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Chapter One
In which Angus Recites a Poem
Miss Oberlan inclines her head, whispering, "Granny's quite asleep."
Her hot breath, wafting under Angus's chin, prompts him to withdraw the handkerchief from his breast pocket and dab at the sweat beading his brow. He leans away from her, though the settee is small and he can not lean far enough. "Please, Matilda, it's late."
She sits up straight, settling Garretty's Verses for Good Girls once more atop her thighs. Angus returns the dampened cloth to his pocket, clears his throat, and glances crossly at the old woman seated at the other end of the parlor.
Mrs. Hampshire is definitely dozing. Her knitting needles and the sock, sweater, or scarf she has been fumbling into creation lays dormant on her lap. Her withered chin, with it's wispy hairs, droops against her chest. Her rocker has ceased its slow creaking. Finding the elderly chaperone thus remiss in her duties, Angus clears his throat again, loudly. But Mrs. Hampshire does not stir.
Miss Oberlan intones, "Of the Mountain in the Mist," her otherwise fair voice falling into a bland monotone. She has clearly grown bored with the lesson, as has Angus—as has, even more clearly, Miss Oberlan's grandmother. But the Autumnal pageant is a few days hence, and the silly girl has yet to commit even a third of the poem to memory.
"Of the mountains in the Mist
beyond the veil of summer's glow
Beyond the tiding rampant starlight
nimbus shine for all to know
We speak in subtle rev'rent hymnal
lest the gods who there dwell still…"
She yawns, loudly, giving in to an impulse Angus himself has been struggling to suppress. Despite the lack of a fire, the room is sweltering. Sweat creeps down the nape of his neck, runs in rivulets down the center of his chest. He subdues a second impulse, this time to leap up and throw open the window, recollecting what devilry the summer flaxen can wreak upon Miss Oberlan's respiration. Her recitation still needed much, but not inflamed nasal passages.
"Lest the gods who there dwell still
should rouse from ancient troubled slumber"
The poem once again puts Angus in mind of the painting by Friedrich—which he knows only in the ekphrastic—showing a mountain peak encircled by wispy clouds. The image, described to him in some detail by his mother who claimed to have viewed it herself at seventeen, had particularly impressed him, even as his dame, with the utter lack of artistic sensibility one must tolerate in women, dismissed the painting as pedestrian and too steeped in mythology to be of any merit.
"To wield once more their grievous will"
Matilda Oberlan's voice has begun to grow breathless, reminding him again of the closed window, and his own keen sense that the salon is not properly ventilated. His collar seems to squeeze tighter around his throat. A drop of sweat beads at the interior end of his left eyebrow and hangs, poised like a glistening diamond half an inch from his eye, before falling in a slow, undulating ball to crash against the side of his nose.
And then he feels the faint pressure of Miss Oberlan's shoe pressing down atop his own. At first, dismissing the sensation as a sign of her growing impatience, he shifts his foot a few inches away from hers. They have sat already three quarters of an hour, and, as Angus knows from previous tutoring sessions, Miss Oberlan's natural restlessness will not readily tolerate much more. But then the pressure returns, and Angus realizes the shoe coming to rest over his own does so with a sly, teasing pressure. Then the toe of her shoe pivots, catching the hem of his trouser leg. She nudges the garment upward, lightly tracing a quivering line up his stocking.
"What blood, what blood the ancient slumber
Calls from each beleaguered foe"
"Miss Oberlan!" Angus leaps to his feet, inadvertently knocking the volume of poetry from her lap. The book tumbles across the floor. Matilda gasps and stares up at him as if he's lost his wits. Granny Hampshire likewise sits forward in a sudden frenzy, crying, "A greater age than thine!" The ball of yarn, heretofore nestled in her lap, bounces to the floor and rolls toward the window as if intent upon escape.
Seeing the utter terror on Matilda's face, Angus fumbles to collect himself. Half-formed utterances tussle with one another in his throat, resulting in a short series of stuttered, "Hem, I, you, we." He draws his handkerchief and applies it to the back of his neck.
