the best remedy,” 
the best remedy,” Yvarrtasah replied. “I see no reason to act now. If they survive, we will consider then how to deal with them.” “Yes,” Sytherek agreed. “I cannot imagine that I need to remind anyone here of how humans hunted us in the past.” “These people did not come to our shores to hunt us,” Symurall said sternly. “They are lost, weak, and in an alien land. They pose no threat. Do we simply stand by and watch them die?” “If that is what fate has in store for them,” Sytherek said. “It is unwise to intervene, and probably against our own best interests.” “Mercy is a trademark of the wise,” said young Mahgrurra, who had been sitting quietly by herself. Sytherek laughed loudly, his roar rattling through the ruins and across
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the mesa. “Mercy?” 
the mesa. “Mercy?” he said. “I will show them mercy, by giving them a quick death, before the kehklik rip them apart.” “Brutality and hatred gain us nothing,” old Voranytchi grumbled. “I agree with Yvarrtasah – we should neither harm nor aid the humans at this point in time. We could not stop their islands from being destroyed by earthquake and volcano, why should we now be responsible for saving them from the kehklik?” “You compare what was not possible with what can be done,” Kyazura stated. “Some humans rescued dragons from their home world. My brothers and I were born of those who were saved by Murffyd and his people.” “The blood of Murffyd no longer runs in their veins,” Sytherek declared angrily. “They are a corrupt and degenerate species.”
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“These humans are 
“These humans are not the same ones who hurt us,” Kyazura responded. “We do not know if they are corrupt. Revenge is poor motivation, brother.” “I will not see us suffer again at their hands,” Sytherek growled. “In the past we have acted rashly,” Yvarrtasah said. “It is time to observe, and be careful before we make momentous decisions. Since the humans are in Symurall’s territory, he can keep an eye on them. Once we understand the entirety of the situation, we will make new decisions.” “No one ever knows the entirety of any situation,” Kyazura said. “Many humans will die while we wait for answers that may never come.” “Many could die, but probably not all,” Voranytchi said. Symurall growled, swished his tail, and walked a short distance away from the circle.
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side. With 
side. With the forward tug freed, The Lady’s bow started a drift shoreward as the stern tug pulled her seaward. TheyPd tow her astern into the Gulf current while the sea tug locked on forward. He knew theyPd want her tied up fast once the lines came aboard. More work. He wondered how much line theyPd let out once they were into the Gulf. It was a solid half-mile to the shore. Visibility at that distance was poor, but the shoreline had lost its bayou appearance. He checked his watch L it was just past seven. The sky, too, said it was evening, but with a peculiar hue. He noticed the wind was up.
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— 150 — 
— 150 — The sea tug was close up on the starboard, much bigger than the harbor tugs. She looked up to the job, almost new, capable of using a lot of power. Hercules Two was written across her bow- sides in large white letters. It made him feel bet- ter for no justifiable reason. The radar scanner sitting atop the wheelhouse helped, too. Her captain stood prominently in the wheel- house. He probably had a three-man crew. It was right alongside now, bumping rubber against the peeled steel of The Lady. On a muffled word through the loudspeaker, the lead line shot up and across the bow, whistling past BobbyPs head.
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MThar she 
MThar she blows,N he mum- bled, expecting to see Beluga spouting nearby. Scrambling across the bow he got the lead line, knew he wouldnPt be hauling nylon aboard. These guys had the advanced technology. TheyPd go lead line to one-inch nylon to steel cable. Cable was a three-man job, bearable with two. The loudspeaker vibrated sound again. MFeed through port bulwark.N He felt the weight grow as the cable cleared the water. Everything was heavier coming out of the water, he thought, just like evolution. The cable took time, came up grating over the deck railing, grinding against the bulwarks. His arms started to ache from fatigue. The cable did- nPt flex easily. His gloves were ripping up from
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the jagged cable 
the jagged cable threads. Twice the cable pulled up hard against his bare torso. Thin red claw marks ran across him, small rivulets of blood mix- ing with his sweat. — 151 — From a distance the effort had the appearance of smooth, poetic metaphor, flowing rhythm. It was manPs statement, his place in the struggle. Up close, it was sweat, curses and man in labor. It was noble perhaps, but there was no baby to show for it. Bobby leaned back against the winch. Ex- hausted, he looked up into the sky where his daughterPs face emerged, and cornered him.
