THE EYES OF

AVALON

HANK HARRISON

ARKIVES PRESS

SAN FRANCISCO

THE EYES

OF AVALON

For Elaine Darvas

World and American Copyright© 2005 Hank Harrison

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may beused or reproduced in any manner, print or electronic without the express written permis-sion of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles andreviews.

The Eyes of AvalonFirst Edition

1. Fiction

I. Harrison, Hank II. Title

Cataloged in Library of Congress #xxx xxx xxx

University of London,Warburg Institute andBritish Museum Categories

ISBN: 0-918501-xx x

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 99

THE EYES

OF AVALON

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The Eyes of Avalon

1Getting to Glastonbury was the easy part. Jack met us with the van at OldHeathrow and we took off in the direction of Slough. First Southhampton topick up Bradly and the special gear, then to Winchester then to Glastonbury.That was the plan, it didn’t exactly work out that way, but that was the plan.

Signs are posted everywhere. The West, the west—in incessant lines, alldesigned to get you into the ancient past. The further you travel to the south-west the further back in time you go. That’s the route the tourist buses tookon their way to Stonehnge, but we were headed further back, to a time whenStonehenge was more like a couple of rocks and some sticks in the mud.

Finding exactly where to go and getting the equipment was harder. Plusthe money problem. We all had money but, probably not enough. The wholeexpedition had to be a secret, so we couldn’t get grant money. I was lucky tohave a trust fund from my grandad, John Kells, distant heir to a piece of theKells publishing fortune. I tapped the bank for a loan.

When I was about ten Grandpa John took me out on the Carmel Golflinks and drove me around in his golf cart. He offered me a Pepsi as Iwatched him duff the ball around and in between shots he told me somefamily secrets in a near whisper. He said he thought I was very clever, andthat I was the witty one. He said he was going to leave me and my olderbrother Dean, “ A chunk of change.” He said, “Wit and wisdom will takeyou far my boy” I didn’t even know what he was talking about at that age.All I wanted to do was play computer games and fix up my bike for extremetricks. But I remember his white Van Dyke beard and his expensive shavinglotion.

Every time he came up to the city from Carmel he would take me asideand give me a grandfather rap. At the end of these “male bonding” sessionshe would pat me on the back and say, “Tommy, someday you’ll do some-thing really wonderful, I just know it,” He said that all the time. I thinkmaybe this trip would prove him right, I was in the process of tracking downmy brother, Dean, who went missing about a year ago.

I rode shotgun clutching the shoulder strap of the map case, not fullyunderstanding the wonders it contained. Jack drove. He knew the roads bet-ter than anyone. Marissa,originally from Manchester Jack’s wife of 20years, rested her Hungarian high cheekbones on her well worn camera bag,her hair gone almost Afro from the frizzy fog. She had been on many trekswith Jack and she was skeptical about most of them, but she took the best

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10

pictures, fabulous, and she used the old fashioned chemical cameras too.When they flew over to San Francisco for the meeting she bought a very fastCanon digital automatic which could pump at least eight megapixelsthrough a series of amazing zoom lenses. But she also used chemical filmsfor the softer, warmer light you could get with the old processing, especiallyAgfa for reds and yellows and Kodachrome for greens and blues.

Once past the Hampshire signs we settled down in the fast lane and blewby the slower traffic on the M4. Jack was a Brit, he smoked, but refrained fornow, knowing the rest of us were coughers and sinus victims.

“Bath turn off up ahead.” He felt he should warn us. “Are we ploppingdown at John’s place tonight, for sure?

“Yes for sure .” I replied. I spoke to him from the Architectural Associa-tion office, and I have an e-mail print out with directions.”

Jack seemed riled, “Hey mate, don’t worry, he’s been there 40 years, in-herited the house, I think, he ain’t moved ‘as he?”

“No, Marissa sputtered from the back, “Same place, Miles Buildings, onthe terrace.

Jack smiled, “mmmm yup, been there, wow waht pahrties he used tohost.”

I had heard of these parties. John Surtees and my older brother Dean werepals back as far as the late 1980s. John was over eighty now, well preserved,but not the party tosser he once was. When Dean disappeared, John was oneof the first to call my family. He seemed alarmed two months ago and in-sisted I come over from San Francisco to meet him. In subsequent e-mailshe said we had lots to talk about. I don’t know how this magician from Bathknew Dean had disappeared, the last we heard from Dean he was in Spainheaded toward Winchester and then Glastonbury, but I was willing to hearhim out.

∞ ∞ ∞Fosse Way, the old Roman road to Bath travels up and down the hills as itfunnels its way southwest. Actually it was a Celtic road before the Romansand a Neolithic Road before that. Several digs proved it was a drovers roadin the Ice Age. I wondered how they built such steep roads. How many Oxteams did they need? Did they even have domesticated Oxen? On a clearday you can see all the way to the Severn Channel and on to Wales. You caneven see the famed Tor of Saint Surtees marking the entrance to the sacredland of Avalon, especially at sunset. We would be climbing that very Torsoon, but we had to spend at least one meeting with John Surtees first. Hehad the keys to the maps. Mine were duplicates, my brother Dean had theoriginals, but they disappeared when he vanished. In fact, according topolice records, his Jaguar, his clothing, and all of his gear just seemed toevaporate five days after he checked in to the George & Pilgrim.

I knew about the maps. Everybody in my family knew Dean was a trea-sure hunter and had all kinds of maps, but he was an underwater treasurehunter, always looking for sunken U-Boats, and galleons hidden under sandbars near El Salvador. This Glastonbury gig was a new kick for him, the

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The Eyes of Avalon

maps were all about lakes and solid land. At least that’s what I thought whenhe disappeared. That was two years ago, since then I have been studying theduplicate maps, his journals and logs, and I spoke to dozens of his friends.Now I am not sure, it seems some kind of water was involved. Dean oncetold me that the area around Glastonbury, the area known as CentralSomerset, was an inland sea in ancient times. Brainiac and Jack thought hewas dead, Marissa never met him and reserved her opinion, everyonemourned him, but somehow, deep inside I figured he was still alive, hidingsomewhere, tracking down some really bizarre treasure.“We haven’t heard from Bradly yet have we?” Jack muttered when he askeda question, a trait common to many folks from Bristol.

“Well Yes and no “ I answered. We got an e-mail saying he was doingfine, no seasickness and he would meet us in Southampton — But that wasfive days ago.

“How do you know Dean’s missing?”“We received a flash IM from Helena Kopejan, the owner of the Heliosbookstore in Glastonbury. She said she saw Dean fighting two men in thebasement under her bookstore. When she returned from calling the policeDean and the two assailants were gone.”

2Dean Kells read his final translation of the letter for the fifth time. The origi-nal parchment was cracked and smelled of mold, but the English, mixedwith Provincial French and Latin, came off the page, direct into the mind ofthe reader.

1170 May 1My dear Fulcanelli here is the awaited and overdue account of my af-fairs, the affairs of my life, it’s perfidies and triumphs. It is against mypersonal wish to have any such account be published in any way least itscontents be construed as vain or least it’s hidden meanings be observedby those who we have so long labored to overthrow us in our hermeticendeavors.

All organisms tend to seek balance while elements of internal fulmi-nation always tend to seek their highest energy. It is for this reason that Ishall entrust to you, my oldest living human friend and companion, thisencyclical. For if it were lost we would have wasted a full century, and ifit were misunderstood we would have retarded the human race severalhundred years if not many millennia.

We now see that the earth is round, a reality that many have beenpersecuted for and in it’s sphericity we infer that everyone, nay, every-thing, on it’s surface is bathed equally by the same sun and is fluxedequally by the same moon.

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What further persecutions would any of our past members have en-countered had they let on that they found the sun to be located in a stablepinion while this rolling rock was totally unstable, volatile and full ofwobbles, to which any fool could attest by the simple experience of atyphoon or the clarifying example of a war.

It was the passion of my life to seek out and repair pilgrims and pa-rishioners who based their lives on this blatant miscalculation. I wouldthus enlighten them and at the same time brand them as heretics. Natu-rally, rather than change their ways, many of them grew stolid in defenseof their creed, no one wanted to be excommunicated, but I pressed on-ward and made some progress, a few friends, and many able to see intothe future.

There was a time when I thought the fragmentation caused by theChurch in Rome, both scholastic and emotional, would destroy all ofsociety, this was the time I grieved for what we had done by releasing thesecrets of the ancients to the public. But I see now I was chosen for thistask. I hope they and yourself, will judge me fairly, as I have scars toprove my battles.

My grief was however, slackened when I noted a new form of humanemerging, a new warrior, both men and women, who were also scientistsand poets, like the troubadours who were also Knights and Crusaders.These new explorers have all the necessary attributes required to con-tinue the guidance of the planet to it’s harmonic state to it’s balancebetween the sun and the moon. May the stars shine down on you and maythe tides lead you to my treasure.Signed and SealedHenri Etudes Blois

Addendum: It is the right of old age to withhold private feelings fromposterity. The astute will follow the feelings without gross clues, the li-centious will find nothing here of import. As in all life my death will comeand it is now that I must end one life and move on to the life promised meby my Templar brethren.

I can safely say that I managed my fragment of the secrets to the bestof my ability. I am not a king although my grandfather was, so too mybrother and my uncle. In my life I had enough and was never hopeful offame for to do so would have been the end of my tenancy, but the tract ofmy life now stands exposed. The treasure of the Templars and the Melicedu Krist, remains safe in the Eyes of Avalon. The stars look down on it.But it is not a material treasure, although ample Gold and Silver can befound. No, my friend the books are the real treasures, each sealed in leadand wax and buried forever under my own supervision.

