lifted near the furthest peaks, Nigel was filled with a dire fright as one of the huge armored air vessels slammed straight into the cliffside like a sinister wyrm burrowing its way back to a secret mouth of Hell. 






"Oh!" Nigel came to with a start, unsure if he had been simply dreaming or if he had indeed seen past and future spirits who were neither living nor dead. Pulling down his glasses, he wiped his eyes harshly, as if to physically scrape any remnant phantasm from his sight.



"I'm sorry, I was utterly lost in my thoughts. I'm afraid I've never seen any of this-- its beautiful, but also a very strange land.  I hate to say it, but it's not unlike the Natal province where I fought in Africa...I've not really since anything of England outside of where I was sent to school and the port where they'd ship me off from.  Manchester is probably the largest European city I've seen-- but honestly, I'd rather be out here with the rocks and the sheep and the trees than in that filthy city! Thank you so much, Doctor, for allowing me the chance to travel with you. 



"Do your parents know about all this Ripper business? Or even what you saw back in Russia? I just worry about my eyes. I'll keep my glasses on and try not to be too weird about it. I have an explanation, you see-- about being half blinded by the sandstorms in Afghanistan-- its usually enough to quell further inquiry, especially with my cane." He tapped the long black walking stick, sliding bony fingers past the death's head that was the only hint of the lethal rapier concealed within the ebon scabbard.



"I have not told them about our uh... adventures... but, they're usually mindful about privacy enough to swallow their curiosities when it's made clear that whatever issue is not up for discussion. They're very used to me not being very forthcoming; I'm sure your explanation will suffice." Ivan paused a moment to consider his parents. "... Besides, my father - who was a doctor-surgeon in Moscow - seems to have lost some of his scientific interest when he traded his profession in for life on the farm. He is a gregarious man, but his schemes are more likely to rope you into helping him polish off a bottle of vodka than letting him examine your eyes." The foreigner glanced aside to Nigel. "I, on the other hand, would like to look at them in the near future if you would allow me."



Ivan grew quiet again as their train pulled into Hadfield station, standing and collecting his doctor’s bag to disembark. On the platform, he waited for his companion to gather the sheep that was also traveling with them then led the two away, into the town proper.  Hadfield was a small village, composed of a main street that was home to shops that were closed in that evening hour, and an errant pub or two whose atmosphere was subdued when compared to those more crowded establishments back in Manchester. Brick buildings lined the winding road northward until they also gave way to more countryside. Sparse fields and open pastures became the standard sight once more, each occasionally dotted with a quaint cottages made miniscule by tricks optical perspective, whose chimneys exhaled the breaths of heated hearths into the chilly sky above. As they walked there were no carriages to move out of the way of, nor were there any passing pedestrians to greet. The sleepy town appeared to already be buttoned up for bed.



“My parent’s house is just a bit of a walk from here,” Ivan said as they passed a directional post declaring their final destination, Tintwistle, a short distance ahead. “I was fine with the inconvenience when my stay here was just going to be a brief holiday, but as I make this journey a few times a week, it’s grown to be more frustrating. And yet concurrently, I find myself hesitant to search for a living place closer to the lodge partly because I am quite loathe to live in Manchester, and partly because I think some manner of suspended belief brings me back here, to a time when and place where things were less convoluted. When I left Russia, I wasn’t expecting to stay in England very long. Now that my plans have grown to be this indefinite and indescribable thing, it’s nice to have some solitude away from the congestion of industrial sprawl and the monstrous sights therein, even if they never really leave my thoughts.” Despite his plain admittance, the timid doctor clearly wore the aftereffects of the haunting sights they had all seen so far; his brow remained knit with some incurable anxiety as he watched the distance for disturbances. In the span of a few weeks, everything that was spontaneous was immediately suspect of supernatural subterfuge, and the acquired inability to trust anything proved to be an exhausting way to live.
“You stay at the lodge, right? What’s that like?”