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Her hope-filled eyes 
Her hope-filled eyes promised him eternity. He felt the sea breeze and heard The Lady Inca promise she would get him to her. The steel slap of cable against The Lady’s rail brought him back quickly. MWe are roger and go aboard ship.N He mouthed into the two-way, his first opportunity to check it against the tugPs radio. MTake it up real slow, shePs gonna mill tight. Over.N It was only a few minutes before the slack started disappearing. MTaking slack. Stay sharp up there. Over.N The grind and rasp moved into full swing. The eerie metal scraping of the bind
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grew louder as 
grew louder as the cable tightened. This was not a sound to sleep by. Grind and scrape, baby, he thought to himself. Wind yourself so tight you never come free. Just pull me home. MYouPre tight. Cables secure.N His own insur- ance policy surfaced. MCome back with weather. Over.N MThree day weather watch across the Gulf. Over.N Thanks for nothing. Weather watch could mean anything from light rain to the end of the — 152 — world. MRequest four-hour radio checks. Over.N He didnPt want to be forgotten for too long, to get too ignorant about the weather movement. MCast off stern lines.N The
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does anything.\ 
does anything.\ No one had been able to answer the question \ why\ when Kade s mother appeared at court twenty-five years ago to captivate the old king Fulstan. No one had known she was Moire, a great queen in her own right from one of the multitude of fayre kingdoms that hid under ancient barrows, deceptively deep lakes, or the disappearing islands that lay off the southern coast. She had held Fulstan s attention constantly, day and night, for one year before departing and leaving behind her a baby daughter like a forgotten piece of baggage and a man who was far worse a king than he had ever been before. Dubell had a way of seeming to pick up on someone else s train of thought. He said, \ I remember her mother. I was a
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young man then. 
young man then. The King s Company was performing The Fortunate Lands and suddenly she was there, dressed in black and her jewels like stars. The Queen of Air and Darkness.\ He picked up a book from the window ledge and absently added it to a stack on a nearby chair. \ A wiser man might have seen a potential danger in Kade. The fay who appear the most human are often more changeable and vindictive than their monstrous brethren. But I saw only an isolated child with the first stirrings of real power and the wit and the will to use it. I admit I have never felt guilty, Captain. I gave her only an elementary tutoring in the craft. If I hadn t, she would have found someone else. I m sorry for what she has done with the knowledge since
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then, but I assume 
then, but I assume no responsibility for it.\ He looked back at Thomas seriously. \ I suspect that may be lese-majeste.\ \ Perhaps, but it s a mild form of it.\ Compared to most of what goes on here. \ And we do need your help.\ He was sure Dubell realized that until another court sorcerer could arrive he had them over a barrel, and Thomas was curious to see if the old scholar would come out and admit it. Dubell shook his head. \ I took a vow of fealty when I first came here years ago. Whatever differences of opinion have arisen since then can have no bearing on it.\ The old sorcerer stood there watching the garden below, his stooped shoulders revealing his bone-weary exhaustion. Galen Dubell
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spoke so freely 
spoke so freely it made suspicion difficult, even for someone in whom suspicion was a deeply ingrained habit. And how many times does a man have to swear undying loyalty before you have to give him the benefit of the doubt? Thomas thought. At least until events prove otherwise. The couple in the court below had moved somewhere out of sight. Dubell asked, \ Has anything been heard of Grandier?\ \ No, not so far. He s not going to be so easy to find again. You haven t remembered anything else you heard Chapter Three 35 that might hint of his plans?\ Thomas asked without much hope. They had gone over all this exhaustively last night on the way back