Matilda's face softens, a smile molding itself seductively across her lips as she angles her head in such a way as to show him her neck. "Angus?"
He frowns at her and stoops to retrieve her book which lays spreadeagle on its spine. "Allow me." The pages flutter as he rises, and a piece of tanned parchment drifts back down to the floor. Closing the book, he passes it to Miss Oberlan and stoops again to retrieve the parchment. It has the feel of vellum, smooth and cool against his fingertips, and droops like fine tissue as he rises holding it. "What's this?"
Miss Oberlan's eyes widen and her strange smile is replaced by a hungry, almost feral expression. "Oh!"
Angus turns the page over to discover strange markings on the other side. At first the scratches seem utterly incomprehensible, but then he deduces they are some sort of symbols. They appear to be organized in what might generously be described as a pattern. Finally, he realizes they are characters from the American English alphabet, only they do not form readily recognizable words and are drawn crudely, almost carved into the soft piece of canvas as primitive man once chiseled letters into a cave wall.
Poised to repeat his request for an explanation, he angles the strange document toward the light, when Matilda, raising her shoulders and angling her head, giggles. "You found my surprise!"
He sits beside her on the settee, unable to remove his gaze from the confused jumble of letters. "Surprise?"
"Yes, Angus. You've been so wonderfully patient helping me with this dreadful poem, I wanted to do something for you." She leans toward him again, the crinoline of her sleeve rustling against the worsted wool of his jacket.
Intently studying the document, he does not pull away but simply presses his query. "What is it?"
"A poem!"
"A poem?" What nonsense; it is clearly anything but.
"Yes. I wrote it myself. It was very difficult." She straightens and tugs the left sleeve of her dress up to reveal her forearm. Several ugly enflamed red scratches crisscross her pale flesh. "I used father's pen knife." She giggles again, and Angus notes for the first time that the giggle is not that of a giddy schoolgirl, but rather like a drunken lecher growling into his cup. She grabs his upper arm. "Won't you read it, Angus? We would surely love to hear you read it."
"But it makes no sense. What language is this?"
She lowers her face to rub her cheek against his shoulder. "Our own secret language." She squirms closer to him, and Garretty's Verses for Good Girls again tumbles to the floor.
He squints at what he presumes is the first word. There appears to be no punctuation other than random apostrophes scattered willy-nilly. Even the wider spaces between groupings of letters make little sense. As often as not they isolate a T or some other lonely consonant.
"Magrath," he says, doing his best to pronounce the jumble of letters phonetically.
Miss Oberlan sighs—a deep, almost crooning expulsion of breathe. She angles her face upward in ecstasy. "Magrass," she corrects him, turning the final syllable into a serpentine hiss.
"Korem tul vascoo."
"Koreem thul vescu."
With the last, fading vestiges of his good sense, Angus shakes his head. An earthy odor of loam and mulch and, faintly, fire has seeped into the room. He glances toward the window, thinking somehow it must have opened and a breeze has carried the strange smells in from outdoors. But, of course, the window remains closed.
"Matilda, this is nonsense."
She looks up, plaintive. Nearly the whole weight of her presses against his side. Her hands clutch his sleeve. She pleads in the voice of the silly girl he has known since childhood. "Oh, Angus, you mustn't stop once you've begun! Start again! Start again!"
But having found the wherewithal to disregard the vellum at least momentarily, he looks down at her. She's grown unnaturally pale, and sweat flows freely down her brow.
"On the contrary, I think we should stop for the night," he says. "Shall I call your mother?"
Her eyes flash. "Why do we need her, when I'm right here beside you? Can't you feel me?" As if to ensure his answer can be nothing but yes, she slides nearly into his lap, pressing her thigh right up against his.
"Matilda, you're behaving—" But he can not summon the words to explain it. Oddly, when she had coquettishly played her shoe atop his, he'd been readily capable of formulating an objection, but finding her underdeveloped bosom undulating so near his chin, he is rendered quite at a loss.
"Oh, please, darling Angus, read, read. A bit more. Just a bit, for me. For me."
He bends his head to the vellum again. "Tarn oth."