From his haversack, the officer pulled out the small mirror he frequently checked, lifting his lenses to stare at his purple-circled eyes. "You can both poke around in my eyes  all you like-- honestly, I think it's best you gain all the understanding you can, Ivan, before you go about this business of butchering humans by splicing them with monsters." A flashing glare abruptly ended the traincar conversation as Nigel pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose, and went back to staring out the window, shoulders seething beneath the well-worn coat he favored.



The lieutenant's sudden bitterness wasn't meant to be directed at Ivan, although it surely came off as so. Nigel remained silent for the rest of the train ride, eyes veiled by black glass, his lips twitching in embarrassment at his outburst. It wasn't until  they disembarked and he collected the large, fluffy ewe from the cattle car that the officer's spirits perked up some.  With a series of low bays, a rather rotund and quite tall, unusually longwooled variety of sheep greeted her master, bounding from the car and to Nigel's side. This animal, which had inexplicably wandered up to the lodge  a week ago, had immediately taken to shadowing Nigel  like an oversized loyal dog.  He would insist on letting the ewe inside-- at first to "visit" by Nigels' favored wingchair where he'd read; then even to sleep on the floor beside the bed as the nights grew cool. Maid Marian, as he now called her,  would lay her ridiculous, large black muzzle over the man's lap when he sat at the table to take usual plain supper of eggs or cream peas, bread, and tea--for the sheep, too, had taken a liking to cream peas on bread, with a dollop of mint jelly.  Reunited after the long train ride, Nigel kneeled to hug Marian, grinning as she returned the affection with bleats, pink tongue-licks on his cheeks, and a rapid, wagging tail. Slowly the three made off towards Tintwistle, leaving in their wake more than a few raised eyebrows and shocked expressions. 



 Nigel turned his head occasionally as Ivan spoke again, sensing the other man's flagged spirit, and at once sympathizing with the revelation that Ivan found himself constantly ruminating about the disturbing encounters they had shared.    "Please forgive my outburst on the train, doctor. You see,  I haven't dared to interact with...well...anyone really since this operation.  I don't have any friends in this country, or any place to go. I've lived most of my life in India, Africa-- either on plantations or in officers' quarters. I was always high-spirited, a good leader, maybe a bit sensitive or artistic, but...not like this. Some...unusual abilities I've had in some form or another since I was a child seem to be more acute now.  Other abilities, more...mundane ones... like my riding aptitude and strength, and even my emotional state, were damaged by something that happened to me in Uganda.  Maybe it was even the culmination of horrible, unnatural things I saw in Africa and Afghanistan.  Ivan, I haven't said anything because...well...because I don't want the others to think I'm feeble or insane. I don't think I am? Not entirely. But  I think I am missing a good ten months or more of my most recent memories." The officer stopped to pet his sheep,  even though she was not the one who appeared to need comfort.   



"At the risk of sounding delusional, I suspect whoever cut me may have done more than implant something in my eyes. Once I realized I could see things that were unseen, never meant to be seen-- something awful happened. I went crazy, literally.  I don't really remember. My father disowned me immediately, claimed I'm some gypsy changeling he no longer had need of to preserve his earldom.  And apparently I'm not...not officially with the 17th. I'm not sure if I ever was, truth be told, as I was often attached to whatever doomed unit was sent to fight the supernatural horrors Her Majesty had to hide from her cursed Empire." 



Standing once more, Nigel nudged his pet forward, his long legs slowing to keep pace with the doctor and the sheep.  "So while I find the lodge to be rather spartan and lonely, its better than living with a sick horse under a train trestle, or hiding among caves in some wartorn land. At least I have basic provisions, a bed, a shower, some books-- and the chance to talk with you and Pride Mother and Murphy, people  who have seen what I have seen, and lived to tell about it, to learn from it.  But, Ivan--even then it's difficult-- because none of you seem to have these inhuman aspects...and each of you have somewhere else to go, other people who can comfort you who know nothing of these horrors. But I assure you, I am most grateful for this chance to see the countryside and have a good meal, and hopefully, learn a thing or two about sheep."