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of Medusa, the 
of Medusa, the reptiles for hair looking to him, in his highly nervous state, like the tight, crisp curls and braids covering the head of his bride-elect, and the lines from Pitt s \ Virgil\ recurred to his memory: \ Such fiends to scourge mankind, so fierce, so fell, Heaven never summoned from the depths of hell.\ Mr. Stone broke the momentary silence by saying, in matter-of-fact tones: \ It is natural, I suppose, to a man of your seemingly nervous temperament, to be a little upset at not meeting your father; but, in my opinion, life is too short for sentiment, especially when wasted as in this case, for your father, according to cablegram sent us, is improving, and is, I dare swear, kicking his heels about St. Lawrence Hall, Montreal, waiting impatiently
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for your return.\ 
for your return.\ \ Yes, Uncle Timothy, yours is the practical view of it; sentiment is, or should be, a monopoly of the poets; self-interest, with pounds, shillings and pence, are good enough for us.\ \ Margaret means to convey, Mr. Charles, that you should be thankful to Providence that you have been spared to come to us; to a land, also, flowing with milk and honey, ready to your hand and purse,\ said her aunt, sanctimoniously adding, \ How is religious life in Toronto?\ \ Religious life?\ he said, half dazed, wholly absorbed in the thought that he was to be held in bondage by that stony-eyed woman with snake-like hair–his Medusa. \ Alas, I fear you are dead in sin, Mr. Charles. You do not even know
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the meaning of 
the meaning of my words. I have heard that New York is the most wicked city in America, and you, I fear, frequently go there to participate in the pleasures of sin. I dread to allow my niece to go out, even as your wife; it was only the other day I read, copied from one of your newspapers, that at Tahlequah, which I suppose is near you, that a Chickasaw Indian was arrested by a deputy United States marshal with three assistants; the company camped on the prairie, with the exception of the marshal, who, riding on, reached his goal; waited there until weary, he rode back, and what did he find? The entire posse with heads cut off, and the Indian fled. America must be a very Sodom and Gomorrah. But I see you are not listening to me, Mr. Charles.
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We have a 
We have a saintly young man here, the Rev. Claude Parks, whom I must ask to influence you to a better frame of mind, with an intense gratitude to Providence for the favors about to be showered upon you.\ Thus did Miss Stone give vent to her feelings to unlistening ears. Fond of hearing her own voice, it mattered little to her that she received no replies but to be told impatiently that \ he was ill,\ and to be compelled to waste the eloquence she seduced herself into believing she possessed, upon a man with now his hands pressed upon his feverish brow, now his eyes fixed on vacancy, now upon the entrance as though he would fain flee, incensed her almost to rage; during the absence of Mr. Stone and his niece she had determined to improve
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the occasion, and so 
the occasion, and so read him no end of lectures. The two absent ones, after a few minutes whispered conversation in the library, had crossed the lawn to a neat cottage where the clergyman in charge of the Bayswater Mission existed on one hundred and fifty pounds per annum. As they stepped through the flower beds, which the moon rising in unclouded splendor lit with her soft white light, Miss Villiers in cold, hard tones, said: \ Yes, you are right; he showed his hand, and of how much he loved me at first sight, as he asked in that scared way for my sweet sister, but bah! such maudlin folly in our wasting our precious moments over his feelings in the matter; they are of no more consequence than are the blades of grass we crush beneath our
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feet in reaching 
