28th March

Dearest Cecelia,
One has waved dear Lottie and the Tedster cheerio. That utterly mad brother of mine and his fiancee are off on a donkey trek in order to get in touch with the Wild Mother on a deeply spiritual level. Why, my staunch Catholic Mother and Father would go spare if they knew, and so Teddy has made me swear not to tattle to them. He’s such a queer creature, but a good egg nonetheless. I do hope the pair of them have a smashing time of it.

After a short delay – I was struck with a peculiar ailment on my return to the ship, but am feeling quite chipper now – myself and Jack are well on our way to the town of Braic, pausing now for a light snack and to stretch our cramped legs. I’d been misled to believe that Braic was a rather shorter distance than it actually is. As a result, Jack and I have hired the most terrifyingly bone-shaking motor cycle. I am clinging on for dear life at every harrowing turn and pothole in the road. The road is in the most frightful condition and yet is considered to be the most direct and oft used road between Gilead and Braic. I dare not complain when my teeth rattle. Jack has offered to trade the cycle for an ass on many occasions. Such a vulgar term!

Dear Cissy, I have seen many a strange sight along the way. We have passed travellers from all walks of life using a variety of methods of transportation. There have been several pilgrim families with pony and trap who greet us with a cursory nod and are dressed in a somewhat dated garb of black serge and cloth caps. Women and men in period costume from the days of Jane Austen also, chatter animatedly in horse drawn carriages, the women simpering and fluttering their eyelashes rather alarmingly in the hope that these important men will notice their advances. We have seen Elizabethan finery, elaborate dresses with ruffs about the neckline and men wearing breeches and doublets. Why, Cecelia, if I thought it was possible I might suggest that this road were leading us back through time! Perhaps Braic is hosting some sort of historical fair? Well, we shall find out soon enough. Jack and I will be retiring to a small inn at nightfall and arriving at Braic in the late afternoon tomorrow. I will be glad to be away from this road before dark, Cissy. Do not think me a coward for admitting that I do not like the way we are being appraised by our fellow travellers. Their eyes are dark and glassy like the eyes of the porcelain dolls which adorned my bedroom as a child. You remember how I fancied they would come to life at the witching hour. The air around the travellers is cold, though the sun has shone for the most part and I have heard naught but their reedy voices echoing about us. Where are the animal calls I heard on the Island of the Temple People? Oh, there are birds Cissy, but their voices are still, their gazes silent and greedy.

Jack is beckoning for me to return to the motor cycle to continue our journey  along this ghastly road and not a moment too soon. We have tarried long enough.

Yours

Elizabeth.

22nd March

Dearest Cecelia,
It is time for me to leave the sanctity of the abbey here at Gilead, on the Isle of Lenore. I am hungry, no, famished for the adventure which lies outside these walls. I am well rested, my spirit nourished and I am renewed in my quest for the scrolls of Lemuria. One does wonder where the time has gone and if Jack has made any new discoveries in my absence.

During my delightful stay, I have become particularly close to a young novice by the name of Jelena. She is a gentle, timid girl who sought refuge here when her home life became terrible and frightening. The Abbess nurtured the broken child with tenderness, patience and poignant passages of Scripture until she was restored once more. Jelena spent many an afternoon conversing with me on matters of the gospel. We found during these discussions that we were in agreeance on most points. The quiet nun has made quite an impression on me and so I have entrusted her with the contents of my queer little journal which I retrieved from the glass garden one night by teleporting using the walnut. Now, Latin is not one of Jelena’s favourite subjects, she has thus far learned only the prayers necessary for Mass. However, she was able to recognise one word which appears near the grounds of the abbey. Jelena and her fellow novices often make the journey into town by foot, walking to the local hospices to tend to the ailing and elderly. Along the east wall of the abbey there is an ancient road which links Gilead to another town several miles away. This road was often used by local traders who passed by Gilead with carts loaded with wares such as silks, brocades and assorted teas, herbs and spices from the Orient. Close to this road stands a milestone, weather beaten, its markings all but faded. Chiselled into the stone is the word which appears most often in the section following the Royal Tree entry in the journal, Calculus.