All of the materials are safely deposited again in other forms andnothing was lost. Others continue to work. The treasure of the Blois issafe at Glastonbury. Seek and the abbey shall provide. At Winchester thetides can be seen beneath the treasury rooms.

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The Eyes of Avalon

3Dean’s small villa near the Basque border sat in the shadow of Pico Sacro.Cool in winter, hot and sultry in summer, the house could only be reached byfoot, but the astronomy was fabulous in the thinner air. He hired a shepherdand his donkey to haul his gear up the last few thousand feet, while hisMercedes slept in a shed in Jaca, a village close to the main road. In August,the hottest month, the villa stayed cool—the white washed walls and tiledroofs and floors, were surrounded by shadow casting cork trees.

Dean was alone, he corresponded with many women, he had at least twowomen stalking him, but he wanted his space. Most guys would be happy tohave women writing them love letters, not e-mails, but handwritten letters,lightly scented with Egyptian Jasmine or the latest sensation from Hermes.The letters arrived on fine deckle edged cambric linen and each letter hintedthat a marriage would be the only treasure he needed. Dean was too intrepidfor that old ploy, he wanted a clean shot at understanding his research, then,he would settle down.

He loved the solace, but more importantly he came to the Pyrenees tostudy and make observations. He began looking for old records donated tothe monasteries by families of sea captains, some of them traceable to theSpanish Colonies in the New World. He new letters and exact locations weresent back to Spain and, if he was lucky he would need only one to guide himto a future treasure dive.

The village of Estrella, itself named after the stars, straddled the route ofthe pilgrimage of Saint James the road to heaven, the pathway to the field ofthe stars. On his first visit my brother came to realize that the field of starswas a pretty amazing myth. It was a quest, but it was also a kind of initiation,something beyond Christianity, a trial by ordeal that had been inviting spiri-tual tourists for thousands of years, before Christ. The road itself begins inFrance and gains altitude as the pathway crosses the Spanish Frontier. Eachstop is marked by the sign of the Scallop Shell, but in many places the oldroute, the high road, travels above the auto and truck roads and it was onthese more esoteric pathways that he heard about the maps, letters and trea-sure stories.

Dean knew the maps and log books came to these village locations asrelics and many were left behind by Pilgrims, especially those who camefrom England and Bretagne by sea route from the North. Traditionally theway to the sacred shrine is marked between the lines 42* 36' North Latitude‘8’ longitude—Pico Sacro is the nearest high mountain.

His last letter to me in San Francisco revealed he was on the biggest trea-sure hunt of his life, he said he was at the end of the Earth, but he gave us nodetails except that he was leaving Europe by private boat and would travel

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the old route of the Pilgrims. Dean was always on some treasure hunt, so wetook the news with a grain of salt. Now that he’s missing I paid more atten-tion.

Before we left for England I took out some of his old maps. The mapswere scattered around his room in our house on Masonic Street on TwinPeaks. The house was designed by Bernard Maybeck in a mock Tudor style,originally built in 1907. It was right in the middle of the Haight-Ashburyzone. Dozens of rich hippies lived there before we took it over—rock stationjocks, some radical shrinks who used the basement as a crash pad, evensome guys from the Grateful Dead. It was a three story with a basement atstreet level which meant Dean lived on the fourth floor, and believe me, youcould get a great view from his south window. My older brother and my dadconverted the attic into a long zendo when I was twelve, about the timeGranpa Kells left Dean and me the trust fund. The converted room featuredskylights in the shape of parallelograms and a telescope platform whichDean used to track planets and stars. From there, the entire family enjoyed aview of the Pacific Ocean, all the way across the Sunset and down LincolnAvenue.

My mother was especially keen on using the telescope to watch variousevents in Golden Gate Park as she tried to beat the cancer that finally tookher from us. She worked on Bonsai trees up there. I’ll always remember hersitting in resolute silence as she tied back and planted the little trees. Oursmall backyard was full of them. When she died last year she left the bonsaitrees to the Zen monastery in Tassajara.

4Dean’s first trip to Europe took him to the Iberian peninsula looking formaps and charters, log books and written accounts of piracy on the highseas. Anything that reveled information about Costa Rica or El Salvadorwas critical, because the Bahamian and Floridian galleons had all beenclaimed or played out.

Dean was no fool. He wasn’t looking for a huge cache or another Atocha,he was looking for ships pirated and sunk on the Pacific side, ships that werebuilt and launched in Panama or even Columbia, smaller ships that couldtransport people and provisions up and down the coast as far north asDrake’s Bay in San Francisco and as far south as Terra del Fuego at the tip ofChili, ships small enough, and with a shallow enough draft, to secretlytraverse the southern tip of South America, ships that could load and unloadthe contents of the huge European Galleons for distribution to and fromEurope and to and from the missions established up the coast all the way toMexico, to Vera Cruz and as far as Carmel in Monterey Bay, ships that, iflost, would not lose much. Lastly these were ships, that could be dry-dockedand relaunched from a beach. He never did find one of these boats, but hetold everybody about his theories and he went back

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The Eyes of Avalon

No one of these smaller ships meant much, but there were thousands ofthem. They were cheap to build and easy to sail and two-thirds of the fleetstayed on the go in fair sailing season. Dean estimated that one huge galleon,bringing textiles and olive oil from Portugal, could load up at least sixsmaller ships and, in a few days, similar ships could fill the galleon’s holdwith copra, emeralds, exotic plants, gold, silver and even slaves. In otherwords one huge galleon would require the services of at least a dozen shal-low draft boats, and all of these needed charts and tide tables, top secretmaps drawn in Europe and modified locally. Dean was looking for portswhere they might put in for repairs.

Modern treasure hunters are always looking for the big bonanza, the shiplost in a hurricane off Florida, or the Tartugas, but Dean was ingenious. Hisplan was to find just one or two of the smaller sunken gunk-holers, in shal-low waters while he was still young. If he could do that a small group ofscuba divers could retire for life.

His house in Spain sat on the outskirts of Estrella, near an ancient grave-yard and adjacent to a Romanesque chapel, all that was left of an 11thcentury abbey, but the chapel tower was still operable, a Bell Ringer cameevery day, a few people came by for communion on Sunday, a handful ofvotive candles remained alight at all hours and it housed an amazing collec-tion of books at one time, but they were almost all gone now, spirited awaysomewhere Dean could only imagine.

In the Holy Hour, each day, some call it the Angelus, Dean would observePadrona, his house keeper, quietly dusting and singing songs from theBasque and from Saragossa, her verbena waxing rag spreading lemon grasssmells throughout the room and sweeping in time to the little tunes. Shewould often cuff his ears in a playful way and tell him stories about how shewatched over the chapel. In one of his rare letters home, Dean said she keptsaying’ he was “Specialo.”

5On many occasions brother Dean would see the bell ringer coming andgoing. The man always arrived promptly, a few minutes before Angelus andvespers dressed in black, but with no white collar, he seemed to be veryhappy as he worked on the carillon tower gate and did special jobs aroundthe abbey ruins. Dean noted that the monk always wore a fabulous goldmedallion, very small but very bright. He was a curious looking man. Irishred hair and too well dressed for such a lowly job. Dean wondered what themedallion meant, perhaps an award of some type.

Dean sent several audio discs back to San Francisco, one told a remark-able tale about the Bell Ringer. I had it transcribed:

Dear Tommy and Dad: Mom’s passing broke my heart, but it alsomade me go deeper into my studies here. What was once a quest formaps and legends has taken me deep into the occult. On one very special

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occasion during Easter week in the year just before the bombing of thebridges by Basque terrorists, the Bell Ringer came to my gate door puff-ing and panting, his face covered with great urgency. My brother wrote that he was fascinated with the ruined chapel. Some of

the towns folk thought he was a strange one always going into the chapelwhen he could be out exploring the dusty back walkways of the town, but itmade no difference to Dean. One day a small circus came to the village, andalthough he saw it, even took digital pictures of it, the jugglers and clownsdid not inflame him like it seemed to enrapture the local people. He waspulled constantly back to the little chapel.

When I read the letter to my family, my father said, “Gee, that’s not likeDean. I never made him for a bookworm.” We all laughed and knew thatmom was up there in the clouds laughing with us, the last thing Dean didwas read books. He had almost none in his room, none except the sky mapsand the Farmers Almanac. Now, apparently he was in Spain reading dozensof them in Latin, of all things, and Portuguese. This was definitely a strangedevelopment. Nothing to worry about, but strange as hell, none-the- less.

The pendant was of a kind I had not seen before, a Green dragon mala-chite entertained around a Golden Lamb and in the background, etched in athin layer of enamel, I could make out a trident something like a Fleur d Lys.Around the outer ring I could see letters arranged: Non Tiempo, equataeexcelis Visioni. I had no idea that I would see that phrase in several places,Non Tiempo, Non vita! Did it mean—No Time or Time Does Not Exist?

6Dean’s tapes and letters added up to an enormous stack. It took us severalweeks to figure them out, and it was about the time we managed to finishthem that Dean just plain vanished. His letters stopped, the last one told ushe was taking Equestrian training in sherry country. I came to find out thatmeant something like Steeple chasing in Virginia, but in California it meantsomething far more brutal. The race is banned now, but until the earlier partof the twentieth century it was known as the Tavist cup, that’s were you rodeor walked your horse across the Sierra Nevada range from Carson City toSacramento in the sweltering heat tracking the trail once followed by thePony Express. Man and horse, women too, often fell out from exhaustion.We all found this quite curious, as Dean had never expressed a desire to domuch on horseback before. Underwater and surf stuff, was his thing.Besides, we were all accomplished western riders, mom insisted on that, weoften took rides along the beaches and went over to Marin to trek along thetrails on Mount Tamalpias, but none of us took it on as a real sport.Apparently Dean was serious about it.