feet in reaching CHAPTER IX. our goal; let him laugh who wins, even though the goal be reached by a foul.\ \ Yes, the sooner we hold the lines the better; he has not spirit enough to be a runaway horse.\ \ Let him but try, there is the curb bit and halter.\ \ Oh, you need not tell me, Margaret, that you will have him well in hand. Yes, and before that paradise of fools, the honeymoon, is over,\ laughed her uncle sardonically. \ Yes, the grey mare will be the best horse this time; but what a blessing his father is laid low; it would have been all up, when he saw how cut up our precious Charles is. I
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Hartley Wiggins would 
Hartley Wiggins would not be continued within earshot. To my relief they moved a trifle farther on; but I still heard their voices. [Illustration: This discussion between Cecilia Hollister and Hartley Wiggins.] \ I cannot listen to you. Now that I m committed I cannot honorably countenance you at all; and I can explain nothing. I came here to meet you only to tell you this. You must go–please! And do not attempt to see me in this way again.\ I was grateful that Wiggins s voice sank so low in his reply that I did not hear it; but I knew that he was pleading hard. Then a motor flashed by, and when the whir of its passing had ceased, the voices were inaudible; but a moment later I heard a light quick
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step beyond the 
step beyond the wall, and Cecilia passed hurriedly, her face turned toward the house. The cape was drawn tightly about her shoulders, and she walked with her head bowed. I breathed a sigh of relief, and when I felt safe from detection climbed the slope. Pausing on the crest to survey the landscape, I saw a man, wearing a derby hat and a light top-coat, leaning against a fence that inclosed a pasture. As I glanced in his direction he moved away hastily toward the road below. The feeling of being watched is not agreeable, and I could not account for him. As he passed out of sight, still another man appeared, emerging from a strip of woodland farther on. Even through the evening haze I should have
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said that he 
said that he was a gentleman. The two men apparently bore no relation to each other, though they were walking in the same direction, bound, I judged, for the highway below. I had an uncomfortable feeling that they had both been observing me, though for what purpose I could not imagine. 20 Then once more, just as I was about to enter the Italian garden from a fallow field that hung slightly above it, a third man appeared as mysteriously as though he had sprung from the ground, and ran at a sharp dog-trot along the fence, headed, like the others, for the road. In the third instance the stranger undoubtedly took pains to hide his face, but he, too, was well dressed and wore a top-coat and a fedora hat of current style.
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I did not 
I did not know why these gentlemen were ranging the neighborhood or what object they had in view; but their several appearances had interested me, and I went on into the house well satisfied that events of an unusual character were likely to mark my visit to the home of Miss Octavia Hollister. IV WE DINE IN THE GUN-ROOM Cecilia sat reading alone when I entered the library shortly before the dinner-hour. She put down her book and we fell into fitful talk. \ I took a walk after tea. I always feel that sunsets are best seen from the fields; you can t quite do them justice from windows,\ she began. She seemed preoccupied, but this may have been the interpretation of my conscience, whose twinges reminded me
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unpleasantly of my 
unpleasantly of my precipitation into the briar bushes at the foot of the pasture, where I had witnessed her meeting with Wiggins. My admiration gained new levels. Her black evening gown became her; a band of velvet circled her throat, emphasizing its firm whiteness. It seemed incredible that I had seen her so recently, in the filmy dusk, talking with so much earnestness to Hartley Wiggins. It was my impression, gained from the few sentences I had overheard by the road, that she did not repulse him, but that some mysterious, difficult barrier kept them apart. Where, I wondered, was Wiggins now, and what were to be the further incidents of this singular affair? While we waited for Miss Hollister to appear, she continued to speak of her joy in the hills. It is not every one who can admire
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faces and eyes. 