Jelena informs me that this very road leads directly to the town of Braic where the Calculus, the Latin term for Counting Stones, stands. The stones’ true purpose for construction has since been lost to the modern world. They stand in a formidable circular formation, in a similar fashion to those which have stood for so long at Stonehenge. Perhaps then, they served a similar purpose in centuries past?

It is quite clear then, that the Counting Stones of Braic are to be my next destination. I shall return to the Vulcania on the morrow to pack the necessities and return the journal to safekeeping within the glass garden. Perhaps Jack should like to accompany me on this next leg of the journey?

I have promised to continue a correspondence with Jelena and return to the abbey as soon as I am able. Jelena is certain that I would thrive here, living a cloistered life. I haven’t the heart to tell her otherwise.

Elizabeth.

4th March

Dear Cecelia,
This March evening finds me tucked neatly away on the Lost Isle of Lenore, or more specifically within the stone walls of the Abbey in Gilead, Lenore. I have retreated here, more than a little horrified by the advances I made toward Jack at Violetta’s party. I am here either to seek penance for my actions or lick my wounds. I am not sure. I do know one thing with the utmost certainty. I must put an end to my engagement to stodgy old Charles. Now, this does not mean that I intend to pursue a relationship with Jack. Perish the thought! Rather, I should prefer to be alone than spend my life with a dreadful bore such as Charles. He is still missing, and of course I am distraught, but this time apart has made obvious to me just how little I need and miss him in his absence.

I have spent the past few days observing the monastic order as they attend to their daily routines. It would seem that idleness is not tolerated among these faithful Brides of Christ. Their days are spent at a variety of tasks – from choir practice to making the church vestments to be worn by the priests during Mass. I have paid many a visit to the work room where industrious nuns make the surplices – decorative tunics which are worn over the priests’ cassocks. I watch intently as some of the more experienced needleworkers fashion the heavily embroidered chasubles which are worn only for the celebration of the Eucharist. The garments here are of a surprisingly modern style. The chasuble is less of an oval piece of cloth and resembles instead, a broad scapular, the front cut away as to allow the priest to clasp his hands in prayer. The decorations, namely crosses in a heavy golden thread, which adorn the backs of these stiff brocade vestements are quite complex and the nuns who sew them possess a level of skill and dexterity that I have not witnessed before.

When not at work, these faithful women spend many an hour knelt before the Most Blessed Sacrament in Perpetual Adoration. At least two people are rostered to kneel before the unconsecrated bread and wine so that He is never left alone. Here, the Sacrament is exposed – laid out beneath a white host and attended to by the endless procession of nuns. I am in awe of their dedication to their tasks and find myself wondering if I shall ever achieve such devotion in both my practical and spiritual lives.

For now, though, I am content to dwell amongst those who sit in adoration of the Lord, to absorb this cloistered life and allow the tranquility to envelop me.

Elizabeth.

26th February

Cissy, darling

Last night was the night of Violetta’s sixtieth birthday bash. The invitation was an elegantly monogrammed affair which stated that the theme for the evening was to be ‘Swing, baby!’ to be held at Diamond Joe’s, one of the popular local bars on White Owl Island. Marvellous! A chance to wear another of my spiffing new beaded dresses and fancy little feathered headbands. Violetta had been thoughtful enough to include Jack, Lottie and Teddy in her invitation to me. I was rather thankful for this. I’ve never been one to enjoy arriving to an engagement alone, particularly when running fashionably late as I am wont to do from time to time.

Violetta greeted us upon arrival. She looked incredibly handsome, dressed unconventionally in a man’s suit, not dissimilar to the one which Jack wore. The sight of him looking so dapper in his suit had caught me quite by surprise and I couldn’t help but run my eyes over him several times throughout the evening.
‘Something take your fancy, dollface?’ he winked. I blushed immediately. Damn and blast!
In a feeble attempt to regain my composure I made numerous trips to the bar for refreshments before circulating amongst Violetta’s many friends. Several of the women attending wore purple boas about their necks. I guessed these to be her friends from the Sixty and Sassy Society. All that I spoke to appeared to be more than a little tipsy and fawned over Jack, who charmed the socks off each and every one of them. One particularly well-to-do woman even spanked Jack on the bottom and suggested that he call her. At that exchange, I believe I made another trip for refreshments, unable to believe the woman’s audacity.