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7Padrona called Dean from the gate outside, he could here her mild voiceextend itself up the dusty stairs and through the half opened chapel door,“Senor Dean ....”

“Si Pardona, I will stay now with O'Hara and he will see to it that I gethome safely.”

“No No, pocito maestro, you must come home immediately after youleave here, do not tarry not for anything, you will be ready to leave today ortomorrow at the latest.”

Her Basque face told no lies, Dean knew there was something wrong.According to Dean’s later report, O'Hara began to gather up his things.

He stopped to scribble another note. “Tonight I will come back here andbring with me a few things we may need, namely the sacred things that arehere, but I want you to keep this blue stone with you at all times. Will you beready to ride tomorrow evening? The Bell Ringer handed Dean a flat pieceof Lapis Lazuli with fine gold flakes scattered through it. It was smooth andpolished from handling.

My brother just stared at the stone in amazement.Dean asked, “Are you Irish? The monk nodded in the affirmative, he

smiled too, seemed a bit proud and snapped his head with a quick forwardmotion, an existential apology, as if to say, “Yes but I can’t help it”!

O’Hara’s medallion swung over his black tunic. Dean noted his uniformwas of a strange order, his collar was red with a white edge and the piping onhis tunic was interwoven red white and could scarcely be seen at all at a dis-tance. He honestly didn’t seem Christian to Dean. O'Hara scribbled note afternote and Dean replied verbally, but he couldn’t take his eyes away from thegold pendant, it seemed to be hypnotic, with a strange power to irradiate en-ergy. Dean said he felt awake all the while he looked at it.

The bell rope began to swing in the tower and the sunlight seemed to echodown the rope, as the shadows bounced off the inside of the carillon above.Dean wondered why an Irishman would be a custodian in a small village inSpain.

The two men sat quietly sipping coffee from small cups while O’Harawrote more notes. He continued to write questions to Dean such as, ‘Had heread, certain books and what did he understand from them. Dean answeredas best he could. Had Dean read the works of Bacon? Dean answered, “Yesbut I don’t understand much of it.” Had he ever heard of Hermes?” Deansimply shrugged his shoulders and looked astonished.

O'Hara penned one last note. “We are at war with the government.” Deanread it quickly, He began to ask another question but O’Hara pushed himout the door. He left the little tower and the abbey library that day never toreturn. He sensed he would be leaving, Padrona said as much. He gazedaround the chapel, he had tried to read all of its books and had looked thoughmost of it’s maps and drawings, he loved it so and the walls seemed to bend

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down and touch him good-bye as walked out into the small garden.In the street people were rushing almost in a panic, men on horses rode

through the town with urgent messages and with purpose. O'Hara hurriedalong as well, puffs of dust splattering on his black hassock as we walked, hepulled from his sleeve a red skull cap almost like the one Cardinals wear, buthe replaced it and withdrew instead a handkerchief with which to cover hisface, he beckoned Dean on. My brother said he believed that something hadgone wrong with the whole town.

Dad saw to it that we were skilled in sports, and although our happiesthours were in the company of moms magnificent library I grew to enjoy thefeel of a horse under me, a wild unpredictable thing as imperfect as a human,but wild, no matter how tame. Dean did not like to ride as often. He was notas fervent in the equestrian arts, but the whole family rode, as often as pos-sible and we went on an over night trail ride at least once every year.

The monk tugged at Dean’s arm. “Can you ride?” He gestured as scurriedalong the rough road to Dean’s villa. He nodded and made a swing with hisarms as if to imitate a polo player.

“You mean Polo?” Dean asked? “No not Polo, just riding on the beach inSan Francisco.” O’Hara nodded twice in the affirmative, but the sunlightwas fading and there were fewer than usual lights in the houses, even thefamiliar gleeful shouts of children on a school recess were missing. O'Harawas never out of breath and rushed even faster. The reason for the urgencywas not apparent, there was no violence, but Dean came to realize, manyyears later, that this swirl of motion always predicts a calamitous change.

Dean’s little villa was isolated from the town and yet he could hear noisesof an uncanny nature all through the streets. As the earth turned away fromthe sun he could make out large black smoke clouds in the distance. “Look,Look,” he gestured. O'Hara gave Dean a stiff straight pushing him forward,his face motionless but for the pounding of his veins. His eyes seemed angrynow.

Padrona set candles around the fireplace and the outdoor grill. ConcertoDe Arunez was playing on the old stereo as the two men entered across thetile floor, a lament. Padrona was weeping and kneeling before a small alterin the court yard.

“Oh Little master, where will we be in two years time? She was sayingher rosary. The silent O'Hara went immediately to the kitchen and was gonefor some time, Dean waited patiently for Padrona, pacing in the receptionroom. Frangipani blooms washed the air.

Padrona and the diminutive monk entered the room with tears in theireyes. Padrona spoke for the mute who held an open letter in his hand.“The government wants to build a dam here and our village will be flooded.We must start to evacuate this very week, we may have only a few months.”She swore in Spanish, a phrase which can only be translated as “DreadedVultures.” She went into a swoon and fell to her knees, wailing.

The news was astonishing. Dean would not have believed them at all if itwere not for the rushing in the streets of the village and the smoke clouds on

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The Eyes of Avalon

the horizon. The villages in the area had been aware of the dam project fordecades, they fought it at first and then finally, gave in to the inevitable. Butno one was really ready for the final days. In America its called eminentdomain. The government offers you a minimum price for your property andif you don’t take it you get kicked out anyway. That very morning the finalmeeting ended in a disaster for the villagers and a bomb went off in Gua-naco. The town of Guanco would be the first to go. The engineers won theircase, this was the last appeal. Europe needed more electricity and Spainwould supply it. The Basque rebels were not happy.

Dean’s immediate reaction was to run to the bathroom and wretch hisguts out, but O'Hara made him get a grip. He scribbled a note, “Can you ridetonight? I said, “Yes, but why?” He lifted his finger to his lips and made thesilence sign, I could only trust his judgment.

Night fell as Dean packed note books, maps, cameras and clothing intothe handwoven alforahs. These saddlebags consist of a strip of bright clothabout eighteen inches wide with each end doubled up to form a large pocket.These are traditional in Spain since the Moors.

O'Hara loaded two full sacks of paja y cabado onto the thick boned Ariegpack horse, then vanished again. This chopped oats, mixed with barley,helps the horses run at high altitudes, a trick learned from the ancientBerbers.

Potable water, wine and food came in the form of three leather saddlebags provided by Padrona. The horses would be watered from streams as wetraveled. The small leather bags appeared from almost nowhere. Both fullysaddled horses were long maned Andelusians, grey in color and large, withnostrils capable of breathing huge columns of air. Their hoofs were paddedand tied with leather and cloth, another trick learned from the ancient smug-glers known as Margatos.

At sun down, when the stars began to shine on the horizon, just as Marswas beginning to blink to a reddish shade, O'Hara showed up riding anotherAndelusian horse, this one with an exceptionally long mane and tail. Butthis time the monks tunic was gone, replaced by full leathers and chaps.O’Hara donned a flat porkpie hat of tightly woven animal hair, fastened witha chin strap, almost like an Argentinian Goucho, but I found out later his wasa common Basque riding habit, Was he Basque after all, sent to Ireland tostudy or was he just plain Red Irish sent to live with the Basque, by thechurch or some branch of the church. Once I saw him wearing a small goldchain with a lamb skin hanging below. Another time he wore a Saint Chris-topher medal, the saint carrying a child on his shoulder. But, oddly, Deanremebered that Saint Chistopher was banned for some reason, as far back asthe 1970s and hundreds of gold chains flooded the market. Dean remebersseeing Hermes carrying a small child across the river, and also a statue ofHeracles carrying a child, a statue located in the niche of the staircase at thewarburg Institute when he went to see Professor Clements, the man whoinherited the works of Dame Franes Yates.

Dean assumed this was going to be a rough ride. The thin bell ringer wasnow his guide through a sinister dreamscape. He had been sad before, but

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never sad, angry, confused and frightened at the same time, this is the toxicelixir reserved only for war.

Dean wrapped up his logs maps, books and notes, he tossed in a deodor-ant stick and the solar powered razor that had served him well on his manyexpeditions. As he packed he saw the small and rather worn plasma screenbroadcasting the sickening image of children bleeding in a ditch after beingrun over by a huge green earth mover on the road to Santiago deCompestella. The old earth is being moved. Sites that have been inhabitedfor 20,000 years were being destroyed. “A flood is coming, Oh MadreDios,” Patrona cried from her seat at the table.

My brother told me later that he left that village under duress. He em-braced Padrona weeping into her black knit shawl, “Adios Pocito Specialo,”she cried out, “via con dios,” ride with the wind.” O’Hara gestured impa-tiently. Dean sent a quick salute as they rode off. He had a feeling he wouldnever see Padrona or the village again and he had no idea what was ahead.

The horses hadn’t been exercised in weeks so it was slow going at first.The two night riders started cross country almost immediately, the roadswere too dangerous, and yet they seemed to be on a straight path through thechaparral and through rocky hills dotted with Oak and Olive trees.