Ivan was an easy man to alienate, and the curtness he had been given was, in a manner, reciprocated.
"I suppose there's little else I can do but forgive you." Though the doctor spoke without hesitation, there was an undercurrent of acerbity to those words that may have highlighted how trapped he felt in his current situation. If Nigel's outburst bothered him, which it clearly did, Ivan chocked it up to being little more than a stick on the growing mound of his recent woes. The docile man turned into himself; he withdrew, and returned to silence after the other's overwhelming and voluminous confessions.



Truly, the Russian chose to become a doctor because he wanted to help – not just his people under their Tsardom, but anyone, anyone who was ill, injured, and needed help. He was as eager to see what knowledge there was to gain from Nigel's eyes as he was to try and ease some of the irritation that the surgeries past seemed to cause him. And yet, smote as he was, what really could Ivan had said to ease the lifelong troubles of the man that walked beside him, or assure the man that he was approaching the issue of Mr. Murphy’s potential augmentation with a healthy amount of skepticism and caution? For men that barely knew each other, there was nothing. Forgiveness seemed the most concise and gracious way to put the hurt feelings caused by egregious assumptions aside. After all, he was already offering Nigel parts of what had been just proclaimed as the officers disadvantages – home comforts, a place away from the strangeness of the lodge, brief normalcy and even friendship despite their obvious differences. Ivan was fine letting the gesture speak for his intentions because he wasn’t sure he could swallow his pride at that particular moment enough to articulate the words necessary for bridging the gap between them.



The rest of the walk was punctuated with heels upon gravel and dirt. Ivan soon turned into a long driveway lined with trees whose upper branches were interwoven like wooden fingers, forming a canopy-arch over the path that lead up to the building at the end.  It was a modest cottage made of stone and wood, surrounded by hedges and herbs and flowershrubs that were allowed to grow slightly unruly. The windows were lit with the warm glow from lanterns inside, however the interior was not readily visible due to sheer curtains having been pulled to stifle the sight. Though Ivan would normally have approached the front door to enter, he instead followed the path around to the back, where from the side of the house was a wooden fence and gate that was held open for his guest and his guest’s wooly companion. It was there that the three were immediately greeted with a scene of chaos – chickens, clucking and clamoring, were scattered and scurrying in every direction, bent on evading their animated, older Russian captor who was stuffed halfway inside the birds’ enclosure, hammering at something. Behind that hut stood a barn.



“Papa, chto eto?!” The younger Bezborodov exclaimed to his elder as he sat his doctor’s bag down and snatched up a fussy golden feathered hen that tried to pass him.



“Kury, Ivan. ... Chicken!!” was the less than helpful response from inside the enclosure. 



Ivan sighed and turned to Nigel. “I should probably apologize now... my father’s English is not very good. I asked him what was going on and he said ‘chickens’, which is ‘kury’ in Russ—“



“Ya byl kormleniya kur i zametil,” interrupted the father’s voice as he withdrew from the hut, “chto oni klevali otverstiye v ikh kletke, tak chto mne prishlos’ ispravit’, prezhde vsego oni bezhali v gory!” The patriarch soon stood before the pair and Maid Marian, a lanky, bespectacled and bearded man who Ivan appeared to resemble in nearly every way except for his height. As the younger doctor was in the middle of explaining the scenario of the chicken escape and how the older doctor was fixing their pen so it would not happen again, he was once more cut off. “Is this your friend, Ivan?” The man’s accent was very thick as he appraised the newcomer with eyes that looked more severe than they were.



“Yes,” was Ivan’s immediate response, “This is Lieutenant Crowninsheild. Lieutenant, this is my father, Oleg Ivanovich Bezborodov.”