The big band that had been secured for the evening’s entertainment struck up with a favourite Duke Ellington tune soon after and the dancing began. Teddy and I kick up our heels often at our local dances and partnered one another more than once during Violetta’s knees up. We danced and drank and danced some more as the band played hit after hit in succession.  Jack cut in on our final dance and I was pleasantly surprised to find that he was quite adept on the floor. Each time I glanced up to meet his eyes, he smiled down at me and I found that my stomach flipped. I found it very strange that he should have this effect on me. Perhaps I had consumed too much alcohol after all, sister, though I feel no lasting effects this morning.

After the final dance, dear Violetta gave a speech, thanking all of us for the impression that each had made upon her sixty years. Then, Cecelia, as all of us wept at her kind words, she surprised us all by announcing her engagement to a mysterious beaux known only as Marco. Marco stood quietly by her side, a good-looking Italian much younger than our vivacious friend. He seemed besotted, as did she. Jack slipped an arm around my shoulders as we toasted this most surprising news. A smile played across my lips as I looked at him. This time when he winked, I took the cue from the Sixty and Sassy ladies, pinched his bottom and suggested he call me, turned and strode toward the ship, laughing all the way.

Elizabeth.

23rd February

Dearest Cecelia,
After having the most eventful few days on White Owl Island, I am enjoying a moment or two of quietude amongst my shipmates. I have been introduced to an artistic form of meditation, a pen and ink drawing where the focus is to concentrate on putting down one stroke at a time onto finest quality drawing paper. I am yet to reach the standards of my more experienced fellow artistes on board, but I did rather enjoy myself and felt very relaxed on its completion. Much needed relaxation, I can assure you.

I suppose you might now be wondering where on earth I have chosen to hide the golden box containing the Scroll of Lemuria? Let me tell you, dear sister, I have made a rather inspired selection. You will recall my very first visit to the glass garden right here on the Vulcania? I stepped back in time to be confronted by the most terrible of memories. I had held the sea shell to my ear and heard the prophecy of your impending death. Oh, dearest, how I miss you! Well, darling, I returned to the garden and meditated as L’Enchanteur had taught me, focusing intently on my breathing. Inhaling  and exhaling ever so slowly, all the while visualising that very same beach of our youth.

I have secreted the box in a small hollow in the cliff face where the high tide does not reach. The beach is so familiar to me, as indeed any favourite childhood playground might be and so I have no qualms about being able to locate the box again should I need to. Since this place resides only in my memories and can only be accessed by myself, I have no doubt that my secret is safe here.

Cecelia, there is still more excitement to come. Dear Violetta is soon to be sixty! I am to attend a lavish party two days hence. Joyous news indeed!

Elizabeth.

17th February

Dearest Cecelia,
I was correct in assuming that I would hardly sleep a wink. The warriors begrudgingly made us comfortable in one of their guest huts. I’m sure if it weren’t for fear of retribution from their leader, whose name I have since learned is Shala, they’d have happily left us to a fitful night on the packed hard earth of the copse floor. Our rooms were decorated in a minimalist fashion, with just the bare essentials at hand. I was rather taken with a set of tapestries which lined the walls, depicting waterfalls, a lush oasis and various cloudscapes. Several warriors appeared to keep a vigil in each one. One such tapestry was of a detailed hierarchy entitled ‘A Parliament of Owls’ with the Prime Owlister at the fore. Why, I had never heard of such a thing! Lemuria is so full of the most wonderful surprises!

Jack and I soon retired for the evening. Jack remained strangely quiet since being chastised by the warrior, Shala. We conversed briefly in anticipation of what to expect on awakening, but each was caught up in thoughts of our own and fell silent soon after. I slept fitfully, unused to the eerie sounds of owls calling to one another. Their calls haunted my dreams for much of the night and more than once, I awoke, startled and gasping for breath. As the sun began to rise, the sounds abathed and my tiredness soon gave way to excitement. I decided to leave the comfort of my bunk and take myself to sit upon the verandah which ran alongside the hut. I watched as the sun painted the sky in hues of magenta and gold. Shala approached as the last owl quieted.