faces and eyes. These are not to be trusted under any circumstances. ABOUT THE AUTHOR Jon was born in the State of California in 1950, and grew up surfing, hitchhiking around the country, and studying the martial arts. He earned a black belt by the age of 24, and then served in the army for a time. He attended three universities studying Sociology, Psychology, and Clinical Nutrition. Presently, he works in a family-owned business as an herbalist and clinical nutritionist. Jon walked the path of six spiritual traditions for a period of ten years before learning of the ancient tradition practiced by the Indo-Europeans. Having been in communication with his Higher Self since 1989, he was told to apply what he had learned esoterically, to reestablishing the esoteric principles in the Old Norse tradition that were lost. The “Vitkar” carried the mysteries for that tradition,
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but when they 
but when they were killed during the Inquisition, everything was destroyed, save a few fragments. Jon spent another ten years studying the works of other researchers, and was eventually able to fulfill the wishes of his Higher Self. Since 2007, he has engaged himself in pursuing knowledge regarding Dominion, whom he came across during his shamanic battles on other planes, and in other dimensions. He is a man who believes in pursuing his own knowledge, rather than accepting what is handed to him. Douglas Stauffer Chapter 1: The Murderer and Me Where to Begin? What began me on this journey? What broke me out of the quiet depression I had held so long and the generally negative view of the world I
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had clung to 
had clung to all my life? In some respects…a photo of a man. Till then, I had lived my life on autopilot; simply rising each day as I had always risen, never conscious of who I was, how I was, or why; never truly understanding the self inside this body, or the body inside this world which had always felt so alien to me. I had accumulated a lifetime of hurt, and seen a lifetime of opportunity pass, and I wasn’t enjoying it. In fact, I was hating it. My shyness and general dissatisfaction with how I was led me to dislike most everyone, but I was completely unwilling to change a thing about myself or try. Nor was I willing even
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to admit that 
to admit that perhaps I did not know everything; that I in fact knew nothing – of what was wrong, of who I was, or of life in general. And it hurt. It always hurt. Being who I was hurt. It was painful even; always gnawing at me, forever on my mind, incessantly in my thoughts. “I suck.” “I’m not cool.” “I’m not good enough.” And so I struggled. There were days I’d break down. There were nights I’d cry. There were weeks I’d go without managing a single smile. There were times I was so down, so lost, so unbelievably afraid of everything, that I couldn’t even manage to leave the house…to get to
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REEDHAM TO YARMOUTH. [Picture: 
REEDHAM TO YARMOUTH. [Picture: Decorative drop capital] The next morning we were up betimes to take the last of the ebb down to 13 Yarmouth, and catch the tide up the Bure. As there was a fresh breeze from the east, we had to tack nearly the whole of the way. At Reedham there is a swing bridge, over which the railway passes, and if the wind is foul it is always a difficult matter to sail through, particularly if the tide be against you. On the present occasion we had the tide with us; therefore, on reaching the opening of the bridge, we could shoot the yacht up into the wind, and carry her way on until through, when her head was paid off on the proper tack.
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\ I tell 
\ I tell you what, these Norfolk waters are capital places to learn to steer in. An inch either way, and we should have torn our sail against the bridge.\ \ Yes, and what with getting the utmost on every tack, without going ashore, shaving wherries by a yard or two, and watching for every puff as it comes over the grasses on the marsh, so as to make the most of it, there is more fun in sailing here than on more open waters.\ Just below the bridge is the New Cut, a perfectly straight canal, three miles long, connecting the Yare with the Waveney, and so saving a round of some eighteen miles, which would otherwise be necessary to get from the one river to the other, as a reference to the map will
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show. Now came a 
show. Now came a steady beat for several miles, until we reached the Berney Arms (on the right is the mouth of the river Waveney), when Breydon water opened out before us, with Yarmouth in the distance. When the tide is in, this is a remarkable sheet of water, four and a-half miles long by a mile broad. There are mud flats on either side of the wide channel, where herons and sea-fowl greatly congregate. The strong wind against the tide raises a respectable sea, and the tacks being longer we made rapid progress, and the motion was exhilarating. A sail across Breydon in a strong wind, is a thing I always consider a great treat. The channel is marked out by stout posts at intervals of two hundred yards or thereabouts, but it is not safe to sail too close