“Hello! Nice meet you!” The formalities of conversation seemed to die with Ivan as Oleg ushered Nigel forward, toward a group of hens pecking in front of the barn. Either his appraisal was satisfactory, or the man was just very friendly. “You like chicken? You catch chicken!”



“He means to say please,” Ivan added for extra measure, following behind to deposit his caught hen back in the coop.



After the icy, silent walk to the farm, the sudden cacophonic fracas of free-roaming hens and foreign utterances caught Nigel completely off guard. As the wiry elder wheeled in front of him, the lieutenant nodded quickly, but did not have a chance to even extend his hand as he found himself pushed toward the poultry,  Marian uttering her own startled greeting as she was pulled forward on her leash. 



"Hello, nice to meet you--sir! Yes, I like chickens?" Nigel then paused for a moment, assessing the situation as if determining the most opportune path to make his charge. "Okay...2, 4, 6, 8...9 of them...alright, Maid Marion...stayyyyy...stayyyy." 

Lashing the ewe's leash to a fence-post, Nigel knelt down to pull Marion's hind leg back so that she would create a woolly mountain of a barrier on his left.  As he did so, the long scabbards holding his cane and his shashka lashed to his waist tipped upward from his cloaked body, and one of the birds perched upon the shashka with a flurry of fat wings, as if the man were but a strange tree of sword-branches to roost upon. Nigel craned his head back, studying the rotund bird, then raised his brows as three more followed, alighting on his back and pecking on and under his shoulder cape with great curiosity. 



"Oh come, now, really!" The lieutenant stood up, and the perched chickens fluttered to the ground, about the boots of the intruder in a widening chaotic circle. Stepping through the birds and farther from the barn, Nigel now planted his feet a good five feet from the gate, as if he didn't understand the farmer intended for the birds to go inside the pen, not further away-- and that catching chickens involved actually capturing them with your arms, not merely standing there, one hand on a swaggerstick and the other digging through a coat-pocket. Nigel pulled out a small wrapped biscuit, some military-issue hardtack he tended to keep on his person out of habit just in case he ever found himself stranded in some strange wilderness again. Lifting it to his lips he yanked off the wrapper, then bit off a good chunk, breaking it up with his teeth. But before Bezborodov senior could rattle off any criticism of Nigel's incompetence at herding and inopportune penchant for snacking, the officer strode forward, waving his walking stick in slow circles over the ground, and spat a mouthful of mealie-bread crumbs towards the hens. 



With a babble of bocks and beeps, the chickens converged upon the bits. The lieutenant took advantage of their distraction and stepped right up to them. Even if they circled back towards the Englishman and threatened to slip through his legs, it was as if there were some invisible fence about him. He continued to slowly move forward toward the barn door, and as the birds fell beneath his shadow, it set their tri-toed path right again. As the last of the birds waddled her way into the coop, Nigel jutted his cane at the door, then fixed the latch. He looked through the wires as the birds clustered on the other side, who responded by pecking at his boots and scratching at the screen dividing them from their captor. "Bad Kury...Kury stay home now." 



Turning back to Oleg, Nigel brushed the hay and featherdust off the hem of his cloak before offering his gloved hand, the other still grasping his cane. "There you go, sir...doctor...Beshborofdove...thank you for having me at your home. I've looked forward to meeting Ivan's family. This is my sheep, Maid Marion-- I'm afraid she was a stray, who came to my lodge in the city. I hope you don't mind if she can enjoy your pasture while I'm here." 



Despite the strange introduction to the farm, Nigel was very much relieved that things were as informal as they were. For he didn't know much about Russians other than the horrible war-tales his father would tell about Crimea. So far, the older doctor seemed harmless enough, if not rather welcoming. 

The patriarch was immediately charmed, delighted by the efficiency the young officer employed in solving the birdly dilemma. He took the offered hand into his own, brushed with the dirt of the day, and enforced the gesture of peace and welcoming with a sharp clap on Nigel's shoulder.