O'Hara’s ability to ride and almost see in the dark exceeded his age.These Arieage horse were the most sure footed Dean had ever mounted. Alilac scent passed though, followed by a flat clay taste, fixed with sage. Deanwished we could have a full moon, but we had no moon at all, yet anotherMulateer smuggling trick. A bank of clouds were moving in especially as wemoved into the higher hills that climb into the Basque Country. We would bein fog soon. The bell ringer tightened his jacket. Dean pulled the parka hoodup on his thermal coat. The horses ran east as if they knew exactly what pathto follow, their huge oversized hoofs gripping the ground as their ancestorshad done centuries before.

The two riders slowed from a full gallop to a controlled cantor as theclouds moved in. The thin air gave them reason to dismount, but O'Harasternly cautioned Dean, flapping his index finger. The pack horse washardly tired at all. They rode on, at a hack pace for at least another hour.

At a certain point, next to a huge domed rock, my red headed leaderslowed and dismounted, urging me to do the same. He beckoned upward,suggesting Dean look at the clouds overhead, but instead of clouds Deansaw stars peeking though. We were finally above the clouds, above the treeline, but now I could make out the faint outline of a snow sheet jutting likefingers between the sparse trees. O'Hara pointed again. This time Dean saidhe could see the Big Dipper, Ursa Major. He signaled that they could tracktheir way by the stars. Dean knew oceanic navigation, but navigating onland was different, you can never have a perfect point of reference, evenwith a satellite tracking device. Like most modern humans Dean hadbecame so accustomed to road signs. The horses paused to drink only in sipsand my mentor fed them an apple each, checking the bits and bridles for thenext leg. “How much further?” Dean asked. The leather clad monk showedDean his forearm and made a cutting gesture indicating they were half way

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to their destination. O'Hara spurred on his horse, he seemed to be riding to agiven point, he knew how much he could take, he would rest the horse, thenspur him on again especially when the footing turned firm. The trail horsecame behind O'Hara on a loose guide rope attached to a bosal, a nose halterhe had seen in use in Mexico. Dean guessed the extra horse was to assureone rider got through. He was only partially correct, there was anotherreason.

8The small cathedral at Cerbrero on the Sierra de Orbio, was dedicatedduring the first crusade more than 1000 years ago. The main tower is built inwhite and sand colored stucco with curly queues inspired by the Alhambra,the dome on the bell tower was covered with blue tile with alternate yellowtiles separated by white marble rings. The bell was small, but extremelyresonant, it rang throughout the village but, was not used by the church.

The villagers rarely went to the old church, some say it was haunted oth-ers say the gargoyles frightened them. The long standing rumor that theHoly Grail, used by Christ to conduct the last supper was housed there, but itwas vacant in this modern era. Only the frescos and murals and carvingsremained, and many of those had been defaced by the Inquisition and duringthe counter-reformation. Most of the villagers preferred to travel two clicksto the center of the market square to attend traditional mass at the newerchurch, built, without gargoyles, in the 19th century, a scaled down replicaof the more esoteric cathedral. Dean felt privileged to visit this place, butO'Hara was not stopping just yet. He traveled further, past the Romanesquecathedral, past mounds and stones which have been standing erect in theirsockets since a time long before Christianity, the time of Hermes, the godwho rose from a pile of stones to mark the stars with each stone.

After another twenty minutes of constant riding on a downward slope andagain using only smugglers trails, Dean and O'Hara came to a rock shelter inthe lea of a natural overhang. The horses were tiring, and he could hearwater running. O'Hara’s horse gave out a long snort and whinnied to theothers, as if he knew where he was.

In his journals Dean commented that his anger and sorrow and fear werereplaced with a sense of curiosity after the exhausting ride. His legs andarms burned. His brain throbbed for lack of oxygen. Who was this man whoposed as a librarian but was also a skilled rider and navigator? Was he apriest? As we tied off the horses Dean noticed the medallion again, thegold chain erupting from beneath his scarf.

O'Hara dismounted and beckoned Dean do the same. He copied themonks every move as he loosed the girth and made steps to put the horses atease. Once unsaddled they began to walk, heads down toward the sound ofwater. The pack pony followed, still carrying his burden. O’Hara loosed the

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pack ties and laid out feed for the charges. Dean had no idea where theywere. It was probably around midnight, the entire journey must have con-sumed about six hours.

Dean drank wine from the bota offered by his mysterious guide. He ges-tured upward and again Dean saw a dark sky full of bristling stars. Traces ofcold snow water puddled on the ground as is the case in the lower Pyreneesin April. The horses began to drink too much and O'Hara forced them backfrom the rocks close to the overhanging cliffs. Dean’s eyes had adjusted tothe star light and he could just make out an opening in the stones ahead, theopening to a cave.

O’Hara beckoned Dean on as he led the string through the opening andinto a cave where a small torch shed a slight glow. Dean could here thehorses muffled hooves giving off a slight echo from the ceiling, they were ina grotto, water continued to trickle in a small stream beside the path.

The horses stopped automatically. They knew this place like it was theirhome barn. O'Hara tied off his horse and gestured for Dean to do the same.By now Dean was accustomed to copying the monk. He lit a battery pow-ered lamp and shone it up and around the walls. The hand beacon revealedseveral wooden pilings, a staircase, a loft and several storage bins. Abovethe staircase Dean could make out the bare outline of a hand hewn door, avery old, very large door.

9The books were not chained down but in addition to books there were scrollsand tables with elaborate carvings on the legs and very old paintings on the‘wall. I noticed a portrait of a Harlequin in Rose Light by someone namedPaulo Verdi and other works of sculpture, without names. The Bell Ringerstopped to breath, he seemed alarmed ‘ and very worried. Beads ofperspiration broke from his forehead. He started to mime something to mewith his hands and he let out a kind of grunting sound, I realized he was amute and I was sorry for him, not only was he a mute, but this was the firstvillager I had seen with a deformity or handicap of any kind. He beckonedme to sit down at the table.

As I sat he took one of the carved chairs across from me and began towrite with a crow quill, in a French hand script that I had seen only oncebefore. I recognized it as the script of someone educated in Albi nearToulouse, it was the script of the Langobardian poets. I had seen it in thebooks on romance poetry that were chained in the stiles of the main library.The Bell Ringer hands trembled as he, wrote. He looked middle-aged butmight have been older.

He wrote his name, adding that he was sent to watch over me, as if I waschosen in some way for a special project. But who would want to keep trackof me? Did I need protection? At first I thought he was mad and perhaps I

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still do, even as I dictate into this recorder, I can still see his bright face, thedome shaped forehead and the golden pendant. I asked him about it but hebrushed me off, he was far more concerned that I read and understand hisscribbles.After his first few visits Dean was able to find his favorite reading chair, butsome of the manuscripts were chained down to the huge oak shelves. Toread them one had to sit erect on the hard bench. This forced the reader tomove one work station every three days or so, just enough time, just enoughlight to read one huge book. Dean was forced to pace his reading to theadvancing sunlight and at dusk a small prism, cast by the bevels in thewindows, could be seen striking the page of each open book. It was as if thebuilding was trying to tell him something about light. In fact he would find adifferent place to read ever day. Dean was like moving with the sun, everyday the sun struck a different desk as the rays penetrated through thewindows of the chapel. Each window cast a different hue of lightly stainedglass and so the reading light would change as the earth revolved. In thesummer the morning sun would be easiest to catch and in the winter the afternoon sun would penetrate from the other side of the building, thus he readthe books sun wise around the chapel. Whoever built the chapel washeliocentric, but its foundation was laid in 1132, a time when the church wasthought to be opposed to any heliocentric ideas.

Dean remember clearly the day he finished his first revolution around thereading room. One full turn around the room was equal to one full turnaround the earth. The long rectangular room with it stacks of books, somechained down was a clock of its own sort and I noticed that the books werearranged in a reading order set up for this sun wise round. Especially thebooks that were chained down, they seemed to be the oldest books and theyseemed to be the ones that were not to be moved

Dean was a surfer, a scuba diver and an amateur treasure hunter, not anarchitect. He thought perhaps the architects had planned it that way and thatthe books were chained down by the builders, but the tower and the chapelwere not Spanish, the tower was octagonal and it was built by the Normans,one of the few Norman buildings in Spain. As the days went on his readingcovered philosophy, hints of hermitism, spatterings of alchemy and as-tronomy taken from the Arabs.

10We deposited Brian Bradly in San Francisco on a specialMatson line junket, the steam ship line of the Golden Bear. I don’t remembermuch about the ship except that it was elegant and had special fountain pensin each cabin, each pen with the California Grizzly in gold relief.

We drove to the pier around 10:00 AM Sunday morning, just in time toload and consign twenty-seven boxes and crates and of course Bradly who

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loved ships, hated airplanes and needed to be on board to tweak gauges andkeep an eye on the esoteric stuff, especially the look down radar, a sophisti-cated piece of equipment. I will never be sure how Bradly got his hands onthis device. He says he grabbed it at a Raytheon company auction. Some-how he managed to convert the device, once affixed to an Orion sub-chaser,for use on a wheeled cart that could penetrate 30 meters below the groundssurface. Anything of any size and density was going to show up in prettyclear detail. This system could locate ceramics, metal objects, leather bootsor animal bone, it was even capable of sensing differences between mud,sand and solid ground. He managed to get the whole thing into a crate thesize of a normal television set, the largest box we would need.