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the mother. \ Yes,\ 
the mother. \ Yes,\ said the thorn-bush; \ but I will not tell thee which way he took, unless thou wilt first warm me up at thy heart. I am freezing to death; I shall become a lump of ice!\ And she pressed the thorn-bush to her breast, so firmly, that it might be thoroughly warmed, and the thorns 13 went right into her flesh, and her blood flowed in large drops, but the thorn-bush shot forth fresh green leaves, and there came flowers on it in the cold winter night, the heart of the afflicted mother was so warm; and the thorn-bush told her the way she should go. She then came to a large lake, where there was neither ship nor boat. The lake was not
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frozen sufficiently to bear 
frozen sufficiently to bear her; neither was it open, nor low enough that she could wade through it; and across it she must go if she would find her child! Then she lay down to drink up the lake, and that was an impossibility for a human being, but the afflicted mother thought that a miracle might happen nevertheless. \ Oh, what would I not give to come to my child!\ said the weeping mother; and she wept still more, and her eyes sunk down in the depths of the waters, and became two precious pearls; but the water bore her up, as if she sat in a swing, and she flew in the rocking waves to the shore on the opposite side, where there stood a mile-broad, strange house, one knew not if it were a mountain with forests
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and caverns, or 
and caverns, or if it were built up; but the poor mother could not see it; she had wept her eyes out. \ Where shall I find Death, who took away my little child?\ said she. \ He has not come here yet!\ said the old grave woman, who was appointed to look after Death s great greenhouse! \ How have you been able to find the way hither? and who has helped you?\ \ Our Lord has helped me,\ said she. \ He is merciful, and you will also be so! Where shall I find my little child?\ \ Nay, I know not,\ said the woman, \ and you cannot see! Many flowers and trees have withered this night; Death will soon come and plant them over
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again! You certainly 
again! You certainly know that every person has his or her life s tree or flower, just as every one happens to be settled; they look like other plants, but they have pulsations of the heart. Children s hearts can also beat; go after yours, perhaps you may know your child s; but what will you give me if I tell you what you shall do more?\ \ I have nothing to give,\ said the afflicted mother, \ but I will go to the world s end for you!\ \ Nay, I have nothing to do there!\ said the woman, \ but you can give me your long black hair; you know yourself that it is fine, and that I like! You shall have my white hair instead! and that s always something!\
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carry. As he stepped 
carry. As he stepped aside for a moment out of the way of this torrent, Stewart found himself beside the bearded stranger who had waxed eloquent in defense of Germany. He was watching the crowd with a look at once mocking and sardonic, as a spider might watch a fly struggling vainly to escape from the web. He glanced at Stewart, then turned away without any sign of recognition. \ Where do you go, sir?\ the porter asked, when they were safely through the gates. \ To the Koelner Hof.\ \ It is but a step,\ said the porter, and he unhooked his belt, passed it through the handles of the suit-cases, hooked it together again and lifted it to his shoulder. \ This way, sir, if you please.\
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The Koelner Hof 
The Koelner Hof proved to be a modest inn just around the corner, where Stewart was received most cordially by the plump, high-colored landlady. Lunch would be ready in a few minutes; meanwhile, if the gentleman would follow the waiter, he would be shown to a room where he could remove the traces of his journey. But first would the gentleman fill in the blank required by the police? So Stewart filled in the blank, which demanded his name, his nationality, his age, his business, his home address, the place from which he had come to Aix-la-Chapelle and the place to which he would go on leaving it, handed it back to the smiling landlady, and followed an ugly, hang-dog waiter up the stair. The room into which he was shown was a very pleasant one, scrupulously
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clean, and as 
clean, and as he made his toilet, Stewart reflected how much more of comfort and how much warmer welcome was often to be had at the small inns than at the big ones, and mentally thanked the officer of police who had recommended this one. He found he had further reason for gratitude when he sat down to lunch, served on a little table set in one corner of a shady court–the best lunch he had eaten for a long time, as he told the landlady when she came out presently, knitting in hand, and sat down near him. She could speak a little English, it appeared, and a little French, and these, with Stewart s little German, afforded a medium of communication limping, it is true, but sufficient. She received the compliments of her guest with the dignity of one
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