"Good man! You catch chicken muuuch better than Ivan." Even though the disparaging remark was made in jest, the assessment it made was not altogether wrong. Ivan certainly offered no argument, huffing a laugh and nodding in brief agreement. Indeed, the antics of his father appeared to slowly soften the son, wearing down the younger doctor’s rigid posture and stern expression with a myriad of ridiculous antics to which there appeared to be no end. With that view of the man, it may have been hard to imagine him as a still-faced surgeon who saw to the steady-handed treatment of grievous ills, but also with that view of the man, it may have been readily apparent as to why he no longer was under the employment of more serious society. Looking down to Nigel’s squat companion, Oleg patted the fluffy sheep on the head and pointed to the vast pasture immediately beside the barn. "There-- you put sheep. We eat when she eat."



While Nigel did that, Ivan stepped away to collect his bag that had been abandoned at the gate, and Oleg saw to getting the visiting animal a treat as an expression of gratitude for her help in the chicken debacle. He reappeared at Nigel's side after a moment of disappearance into the barn and gave the young officer a carrot.



"My sheep love carrot, maybe your sheep love too?!"



Preoccupied as the pair were, the undistracted Ivan was the first to notice his mother’s appearance at the doorway in the back of the house. Her brow once knit with worry suddenly eased at the sight of the trio. Though an older woman, she was neither dowdy nor doughy, looking rather fit for her age, which was likely due to the amount of assistance she offered her husband on a daily basis. Mousey brown hair was gathered into a messy bundle atop her head, and over her dress she wore an apron that was smudged with minor sights of the feast she had planned.



“I was getting worried about you!” she chided her approaching son in a tone that was only lightly invested in the castigation.



“Father let the chickens out,” he offered as an explanation between her forced hello of a hug and kiss.

“Ivan, no... IVAN...,” Oleg protested, “Look what I tell you. Chicken are smart and peck hole in pen because they love hill and want to get fresh worm and biggest worm for surprising flock to be queen.. to be TSARINA of KURYovskoye! You want work in Kuryovskoye, but you don’t go, chicken don’t allow you! She like friend much better.”



Standing at the same height as her son, the mother leaned into his shoulder to mutter. “Did you tell your friend that your father has a wild imagination?”



Ivan shook his head. “Not in those exact words.”



“Well, come in for dinner,” the woman announced, motioning inside, “Hurry before it gets cold.”



Upon entry, the scent of roasted vegetables and meat-less stews immediately greeted them, wafting from where they were placed on the table to the back door, a room or so away from the dining room. The house’s interior was understated, genuinely a country home full of the things that were necessary rather than useless baubles hung simply for the sake of decoration. And yet, despite its simplicity, it remained a very colorful interior – carpets bearing convoluted patterns lined the floors, the wallpapers of the various rooms they passed through were vibrant and lively. Wood of rich colors constructed a good portion of the furniture; the dining table they were led to once belonged to a tree whose meat was golden blond. It shone under the warm glows of the lamps surrounding the large setting.



A veritable buffet of dishes were spread out on top of the table, ranging from puff pastries to pierogis, and dishes of vibrant veggies flanked by bread and a number of different condiments to partake. Before sitting, Ivan’s mother properly greeted their guest, approaching to offer her hand.



“Are you Lieutenant Crowninshield? I am Cecelia Bezborodov. It’s very lovely to make your acquaintance, and all of us are happy to welcome you into our home. I hope you will excuse our informality. Since moving back to Tintwistle from Moscow, Oleg and I do not partake in proper society very often for how exhausting it is. We’re just happy to have our animals, each other, and now, it seems, our son.



“Please help yourself to whatever you like, and eat to your contentment. Ivan made clear that you do not eat meat, so everything on this table is vegetable only. There are traditional Russian dishes, like borscht and pierogis stuffed with cheese, potatoes, onions, and some English dishes too, if the Russian ones are not to your liking.”