‘The Councillor will see you now. There is no time to waste for he is old and impatient with the young.’

There we were, as simply as that, walking to meet one of Obas’ah the Benevolent’s councillors of old. My knees were as if made of blancmange. I looked to Jack for reassurance but all that he could offer me was a tight smile, his usual bravado and swagger were absent. The distance between our hut and that of the Councillor was not great, however, an age appeared to pass before we reached the humble dwelling. Shala rapped thrice on the door with the crook of her staff before vanishing before our very eyes! Jack and I sought one another’s hand for comfort and waited with sweating palms. The Councillor shuffled within, the door scraping back painfully on its hinges. We were greeted by the most wonderfully sweet and mischievous eyes, set in a face, currant brown and wrinkled. The Councillor, his head as hairless as that of a newborn baby, was small and dressed in a floor length woollen cassock.

‘Children, do come in. Let us not waste time no mince words. Shala has told me of your quest. She speaks well of you. I understand that The Enchantress is assisting you, that she has provided you with the means to grant you safe passage among the warriors. You seek to retrieve the scrolls of Lemuria. Tell me, what is it you intend for these scrolls once you have them in your possession?
‘Sir, we hadn’t really given it much thought beyond the safety of the scrolls. We simply must prevent them from falling into the hands of The Collector.’
‘Children, you are so naive. The scrolls will not be safe until they are returned to their rightful heir.’
‘But of Obas’ah’s two sons, one is dead, murdered by the one who has been banished for his evildoing.’
‘I speak not of Obas’ah’s sons. The heir need not be a direct descendant of The Benevolent One. The heir will be revealed by the scrolls themselves in due course. I am to understand that two of the scrolls are already in The Collector’s possession?’
‘Yes, Sir, we believe that to be true.’
‘Then you must take the one which I have given my life for. Guard it as I have. Do not let him possess this also.’
‘No puzzles or riddles to solve first, Sir?’
‘You would like me to devise a riddle for you, child? I have not the patience for such games.’
‘Well no, Sir, we wouldn’t ask you to devise such a riddle if one were not already in place, eh Jack, old chap? A puzzle would be most bothersome, wouldn’t you say?’
‘It is as I thought. The youth today.. everything handed to them on a silver platter..’ laughted the Councillor, his nut brown skin wrinkling further still. ‘Shoo! It is time for my mid-morning nap.’

Just like that, the Councillor pressed an engraved gold box, approximately three inches in length into my palm.
‘Peace be with you.’
‘And also with you, Sir.’

I tucked the box carefully inside my canvas knapsack. Jack and I clasped hands once more and clutching L’Enchanteur’s walnut, I uttered the chant which would return us directly to the Vulcania.

Elizabeth.

16th February – the copse

Dearest Cecelia,

As we approached the copse I gave an involuntary shiver. Six pairs of eyes watched us silently, glinting ominously in the failing light. Three pairs were almond shaped,  obviously human and the others were large and spherical, the eyes of great white owls. The owls shone as though basked in moonlight. Luminescent and quite the most magnificent creatures. Their round eyes held us in their gaze. I guessed from the look of their claws, sharpened to a lethal point that these birds could be formidable predators when necessary. I dared not move a muscle, for fear of upsetting these watchful beasts. Did they attack out of necessity only? I decided that a healthy respect for the unknown was in order. Better to err on the side of caution as Mother always says. Jack stood frozen beside me.

The almond eyes grew closer and I was able to ascertain that they belonged to three equally formidable and beautiful women. Broad and muscular, I felt small and insignificant in their presence. Jack’s jaw dropped and I had to nudge him sharply with my elbow. He let out a low whistle and I rolled my eyes in response. One woman stepped forward, quite clearly the designated spokesperson, perhaps even their leader. She beckoned toward me. These simply have to be the warriors that L’Enchanteur and the journal described.

‘State your purpose for being here.’
‘Um..’
‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘Perhaps she’s shy.’
‘Do we frighten you, girl?’

The others began to heckle. My tongue felt as though it was glued to the roof of my mouth and I blushed profusely, stuttering even more.

‘We’re here to..’ began Jack, moving forward. The warrior’s eyes flashed and Jack fell back, silent once again.