Twelve or thirteen other boxes were full of disposable items, blankets,tents, rations, water purifier, medical supplies and edible goodies availableonly in America. I assured Brian we were only going to England and theywould have all sorts of jams and jellies for us, and also that they speakEnglish. Brian, who had provisioned one of Dean’s earlier expeditions toCentral America, insisted we would draw attention to ourselves if we wentinto town everyday. He figured we would have enough with us to survivetwo weeks.

Bradly, known as an unbearable Brainiac to the women who had the mis-fortune to date him, spent his preboarding time fidgeting with radios,walki-talkies and power converters. He tossed in five small solar convertershe got from Radio Shack and set up two of them to do nothing but chargebatteries for the videos. The cameras and other gear were safe and sealed intheir Haliburton cases. Bradly preferred the hard plaxtic Pelican cases, butall we could get on short notice was surplus Haliburton’s from the secondGulf War. We cringed at the coincidence since the Haliburton that makes thecoffins was unrelated to the Haliburton Corporation that pumps the oil.

The older, but sea worthy ship tugged at its hawsers, as we all wentaboard to check out Bradly’s accommodations and make sure he was OKwith a solo voyage. We didn’t have to worry long, he was already flitteringwith the ships cook, a young Filipina, wearing a faint touch of sparkling eye-shadow.

Thanks to one of Father’s active Navy contacts we spent the prior weekat the Del Monte Naval intelligence station in Monterey, studying the latestland sat maps. I was amazed dad had such pull because we managed to get afew medium resolution photos to take with us. As usual the highest resolu-tion stuff was off limits, the Navy never wants civilians to know the latestdegree of resolution, but this medium stuff was all we needed. In fact, theresolution we were able to take with us, showed a woman hanging out laun-dry in her back yard in Yeovil. The resolution from orbit was so clear wecould read the brand name on the laundry soap: Persil.

Our security guide, a Lt. Commander know to us only as Breezy, smiledat our amazed reaction, “Hell that’s nothing. We had a chess game on thedeck of a Soviet ship as far back as 1974, so we called them and told themthe wining moves. I think they were pissed-off, back in the cold war days,but now we share data.”

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Brian and I were dully impressed, but Breezy went further, “You see thatwoman hanging out her laundry?” We nodded, still happy to get the tour,“Can you see her wrist watch?” We strained but could only see a black bandaround the woman’s arm with the use of a strong Lupe. “Yes, I guess that’s awatch.”

We both nodded“Well the classified stuff will tell you the time of day.”“On that watch?” I asked.“Is she wearing two watches?” Breezy just stood there with a dead stare.

He couldn’t tell us anymore. The woman was only wearing one watch.On the way home, we rolled through Castroville, past black plowed fields

planted with Artichokes not yet ready to cut, we thought we might not evercome back this way again.

Two months ago I wrangled massive piles of money from Grand fathersestate an sent Jack Roberts the funds to buy or lease a Land Rover and aright hand drive Mercedes van. He was to secure the Rover in Bristol andhave the van delivered to Heathrow for our arrival. Jack would meet us atHeathrow in whatever transport he had secured and we would all drivedown to Southhampton to pick up Bradly, barring any trouble the GoldenBear might have passing through the Panama Canal.

I told Jack and Marissa about the Filipina cook. They both laughed, whileJack added, “Hope she doesn’t suffer much.”

11Jack drank Murphy’s stout as I drove the maroon metallic van south towardBath, toward the Avon and the West country. This once wild and mysteriousland was starting to wear thin, overpopulated and looking ragged on theedges. I remember seeing pictures of the M4 when it was first built in the1970s. Then it looked like a wide, but unobtrusive road banked on eitherside by wheat fields and rolling hills. Other pictures showed teams of rescuearchaeologists frantically digging up artifacts within view of the cementspreaders, perhaps this was the picture I should have remembered. The fastlane slowed with lumps of meadow grass growing out of the cement, attest-ing to the speed of the usual traffic. Now it looked like any other oil covered,highway, cracked and abused.

I broke the silence, “Who is this John Surtees anyway”Marissa rolled down the window for a blast of cold air, “Oh he knows

about you, I mentioned your book.”“Which one?”“The Treasure Hunter.” I also told him you’re way too educated for a man

of your station in life.”I thought aloud, “Well, yes, you’re right about that, I should be rich, but

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I’m not applying for a job am I?”“No, but he found your book fascinating.”“Actually, it’s drawn from my brothers experiences as a treasure hunter I

only went on one dive with him.”Marissa reassured me, “Well if your brother’s last letters were correct we

are all on the treasure hunt of our lives.”Jack just grunted out an agreeable, “Oh yeah.” Getting paid for having

fun, how can ya beat dat?”The main sign pointed to Bath, but we took note only as reference for our

return. The morning light glistened to announce a date one week hence.“Why are we going to Stonehenge Jack. I asked ?

“Eva bein der maaate?” Jack answered with a question, knowing I haven’tbeen to England before. “Hey you’ll love it man, we’re gonna hang out for afew hours that’s all?”

What about Surtees? When do we see him?’“Oh he won’t be back until high tea.” Marissa chuckles.“Right, Right, I can see the picture now — garlic breath, three guys and

one woman in a moldy Georgian room drinking tea and sherry, smokinghash, we’ll get bored in ten minutes. I hate it already.”

Jack says, “Blimy mate, ain’t ya neber ‘erd o’ male bonding?”“Hah, that old term faded in the early 1990s and so did your fake cockney

accent, didn’t you tweak to the fact that white women invented the conceptof male bonding to give their hubbies a semblance of class. It’s like trying toteach table manners to Chimpanzees.”

Jack laughed quietly at this, peering out over a copy of The London Tat-tler. The sun was breaking through the morning clouds as we descended toSalisbury Plain, reminding us that the earth was tilting that way and thatthere was no such thing as a sunset.

“How long before Stonehenge?” I asked, hoping I wouldn’t have to resortto a map.

Marissa, ever the navigator, pops up, “Yeah, don’t worry turn off at thesign marked Salisbury, you’ll see it.” The van hummed along ingesting theperfect 14 to 1 mixture of moist air and synthetic petrol. Neat ceramic en-gine, you get the idea of the original, but you can’t get that toney vrooomsound. You can get it with a motorcycle though. My mom heard a TriumphBonneville go by one day and said, “The old sound is still around.”

The traffic seemed to slow and get congested the closer we got to theancient site. Riots at Stonehenge are traditional. Every year, the week beforeSummer Solstice — especially since they turned the joint into an interna-tional peace zone, refugee camp and conference center — pagans rich andpoor and pot heads from all over the globe, hundreds on the way to Nevada’sBurning Man celebration held at Lugnasad, Autumnal Equinox. Tomorrowwas Summer Solstice, the Rainbow Peoples tour showed up last week intheir brightly painted buses, like they did in the old Grateful Dead days.

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“What’s going on here?” I asked.Marissa obliged by explaining, “Every year some group tries to take over

Stonehenge and every year the cops threaten to bash people senseless.”“Why do they rumble every year?”Marissa chuckled again. “It’s stupid, but its now traditional. They drink

themselves senseless on a fermented apple cider known locally as“scrumpy” This often has worms left in it for the final mix and sometimesthey dose it with the liberty cap mushrooms, which grow around here. Theyalso smoke huge opium laced oilers and they don’t give a sweet Jesus abouttheir heads, limbs, lungs, or private parts.

“Hmmm” I moaned as I stroked my chin.” It was never that bad in Athensduring the ancient rites of Eleusis or even in San Francisco during what wasknown as the “Acid Test.”

Marissa’s eyes lit up, signalling a sense of recognition. “Funny youshould say that, the violence is unique to the British and links to their foot-ball hooligan ancestry. The bashing started in the early 1970s, at the firstGlastonbury Pyramid festival, now a legend, but the confrontations in theWest country had intensified recently. Two years ago the normal SummerSolstice skirmish grew into a medieval battlefield. Third generationpunkers, equipped with straight razors and tire irons, aided by a cadre ofsteel clad cops wielding thermal and electromagnetic stingers, crackeddown on a large group of pacifists and as usual, the long hairs lost.”

“Now why would we want to go to that?” I sensed a squirt of hysteriarising in my stomach.

“Well first of all the bashing part is pretty much just the Brits, the Yanksand the Frogs don’t go in much for that mosh.”

Jack laughs, “Yeah rain or shine.”Marissa continued, “Jack convinced me this year would be different. The

battle last week was the lightest on record. Everyone was having a smashinggood time — much blood, tear gas and screaming, but no dead bodies.

Jack narrated the history of this strange melee as we paid for our “allareas” laminate pass at the VIP gate. “Last year the cops waited until theskin heads and longhairs finished bashing then waded in to strip jewelry andchits from the unconscious.”

Marissa’s camera were already clicking out the window. The gate guardsdidn’t like being snapped, but it was all done so smoothly, we just moved on,and we looked like media, the van was so new and tidy. I was alarmed at therumors of looting. “They can’t really sell that swag can they?”

Jack gave me the doubtful eye, as if I was completely stupid, “Hey mateevery county council keeps a pawn shop nearby, or didn’t cha know?”

I was incredulous, “No I had no idea, the only government pawn shopI’ve ever seen is in Amsterdam.”

Jack came back, “Raaight mate, great things start in Amsterdam, butthere ain’t no questions asked in these English pawn shops.”

Marissa chimed in a more precise observation, “Let them keep the booty,

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it’s an easy way to keep a police force. You ought to know about it, they’vebeen doing that in the States since the Civil War.”