Once Maid Marian was put to pasture, her lumbering woolly self became invigorated, bounding playfully into a small herd of smaller ewes who welcomed their city visitor with curious bleats and nuzzles.  Soon all the sheep were occupied with their constant business of grazing, in search of the delicious carrot-roots that had been scattered near their water-trough. Upon entering, Nigel took the hand of Cecelia, giving it a tender clasp in between his own. 



"I am honored to be welcomed so graciously by you and Dr. Bezborodoff, ma'am...please, call me Nigel. I agree the formalities of society cannot compare to the comforts of a happy home like this! Also, please excuse me for keeping my glasses on, I-- my eyes are sensitive to light since the war in Afghanistan's icy deserts." The lieutenant  released her hand, looking with delighted wonder at the rich patterns of the decor and inhaling the exotic smells wafting from the table. Taking a moment to place his coat, sabre-belt, and haversack upon some hooks near the door, Nigel fished out a small gold box and retrieved his walking stick before addressing the lady of the house once more.

"I am humbled that you prepared such a wonderful feast on my account! Forgive me if I eat like a horse, for I haven't seen such a bounty of garden harvest outside of the Tibetan temples in Sikkim, and needless to say, the English have a queer way of thinking eggs or potatoes are the only worthy vegetables. "  Nigel now presented the box to Ivan's mother, which had a cellophane top to showcase what appeared to be Russian pastila nougats, but were labeled with the French words Les guimauves aux fruits et fleurs rouges.

"I'm afraid these marshmallows won't be as delicious as what you've made, ma'am,  but I hope you like them. The shop-mistress said they were based on a secret recipe loved by Tolstoy himself-- she said they are flavored rose, apple, strawberry and currant. The sample I had was like eating a little cloud!" 



"Oh, my. How very kind of you, Nigel," the woman replied as she received the gift. She turned the box around in admiration, but was only allowed a brief moment of before it was snatched up by the hands of her husband for examination between father and son. At the table, visually busy with the acrobatic steam trailing from hot dishes, both appeared to hover over and poke at the object like it were a cadaver of a rare condition, excitedly conversing between themselves in their shared foreign tongue. "You made a good choice. Pastila are also a favorite of Oleg and Vanya." Possessing a perpetually good nature, Cecelia smiled and extended her hand to the table. "Come sit, and eat until you are full."

Settled and divested of their coats and overcoats, the meal began properly, but with very little order. Cecelia was the last to join, bringing from the kitchen a carafe of wine in one hand and a pitcher of water in the other. The expectation was for each to fill their plate and glasses; the atmosphere was warm, lighthearted, and communal.

"How was everyone's day?" Cecelia asked of each man at her table, but turned to let their guest go first. "Nigel, you mentioned Tibet... did you stay there very long? Back when I was authoring travelbooks, I very much wanted to go there but never quite made it." A laugh peppered the woman's words.

The lieutenant watched with a bemused smile as the Bezborodov men examined the sweetmeats, before taking his seat at the table and taking samples of every dish, known and unknown. Nigel's smile was tempered a bit by the nagging knowledge that the fancy candies were due to Ivan's generous loan of a pound to the penniless officer, who had a number of luxurious spending priorities that would seem irrational to most. 

" I cannot take all the credit, as Ivan helped me buy these...but yes, Tibet! It is an astounding landscape, but the people are even more incredibly beautiful. Almost not of this world, with their intricate beliefs and hypnotizing arts. I was born way up in Sikkim, which is a little arc into the heart of the Himalayas where Bhutan, Darjeeling, and Tibet all meet. So there were Tibetan temples there, and several of our servants worshipped their strange gods and monks in saffron robes would visit me when I was little and bring all these ritual objects for me to see. I know it seems odd that I could remember something from being so young, but it made a very deep impression on me, just as any very big kindness or cruelty might affect a child for the rest of its life. What I learned foremost is the scariest seeming monsters were the kindest protectors, and the humans were often more beastly than any animal...to make a long story short, don't judge a book by its cover."