‘Let the girl speak for herself.’

Suddenly cross at being addressed in such a manner, I chastised the warrior, insisting that she show me the respect she commanded for herself. She smile indulgently at me and bade me to continue. I informed her of the reason for our intrusion into the copse. Nodding sagely, she spoke thus.

‘You do not require access to the tree to learn the secrets of its scrolls. You need only to show me what lies within your heart. The Enchantress has armed you with the means to do this.’

With that I passed to her the map of my heart which lay within the walnut’s shell. Within seconds she returned it to me.

‘You are innocent and pure and no doubt virginal also, unusual for one of your years. It is time for you to meet the Councillor who resides with us. I will commune with him and return at first light.’
‘W.. wait here?’ I cast around me. There was nowhere that would suffice for overnight shelter.
‘Fine,’ she sighed. Turning to her cohorts she ordered for them to take us to the village and make us comfortable.
‘This one looks sickly.’ I was horrified to find that she was pointing a long finger in my direction.
‘Wait a minute, I..’
The warrior held up my hand to silence my sputtering, ’she also does not know when she is expected to be silent.’

A Councillor, Cissy. A bona fide Councillor. we meet him tomorrow. I’m quite certain I shan’t sleep a wink!

Elizabeth.

15th February

Dear Cissy,
There is much to tell. Last night’s festivities were splendid indeed! The ritual for the Charming of the Plough was magical to say the least. It was decided upon that our group would join together when presenting our offering. We set off from the harbour along a narrow country lane. Along the way we met a gentleman out for an early evening stroll with his sheepdog. The man, dressed in tweed knickerbockers suggested that we follow the lane for a mile or so where we would happen upon an old wooden stile. I had some difficulty in mounting the stile in my dress as you can imagine and rather annoyingly laddered my stockings. I was shocked when Jack suggested that I remove them altogether but had to agree that it seemed the sensible thing to do and so there I was in the middle of a field, doing the unthinkable!

We walked until we found ourselves confronted by a derelict farmhouse with pastures on all sides. Some of the fields were of a deep green, lush and others danced with rows of golden wheat, still warm from the sun. This was the perfect place to perform our ritual. In low tones we chanted, beseeching the Land Spirits to bless the soil, then crumbled our pieces of bread before us. The wind whispered as if the spirits had acknowledged our plea.

I decided not to turn back with the others, preferring to stay and meditate in solitude. The sky was beginning to darken and so Jack insisted that he remain with me. I stilled myself, which was nigh on impossible under the circumstances. Having Jack in such close proximity was rather distracting. I breathed slowly in and out, focusing on the rhythm of my breathing as L’Enchanteur had taught me. When I felt ready I turned and began to retrace my steps to the harbour in silence. I did not speak again until we neared the site of the Potluck dinner, quieting all of Jack’s attempts at conversation. The beach before us was alive with music and laughter. I waved to a few of my new friends from the Vulcania – Unity, wearing her trademark hibiscus in her hair, Sue dressed in a fairy costume, complete with cardboard wand and balancing a large dish of Cauliflower Cheese to rival our dear cook’s.

I turned my face to Jack and laughed at the frivolity surrounding us.
‘Tomorrow we must find someone to take us to the copse of Living Trees. According to the journal, the trees are home to the White Owl and are guarded by a powerful Lemurian Warrior. Only the pure of heart may gain access to the copse.’

Jack nodded in agreement and taking my hand, led me toward the festivities.

Elizabeth.

14th February

Cecelia, dearest,

Anticipation abounds as we prepare to disembark at White Owl Island. There is to be a ritual, honouring the Earth and asking Mother Earth and Father Sky for assistance in healing and nurturing the fertile soil. As we meditate on our dependence on the soil, we are to crumble bread and call upon the Land Spirits to keep the Earth safe from harm. This ritual is to be followed by a time of community between the island’s inhabitants and the passengers aboard the Vulcania. We are each to bring a dish to share with one another. Our evening will finish with the celebration of the Gala Ball.