He was right, how could I forget that. Cops always get to keep the loot. Itsort of compensates them for not being big-time hoods. “The countycouncils keep a big percentage, but these guys manage on the swag.” Jackpointed to a gallows with a fresh rope hanging from it.

I asked, “Is it real?”He continued, “Maybe it’s symbolic, but so far nobody has had the pluck

to find out, it’s the way things were in the days of the bloody Assizes.”Marissa finished up the conversation on authority at Stonehenge, “Right

again, the gallows assures fewer fuck-ups, you know fewer bodies to incar-cerate and fewer still to patch up when the Iron Heads get done.Jack adds, “True, both factions simply limp off the pitch to fight again an-other day, but at least ten from each side were killed two years ago.”

We pulled over momentarily to observe all of Salisbury Plain strewn withtactical tents of every imaginable color. This sacred alluvial deposit, oncethe center of civilization in Western Europe, was now a desolate camp forwandering hebrephrenics.

Our wellys squished as we walked away from the van. To the West stoodthe modern building complex that housed the official agencies set up to takecare of the continually growing hoards. Vendors sprang up for everythingfrom diapers to cough medicine. A cabbage cost as much as a chicken be-cause they both cost as much to raise. Opium was cheap, but the penalty forgrowing your own dope was the loss of a finger for each offense. After threebusts you’re gone to a work camp in the Brazilian rain forest, and you don’tcome back.

The people who camp at Stonehenge most of the year are orphans. Thearea around this huge pile of stones, has become a clearing center for thou-sands of third generation lost hippies and punks. Jack snapped the corduroycollar shut on his oilskin as he spoke, “It’s a place for people who nevergrew up.”

I answered with the same sense of amazement. “Maybe they can find afamily here.”

Jack replied as he shook his head, “God, I sure hope so.” We stared at thesmoke signals rising from the tents. His only comment was to announce thathe had given up smoking tobacco on the Summer Solstice.

The drive to Stonehenge was short and we were late. A sign, posted on akiosk, told us that we would receive a free bowl of soup and a ploughman’slunch with real cheddar cheese from Cheddar Gorge chapel. We would presson to the transit camp near Worthy Farm.

Jack spoke groggedly as we headed further west, “The only explanation Ican offer for the persistent violence surrounding Stonehenge, is that for cen-turies Stonehenge was a place of human sacrifice.”

“That’s bullocks.” Merissa mumbled.I added, “The circle was begun in the Stone Age and the original builders

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didn’t practice human sacrifice.”Jack nodded and gazed at his magazine.I then offered my opinion, agreeing with Marissa, “I guess this Victorian

crap still floats down the mental sewers of every nation once colonized bythe British. We Yanks have been digging it out of our text books for forcenturies.”

The Welshman laughed in a cynical tone, “Aye, don’t bad rap my gloriousnation mate. People get married at Stonehenge and they come here to havekids so that the tykes can list Stonehenge as their place of birth. This sitswell with the London councils as it keeps the riff-raff out of the city for thesummer, which may be the real purpose for the concentration campatmosphere now encroaching on all sides.” He pointed to the wire meshscreen.

An hour of wheel spinning and slogging found us at Worthy Farm, a roll-ing hectare of green land looking down on the Somerset levels. Jack kneweverybody so we didn’t have to stand in queue. The Cheddar cheese was realand the oat bread, toasted over the fire, was filling. At exactly high noonJack led us to a regal and motorized camper belonging to a Romany Gypsynamed Rollo. People of every type dropped by to offer us scrumpy, tea andhash.

“When will it stop?” I asked.“When will what stop?”“When will people learn how to fend for themselves?”Marissa seemed really angry at this. “Well, I don’t know about that, but I

know how to stop it.” She reached over and turned off the hurricane lampsas she spoke, “The one rule applicable to the entire encampment is that nodomicile shall be approached if the lights are out.”

I crashed on a goat skin. Rollo had another bus to live in. I guess this washis guest bus. A huge soggy Wolfhound named Angus stood guard, hismusty presence was almost overwhelming, but I felt really safe. Marissastayed in the tent for the night.

12The next morning started badly. Hash smoke mixed with nicotine and thosedamned ginger bindy cigars came wafting in as the troops began to gatheroutside in the lingering moonlight. A mist swirled over the land. Jack musthave had a rough night because he was whipping up a breakfast for us whilehis torch light stood erect on a cement block.

“What’s going on,” I asked as I itched whatever damage was done bywhatever chiggers happened to be on Angus during the night.

“Oy, its gathering time.” Jack says.

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“What’s gathering time?” I had no clue.Marissa looked refreshed after sleeping in an air conditioned coach,

spoke her first words of the day. “Gathering time, simply means they aregetting ready to proceed, in a ceremonial fashion to Stonehenge to watch thesunrise.”

I asked further, “Do you guys want to gather with them?” Chanting anddrum rolls from fingered tambourines and distant bagpipes echoed throughthe farm land.

Jack was emphatic, “No, It’s awesome to see fifty thousand people dropto their knees and worship ancient stones, as their ancestors must have done,but then seeing fifty thousand people doing anything all at once is more thanfrightening to me. It’s enough to get you into a fighting mood. My dad toldme one old rocker was famous for working his audiences into a violentfrenzy before his shows.”

It was still dark, more a greenish twighlight as we bit down on Jack’s eggbiscuits and ham. “Oh yummy, I winked, not bad.”

Jack still hadn’t answered my question. “Yes, but do you want to go overto Stonehenge to see the big event?”

Both of my traveling pals said, “No,” with emphasis on the “No” part.We scrambled out of the trailer long enough to smell the acrid turf fires

and hear the gristle gurgling in the cast iron pans. We opted for commercialapple juice, and fired up the van to join the long line of jitneys and campersdriving away from Stonehenge. The van was clean yesterday, but now itlooked as if it had a month of mud on it.

Time to leave. I had seen enough. This trip was not on the schedule any-way, we were supposed to go directly to Bath and then meet Brian atSouthhampton docks. The sun did rise that morning as it had done for abouta billion years, and the heel stone was about to be visited by a swarm ofhuman locusts as it was each day during the week of Solstice.

Both of my chastised passengers fell silent. Marissa again busied herselfin the back seat with her cameras and sketch books. Jack read the local newsfiche lifted from Rollo’s loo. We hit a rather nasty bump that prompted Jackto make the observation, “When I was a kid my mom and dad could makethe trip from Bath to London in four hours.

He was right. Between the ruts and the donkey carts we needed six hoursto get to Bath. Along with abandoned vehicles and lost sheep, the smallerroads grew more impassable with each storm. The only fast roads weremaintained by thugs, local rugby players and a fascist political societyknown, as the Monday Club.

The Mercedes van was mercifully fast, powered by a ceramic turbo die-sel. Jack and Marissa snoozed into their crinkled bucket seats as wehydroplaned over a rare open stretch through Swainswick and down thesteep hills toward the mythical capital of Avonshire.

Summer is rugged in Wessex. Bath, the old Roman town, known for itsmineral hot springs and ancient spas — a pleasant enough place when tea

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dancing was the rage — was currently receiving a download from Ogmiosthe rain god. Once stately homes now fell victim to rising damp. Ghostlypeople shuffled along in torn black raincoats and yellow slickers as the rainfell in sheets.

Even the once festive streets implied a new violent order was at work.Colors once bright and spirited were becoming mute with mud and rust.Obviously the Stonehenge riot mentality was spilling over. What was once atown in harmony with nature, was fast becoming a Mecca for debauches.Jack said it reminded him of the island of the damned, the place where badboys grow donkey ears.

The ghosts of the romans and Druids were still inhabiting Bath I guess,but the shells of once quaint cottages told me the place was already begin-ning to die. The local white witch coven protested by carving huge circles inthe oats at harvest time, but this only aggravated the local black witcheswho, as usual, thrive on chaos. Crop circles were proven to be frauds de-cades ago, but they too cropped up before the rain. Clearly the 20th centurydevelopers had gone unchecked. They overfertilized this once pregnantland, almost as if a scorched earth policy was in effect. They built dams onrivers and streams that should have never been touched. I was depressedagain, but I quickly remembered what we were doing here. My brother wasmissing and he was last seen twenty-five miles south at Glastonbury.

13Bath or Aqua Sulis, (translated from Latin as: healing waters) lies at thecenter of ancient British civilization, but the Roman hill and valley road thattakes you to Bath from Marlborough Downs was not originally built by theRomans. The Romans took credit for it, but in fact it was built by themysterious Windmill Hill people, the same urn ware folks who built the firstphases of Stonehenge about five thousand years ago. Oddly, even theNeolithic people may have been copycats since the road bed itself was anIce Age trade route for salt and flint, jet, glass beads and livestock.

Box road took us down to the town on a long diagonal, past the museumof ancient gunnery and in full view of the large old house once used by PeterGabriele as a recording studio. The American Colonial museum, stood ma-jestically against the Polden Hills, rich in Iron. This museum holdsthousands of recovered bits of furniture brought back from America as lootfrom American revolutionary War, although the brits don’t call it that. TheBrits are pretty amazing, I guess, they commemorate all of their wars eventhe ones they lost.

The rains cleared enough to reveal some nice Victorian and Georgianshops, still proud of their hand blown glass display windows. The shops

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signed and trimmed in gold gilt and umber, deep blue and a shiny huntergreen, that turns black at night.

I knew we were going to sit-in on a think-tank session, I mean every timeMarissa and Jack and I got together for any length of time it was that way. Aswe drove up the other side of Bath, away from the train station, past the rowsof magazine stalls, nutrition centers and pubs.