 Nigel paused, nodding with a grin as Oleg heaped less polite mounds of food on top of the conservative portions the lancer had taken. He was grateful for their generosity, and would eagerly devour every offered morsel, until he was too exhausted to eat anymore. If such an appetite would be considered gluttony in his former posh circles with their strict rules of dinner proprieties-- then Nigel was glad to be a heretic.

"Ah, a travel writer! I would very much like to read some if you have them here. After my last duties in Africa, I was sent to the colonial compound at Shimla, which is closer to Kashmir and Afghanistan-- but I took some time to travel the Silk Road through Kathmandu and on to Lhasa, in hopes of going back to my home estate. But of course Lhasa is forbidden to outsiders, so, I didn't quite make it to see the Dalai Lama. I have some watercolours somewhere I did...maybe they are in London...with my father..." Unconsciously, Nigel's hand trembled and he inadvertently dropped his fork, causing a loud clank as it hit the plate. Quickly he took it up again, and changed the subject.

"I do say, all of this is so delicious! Ivan must write down for me what the Russian dishes are-- or if you have a recipe, ma'am, I'd be grateful to have it! Especially these little pillows of cheese, and cabbage, and oh, I especially love the fruit ones! You know, our Indian servants used to say that any cooking should be a prayer offering;  But your food, its more than a prayer for my weary soul-- its a miracle!"  Nigel raised his wine glass, slowing lifting it towards Oleg, Cecelia, and Ivan.  "To the health of you, your animals and your crops, and may the Bezborodov family be blessed with many happy days together."

Each member of the family partook in the toast, some more naturally enthusiastic than others, and settled into a conversation that was occasionally given pause by the circumstances under which it was conducted. The meal was long, leisurely, and when everyone had finished, Cecelia and Oleg shuffled Nigel off to their home's sitting room while Ivan saw to clearing the table.

It was there, in that room, where evening stretched into night. Cecelia showed Nigel her travel books while Oleg and Ivan conversed, or argued - or maybe it was some combination of the two - in their native tongue over a stack of foreign-language newspapers and a bottle of vodka that was shared with all. Oleg, of course, was the more animated of the pair, gesturing wildly and loudly to Ivan's oft frigid retorts, and yet the scene seemed to be no cause for concern as Cecelia went about her business without interruption. The candy that Nigel had gifted them was divvied up too, each piece cut into fours and distributed for equal enjoyment. The room itself was not unlike the pieces of the house that Nigel had been shown so far. Fire-lit lamps threw their orange-yellow hues onto the furniture and walls; they gave off heat to combat the chill of deepening night.

Satiated and further relaxed by the addition of clear spirits to the heavy meal, Ivan slumped in the chair he was sitting in, arms propped on the rests, fingers clutching an open newspaper that he had taken to properly read rather than argue over, like his father had so preferred. Oleg and Cecelia excused themselves to bed shortly thereafter, and Ivan gave them a half-hearted wave of goodnight. When a moment of silence had passed, he then peered over his reading at the Englishman.

“Thank you again for the pastila,” he said. “They really are my favorite, and remind me so much of Moscow. I know you didn’t have any way of knowing that, but it’s incredibly thoughtful."



 Ivan's comment came unexpectedly, and Nigel's cheeks flushed. "You're welcome, Ivan. You're correct-- I didn't know-- I just asked the proprietress what might be a nice housewarming gift for a prominent Russian surgeon's family...and really, you paid for them...but I'm glad they have given you a sense of home.  I know that feeling... That ache for a familiar memory, that fuzzy dream that can come back with something as sudden as smelling a particular spice cooking,  or the longer late night pondering of solitary spaces we once loved.  I don't feel at ease in Manchester at all..being here at the farm makes me-- as your father kept saying in his vodka toasts, too many vodka toasts!!--schastlivvy-- happy."