Lottie and I have spent several days fashioning our costumes and I can now unveil them to you in their completed form. I am to be dressed as Clara Bow, the It girl and Lottie will be attending as Mary Pickford. I do so love the silent films and their glamorous stars! Lottie has always left her hair long and so is able to wear those divine ringlets which fall softly about her shoulders. My hair is cropped rather shorter. As a result, we have spent much of the day creating fluffy curls atop my head. I do look quite fetching. In fact, the resemblance between myself and Clara is rather remarkable. Drawing the eyebrows just so was a formidable task, but Lottie is simply wizard with a pencil.

The dish we are each to provide for the potluck dinner proved to be more of a challenge. I am so used to our dear cook preparing all of our meals back at the house in Yorkshire that I really haven’t a clue where to begin in the kitchen. I do rather hope there will be a place in which I can purchase such a dish once we are ashore.  I am quite well prepared for the festival offering though. There was something of an abundance of food at lunch today and I have managed to save some of the lovely warm, fresh bread rolls. I have distributed them among our group. Mine is in a small, satin drawstring bag which slips rather nicely onto my wrist.

Now to round up the others. I believe we are exiting the ship en masse. I hop I can navigate the gangplank in my heels without too much of a fuss!

Elizabeth.

10th February

Dearest Cecelia,
What a marvellous time I had at the theatre on Friday afternoon! Dear Rilla was able to accompany our party. I hadn’t seen her in what must be the longest time. She’s well and having the gaiest time with her family. We have such similar taste in shoes and accessories. I simply had to admire her gorgeous patent, heeled Mary Janes and new cloche!

Oh, but Miss Evelyn Laye was wonderful in the role of Sarah. She’s fair and doe-eyed, truly the most beautiful of creatures. Bitter Sweet is not one of Mr Coward’s finest storylines but the music was enchanting nonetheless. What a memorable song is ‘I’ll See You Again’. I find myself humming it as I go about my day. Jack has resurfaced at last, appearing at my side during the matinee and inviting himself to sit with our intimate group. He has apparently been ‘boning up’ on a few things, namely our next port of call, White Owl Island. No-one knows quite what to expect, but he tells me the guardians are very particular about who is allowed to venture onto the protected heritage sites. There is an extensive conservation programme in place and we are to respect the regeneration taking place.

While on board, Jack has been commissioned to write several articles for The Review. His Editor-in-Chief feels that their New York readership would welcome a little Lemurian adventure as something of a departure from the usual restaurant and entertainment reviews. Travellers can join the cruise at any time from several capital cities around the world. The Review has agreed to pay Jack’s passage as long as he ‘comes up with the goods’, to coin his own phrase. I was finally able to show Jack the journal as I always keep it about my person, and gave him a potted version of my discoveries to date. His response was to slap me between the shoulder blades in a hearty fashion, which knocked the wind right out of me!

‘We’ll make a reporter out of you yet, Lizzy.’

Now, I don’t know why that excited me so, Cissy, but it did. The very thought of me turning out newsworthy articles and burying myself in research..

‘Hey, let’s not get carried away here, doll. I’m just yanking your chain.’

His voice broke my reverie and I felt my face flush with embarrassment. Am I terribly transparent, Cissy? I always rather envied stuffy old Charles’ writing career. Perhaps..

With Noel Coward at an end, I wandered back to my cabin to dress for dinner. Jack was chivalrous enough to accompany me and apologised for his earlier carelessness. He hadn’t realised, clearly, that I genuinely did fancy myself as a journalist and kindly offered to put in a good word for me with his Editor-in-Chief. I am to show him some of my work before we reach White Owl Island. In return for his charity, I have offered to direct him to the glass garden.  As I write, I find myself singing a catchy tune from Bitter Sweet. I have heard other theatre-goers muttering of the indecency of the lyrics and its inclusion in the operetta. Poppycock, I say! The song is sung by four young dandies and I think it lends itself well to the play.  We reside in much more liberal times and I applaud Noel Coward for his apparent reference to homosexuality. I will allow you to decide for yourself, dear sister, by including a verse or two for your perusal.

Pretty boys, witty boys, you may sneer
at our disintegration.
Haughty boys, naughty boys,
Dear, dear, dear!
Swooning with affectation..
and as we are the reason
for the nineties being gay,
we all wear a green carnation.

Your

Elizabeth.