I couldn’t help noticing that the local economy felt healthy in spite of thesagging global economy. The vibes of Bath were heavier than London, butsort of’ blue like it was a tune by Miles Davis played on a medieval flute.Bath was Georgian like Dublin, but not as funky. The town stands on hillslike San Francisco, and yet its not as liberal. Rent is cheap, unlike the petrol,but there’s a conservative tweedy feel to the place and a small townambience, even though it was thought of as a regal town in the middle Ages.

The travel guides tell you that there more book stores and antique shopsin Bath than in London per capita, but they don’t say much about the milesupon miles of underground grottos and caves seething beneath the city, en-tire streets and fish shops left behind by the Romans.

Tiled floored villas in the middle of town that have never been excavatedby modern archaeologists are known to the land owners, even though noneof this appear on the survey maps or deeds because no one wants to encour-age tourists. Every year, hundreds of artifacts turn up from a kind of limboland, in which unqualified and illegal diggers rake and hoe, removing dirt bythe sackful, shoring up their dangerous pits and tunnels with box wood crossmembers as they cut further into the past. There has been a thriving museumtrade outta here, for at least two centuries. “ Jack winked, “Eventually, attrue ground level they come across bowls and even flint points from theearliest inhabitants, people who lived on this fertile site even before the Bea-ker people.”

Marissa directed us to the Gizelle Buildings, a four story aerie high up onthe middle terrace. Gaining access to this virtual fortress is taxing. Jack ex-plained that John Surtees has so many friends and enemies he had to devisean entire range of bell signals. With this system he screens his callers, dis-courages bill collectors, avoids a number of disruptive gentlemen fromPorlock, and reduces his anxiety about the invasion of his privacy. In otherwords he’s paranoid, but too cheap to buy a laser lock or video surveillance.

We rang the lower bell twice with a pause, then three times, according totelephone instructions to Marissa before we left London. A mans face ap-peared in the door peep, gaunt and adorned with round wire spectacles.

“Surtees himself, answering his door?” Jack muttered.We removed our muddy Wellingtons and field jackets, while Jack was

stomping his feet and unwrapping his muffler. I didn’t feel like removingmy crepe driving slippers or the fluffy sheepskin coat I managed to barter ina more peaceful moment at Stonehenge, but I caved in to the pressure. I feltuncomfortable leaving my wallet and passport unattended, but you have totrust people sometimes. This turned out to be a big mistake.

I whispered, “What no butler?” Actually, there was a valet of some kind.

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A gaunt and fair gentleman with milk allergy eyes, introduced as Timeon,followed us down the corridors. As it turned out we were ringing the codefor the lower unit. In this way Surtees could allow us access to his domainwithout revealing the upper level bell code. We were escorted upstairs as ifwe were characters in an unwritten Dickens novel. The stairs creaked andthe only light was a beeswax candle on a pewter stick carried by our host.

Jack muttered, “Timeon’s lives in Butleigh, at the center of a mythi-cal structure known as the Somerset Zodiac, very fretful this Timeon.”

“What’s he doing here?” I asked.The valet brought us to a huge reception room, decorated in Georgian

style, and then slipped away into a side room. Surtees ushered us into hisinner sanctum so Jack had almost no time to answer. “Antique dealer Ithink.”

A thin slit of flickering light fingered out into the hall as I cleared thesilk and beaded partition. Timeon was more than a valet.

John Surtees’s private salon was anything but normal. We could havebeen in anybody’s house in Avonshire or Somerset, but the freak vibes inthis place were enough to place us in the House of Usher. Surtees inhab-ited the upper two stories and kept each room strewn with papers andchairs. The place was also festooned with books — old books, new books,books on the floor, dry books, damp books, books on their way to therecycle shop, books wrapped in newspapers and an entire estate sale ofVictoriana still in wooden crates. I couldn’t detect the presence of a com-puter or a fiche reader. He was obviously an old fashioned guy.

Our host did not possess fine works of art. I saw guns, swords, whipsand mace balls, but he owned no Rothko’s, no Picasso’s, no FutzieNutzel’s, no prints or even framed family portraits, only flock wallpaper,and of course the obligatory gay Georgian marble bust of Aristotle stuck ina niche next to the antique push-button voice phone. He didn’t even have aclock on his wall.

For private audiences Surtees used a little pale yellow room that caughtthe afternoon sun, but, he explained, he hardly ever took anyone in there asit housed his rare manuscript collection, which, as it turned out, wasn’t acollection or rare. This didn’t tell me why we were seated in the baby pukegreen room with the rain stains showing under the wall paper. What Marissaand Jack thought was high class furniture turned out to be mockChippendale made from old stand, rain forest mahogany veneer. Springssprang out of the wing back chairs like Slinkies at a pajama party.Threadbare draperies in the Turkish Delight style covered the chesterfield,while Surtees’s prize Himalayan — and very smelly — cat owned a scratchpole covered with machine made Belgian rugs in the Sarouk pattern.

Bits of old chairs and table legs were smoldering in the small fire grate. Adamp smell permeated the room. It was mid afternoon, but the angular lightcast a chill across the gabled roofs revealing two deep porringers lickedclean by cats, but with the oatmeal laden spoons stuck to the bottom.

Surtees was not the blonde Norman or the red-haired Celt or West

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Saxon type common in these hills. No, Baba John, was a genetic outsider.His black Rasputinish hair looked like it was held down with Slik-50. Thehair formed a dark halo for a beekish stare that he focused like a cattleprod on everyone he met. His shoulders hung over his thin frame.

Jack and Marissa called Surtees “The Birdman” not because he lookedlike a bird, but because he once came to a party dressed as King Bladud,the ancient Druid King of Bath. Legend has it that old Bladud fashioned aset of bird wings for himself and flew by moonlight across the roofs. Hecrashed of course, in a pig sty. John made no such claims, but the senti-ment was right. The coffee house crowd in Bath elected him theunderground mayor, an intellectual baron in a self serving fife.

After our first cup of tea Surtees left the room briefly giving Marissa amoment to remind me that we were in the presence of a great being and howlucky we were to catch him at home because he often stays in London in hisflat on Powys Crescent, but on this occasion, meaning summer Solsticeweek, he was holding forth in his three floor walk up overlooking the town.I didn’t buy it.

In spite of my skeptical bent I promised both of my pals I would with-hold judgment until we had a chance to chat. What the hell I was readyfor a few puffs of Dagga. I was ready to feel as strong as a hundredcamels in somebody else’s courtyard? Wandering around Stonehenge,Avebury and Silbury Hill for two days gets your dander up.

After handing me his card Surtees withdraws into an aloof gaze, watch-ing me in particular through his wizard gold spectacles. He sizes me up likea Cheetah searching a herd of Springbok for the weakest target. While wesettle in, he pretends to be doing something important on his tragic homemade computer an old Macintosh G5 all-in-one, cobbled together by twolocal dowsers. I couldn’t figure out why this guy needed a word processor atall. Then I saw the laser scanner sitting next to it. Obviously he scans otherpeoples works, adds pepper and spice, a dash of salt and it’s a brand newbook. The French call him a “reshuffler.” I call him a homicidal maniac. It’sjust that glint in his eye, an arrogance that allows him to put himself aboveeveryone he meets. Some Brits, especially the graduates of Gordonstown,seem to have this snide and arrogant demeanor in common.

The professorial Surtee’s returned to the room and settled into anupholstered chair scribbling on parchment as we spoke. Later Merissa toldme, “He loves to put on a show of writing with a quill pen, but in reality heis a plagiarist.” I noticed he was great at making nibs with the hash coatedrazor blade, a tool he also used to chop cocaine. We smoked the hash, andfinished another cup of tea brought up from downstairs by a mysteriousblonde woman wearing a dashiki.

To keep the tedium to an absolute minimum we looked at some of John’slatest trivia, but he knew he couldn’t fool me or delay my probing questions.My very presence in his inner sanctum bugged him no end. He could controlJack and Marissa, but I owned the big ticket education and he knew it andDean Kells was my brother. That’s probably why he made certain the con-versation didn’t wax too far from the reason we were here. I also knew

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Surtees wouldn’t do anything to show himself stupid so I devised a plan tobring the wanker out into the dim light, at least long enough to embarrasshim. It was time to use the ace I had cleverly stashed up my sleeve. I kept mycrap ‘O’ meter tuned-up just in case. I didn’t like this guy, but he had infoabout Dean’s disappearance. I had to play nice.Surtees set the level, Jack, by the way, your Land Rover will be

delivered to the train station around 2:00 this afternoonrequire a Land Rover?

Jack looked at me and I nodded in the affirmative. “Yes, we will be need-ing it for at least two weeks.”

14The Golden Bear managed its way through the Panama Canal with almostno effort, it was the kind of ship ideally designed for that very passage. Thecruise south of Cuba and onward eastbound to refuel at Hamilton in theBahamas went smoothly. Brian Bradly the Braniac was happy as a clam. Hespent a lot of his time star gazing, navigating, chatting with the Captain atmess and learning Tagalog from his newly found Filipino friend.

He knew he was going to need the star charts and planispheres in En-gland, so he worked out the locations of the major stars used in navigation.In ancient times the pole was not based on Polaris, our North star, but ratherDraco and even earlier the sky chart centered on the rising of Casseopea andstars in the Constellation Cepheus, the king and queen of heaven.

Brian made a naked eye observation of the dawn stars. At twelve knotsBrian’s ship made way across the Severn mouth with almost no wait or ad-justment. The tides were just right, the fearsome Severn Bore was out ofseason, there would be no need for a pilot until Southhampton appeared onthe horizon. Two hours earlier the stars of Ursa Major faded from the shipsrail for the last time.

Docking at Southhampton or Portsmouth is a matter of negotiating thetides of the Severn Channel and the English Channel itself, the ships sailNorth close to the coast. On a clear morning Cornwall and Penzance appearout of the fog and then disappear as the jutting peninsula of Lands End fadesaway. Brian wrote in his journal:

The clear morning followed a strom on the French side. Plymouthcast a halo as darkness became morning. The coast lights could hardlybe seen from the channel. Lyme Bay, with Lyme Regis in the distance,turns deep inland and again the ship seems to be in the midatlantic.Seabirds screech past, but they are only heard, not seen. The lighthouse,known as the Bill of Portland, blinks in the distance backed by the slightglow of Weymouth. A fast guide boat appears along side from Poole and

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boards a pilot. This man is expert in naviagting the southeastern shoresof the Isle of Wight. He took over at Saint Catherines Point just as thefirst Cherbourg ferry crossed our prow. Using binoculars I could see thename Octaville on the bow. At least four French and Spanish shippingroutes dominate the channel just off the Shanklin coast. The ship fromBilbao is easly seen as the daylight strikes the water from the south west.Then in succesion the Cherbourg Ferry, packed with tourists and cars,pops up on the horizon. Ten minutes go by and the St. Malo ferry steamsin followed by the boats to Jersey and Guernsey, all of them delayed bylast nights storm.

Brian checked three seperate Magellen geotrackers. These lightpocket finders were built like small battle tanks, not bullet proof, but verytough. He replaced the USA chip with the newly acquired European sat-ellite set, replaced all batteries, sprayed in a light mist of waterproofingand snapped the cover shut. All three units were calibrated on Gosport,just before landfall, all three read before landfall. He made one last en-try in his log:

Southhampton Water: 1’40 Longitude/50’60 Latitude set for GMT.

Brian zipped up his small log book with the laser light pen attached,tucked it in his pea coat, set the tracking units in a satchel and carried themback to his cabin. He slept soundly. He would be seeing his friends in a fewhours.

15Dean Kells sat on a bale of grass hay starring tat he walls of a detentionchamber. The knot on his occipital bone still ached. The abrasion hadstopped bleeding, but his black hair still stuck in the scab. His brain achedwith every pulse and his eyes were out of focus as was normal with aconcussion. He tried to yell when he first woke up, but the pain racked hisskull with each attempt.

Somerset can be very cold in June and rain often falls in torrents. In Win-ter snow is predictable, especially in January. In some cases he might die,but one of the walls seemed to be the back of a fireplace, it radiated heatenough to keep the room balanced. Six bales of hay piled up to make a sleeparea and four blankets gave him a small degree of comfort. The blanketssmelled of a woman’s perfume, a rose and lilac blend. They were not dirty.Dean washed himself everyday with the linen towel from yesterdays’ foodbasket.

The room was dark most of the day. It could be called a cell, but it waslarge and dank and not at all shaped unlike a prison cell. The North wall,

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made of huge stones, was solid except for one small portal located about tenfeet from the stone floor. Dirt patches formed in two corners and near thedoor. A small amount of light shone down through the slit. It seemed as if thewalls were very old, very tightly fit, and seemingly immovable.

Once a day, food was laid out in a flat basket, covered in the linen clothand laid next to a mud flap in the door near the floor. Sweet water drippeddown from a ceramic pipe jutting out from the wall. The water flowed into astone basin and out again creating an incessant dripping sound, a sound thatwould be peaceful, even lyric, under other circumstances. The excess waterflowed toward the west wall and drained out between the stones, turning thewall into a kind of urinal.

Dean got the idea that animals were once kept here, but the door wasmade from planks as thick as railroad ties, massive weight hung on forgedhinges which faced outside, he tried to move it, but it was bolted from theoutside.

Twelve feet above his head the prisoner could hear light steps occasion-ally pacing across the floor planks, footsteps softened by a plush rug. Wasthis a castle, an old manor house? He had no idea, he was out cold andblindfolded when he was dumped in here and no one spoke to him. One ideadid occur to him though. Dean figured his captor, or at least his guardian wasa woman, because few men could cook such a delicious “Veggie Pie.”

16The George and Pilgrim car park hadn’t changed much over the centuries.The rear carriage entrance originally came through the blacksmith andfarrier shop around the corner and spread around what used to be the hayloft. Originally built in the 15th century, the entire inn was constructed onolder foundations once linked to the abbey and to certain meeting rooms,known as the Assembly Rooms constructed in the Tudor period. The front ofthe building, pub and restaurant entrance opens out to the high street directlyacross the street from the Helios Bookstore. On the third Monday of eachmonth the George and Pilgrim closes and is taken over by the MondayClubbers.

Hippies are not allowed. Casual and clean dress is expected and all bagsare inspected before check in and after check out. The George’s proprietorsare proud to say they have never had even a single towel stolen from anybathroom, nut I know the maids steal codiene, the fizzy ones.

A small telephone kiosk fits into the oak paneled alcove beneath thestaircase, and, according to Dean’s last letter, a sliding door opens behindthe booth to a basement staircase. I couldn’t wait to find it and locate thestaircase.

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Jack and Marissa dropped me off at the George, took the van and spentthe night with friends on Werall Hill. We agreed to meet again at 9:00 AMfor clotted cream and tea. The last thing they said to me was, “Don’t go nearthe phone booth.”

17Dean slowly opened his eyes, six days in a musty dungeon slows theprocess. He expected to see a faint light casting in from the crack above theclosed window shutter. Instead his eyes felt pain, almost blinding. Thismorning was a sunrise morning and the door to his cell was open, the lightfrom the hall way outside streamed in, he rolled over on his side with aterrible urge to take a piss, he didn't need to feel his way to the corner as hehad done for the past week or so, maybe it was a month, he was losing track.But the terrible thing was the door, the door was open and smells of foodcame in with the bright sunlight, no sounds from upstairs, no soft voices orcarpeted thumps, no Beethoven, just an empty silence, the waking light, andthe scents brought by the first fresh air in a week.

Stumbling along the wall toward the door, he thought, "Maybe it's a trap,"but when he got to the huge door jamb and iron lock, he could see it wasopen for a purpose, the key was hanging from a blacksmith's hook, just out-side. Somebody wanted him to walk out. The food tray was set on the table,but the table was in the hall beyond the door, not under the door and slidalong the cobblestones as had been the case for the past days.

He ate, carefully, slowly. Bran muffins and butter first, then hot tea,cream and sugar and two soft-boiled eggs. The thought of poison only oc-curred to him after he took the first few bites. “Too late me thinks, The piratein him had a laugh. The eggs peered up from Royal Dalton egg cups, maybeRegency period, a Japanese influence and the sterling egg spoon was madeto match. He was amazed people still ate this way—with a sense of dignity.He noticed the letter "S" engraved in a flourish on the spoon handle.

As he ate he also noted the stair case and the light filling the void on thelanding above—a window, escape. Where the hell was he? Why the game?First he's a prisoner in a Victor Hugo novel, then he's free to leave or maybeto walk into an even creepier Edgar Allen Poe story. He listened for noisesabove as he tried the first stair. His steel toed Wolverines were no where tobe found. The wet socks were still hanging from a rafter back in the cell. Hedidn’t want to go back into that room, so barefoot would have to do.

The first run of stairs, seemed rustic and ran up to a landing—oak, thickas deck planks and old, wormed and yet still strong. These big boys

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stretched at least four feet across and were stuck down by wood pegs, notnails, but tight fitted pegs. The hand hewn edges could be seen popping uphere and there. This staircase was built to hold something heavy, very heavy,not hay or anything as light as saddles or people, but something heavier. Itseemed as if a blacksmith had been working in the alcove at one time. An-other huge door faced off in the opposite direction. It was locked and rustedshut.

Dean instinctively grabbed a muffin and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.The only thing resembling a weapon was the egg spoon, no knives or forkswere provided by his mysterious host. He visualized his exit, breakingthough a window or crashing down a door, a boyish anger came over him.Not the kind of anger from subconscious fears, not mad wild hillbilly anger,but the kind of pissedoffishness a young boy feels when he first falls off hishorse—embarrassment, a chemical mixture of adrenaline and disappoint-ment.

Again he waited before attempting an assent, sniffing danger like ahunted antelope. His barefeet were coaxing him on, cold, pangs shooting upfrom the stones set in olden times just a few inches above the earth itself. Hegently closed the door to his cell and began up the stairs following the lightas he had done in Spain.

He felt strangely vulnerable as the pads of his feet tested the first step.Dean couldn’t help but wonder if the trembling was coming from the build-ing or himself. The second step came easier and he was happy to hear carspassing on a road outside. Beyond the light at the top of the stairs he heard asmall radio murmuring music in a language, like Basque. He recalled goingdown a flight of stairs in Glastonbury, behind the Helios book store and thenthud...nothing until he woke up in the makeshift dungeon behind hm. Thequestions began to rattle around his head like dice at a slow crap game.Where was he? What had happened before he woke up? When did it hap-pen? Would he be able to penetrate the light and make his way to freedom?He felt like a moth, powerless to resist the light. Each step caused him to feelstronger, and he knew with a certitude, no matter what forces he encoun-tered, they would not be enough to keep him from breaking out.

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