"No!" she nearly screams. "From the beginning!"
He complies, finding himself intoning, "Magrass," nearly as fluently as she had, and then proceeding with a new-found confidence. Gradually, the words grow oddly familiar. Or, rather it is less the words than the cadence, as if he is remembering some ancient lullaby. The odors continue to increase: the smell of wet, upturned dirt, the hint of crushed greenery, churning and composting, and the flame growing less fiery and more like the charged air before a thunderstorm. Pressure seems to build in the room as he nears the end of the carved letters. Matilda pulls away from him, her hands dropping down between her thighs. She bunches her skirts in her fists and slowly begins drawing them up.
"Oh, Angus! It's beautiful! Beautiful and obscene! Don't stop!"
The sight of her white-stockinged knees finally draws his gaze from the vellum and, in a sudden panic, he looks toward old Granny Hampshire as if to cry out for rescue. Much to his horror, he finds the elderly woman not only revived, but watching them. Her great round head, wrapped in its summer bonnet, is cocked at a perilous angle atop her shoulder. Her brow dips threateningly over eyes iridescent with malice, and her mouth hangs open, unleashing a great slavering tongue that uncoils several inches before curving back up to lap at the charged air with a twitching, forked end.
As Angus cries out, the entire house is shaken by a mighty crash. The floor jumps beneath his feet as if the devil himself has shot up from hell to ram his gnarled horns into the foundation. With a pathetic answering squeak, Matilda leaps up and speeds from the room. And Granny Hampshire, as if from a restive slumber, sits forward with another start, looking around with a determined chin to find the culprit guilty of disturbing her. "Charles le Sorcier, indeed! Whatever are you on about Matilda?"
Angus sits helpless, staring from the bewildered old woman to the parlor door which Miss Oberlan has left open in her retreat. He hears her storming up the stairs and the cataclysmic crash of her bedroom door slamming. Mrs. Hampshire, staring woefully at the escaped ball of yarn, her face once again the pale, round, rather stupid one he's always known asks, "Did I dose off?"
Finally Mrs. Oberlan appears in the doorway, looking quite bewildered. She glances back over her shoulder. "Whatever happened, Angus?"
He looks up at her and feels his mouth moving even as no sound issues from his lips. However, she remains too distracted to notice, and simply presses him. "Angus?"
Something is faintly offensive in her saying his name like that, and, though he can not quite put his finger on it, his annoyance dispels the vestiges of whatever had come over him while he'd tried to decipher the vellum. Latching onto his resentment, as he is wont to do, he offers, somewhat pedantically, "It sounded like a gas explosion."
Mrs. Oberlan's eyes widen in alarm. "An explosion?" Angus knows she has an exaggerated fear of gas explosions.
"What else could it have been?"
"I don't know what you mean. An explosion?" She paces convulsively into the parlor, crossing halfway to the window.
"You heard it, surely. It shook the entire house."
"I heard Matilda on the stairs and then her…door."
Mrs. Hampshire, working her way slowly out of her rocker, mutters, "I suppose now she'll start that infernal tapping and be at it all night." She glances at Angus, still motionless on the settee. "Perhaps you dozed off. It's so stuffy in here."
Mrs. Oberlan reaches the window and hoists it up. "If one of the neighbors…" She listens intently a moment, doubtless for the commotion a gas explosion might be expected to stir. But the only sound is the wanton wail of a molly in her season. And then, closer, the answering cry of a lusty tom. "Wretched beasts! Will you give us no peace?" She hugs herself and trembles, as if the breeze that creeps into the room is not hot and heavy with the portent of an approaching storm.
"Buck up, Mirriam," Mrs. Hampshire says with a sneer. "It's my room's next to Matilda's, and me she keeps up all hours with her tomfoolery!"
Angus realizes suddenly that the strange amalgam of odors he'd discerned while reading the vellum has dissipated, and, with it, the last of the trance-like malaise that had stolen over him. A kaleidoscope of vague memories flash through his mind. Had Miss Oberlan intimated she'd cut herself with her father's penknife? Certainly not. Nor had old Mrs. Hampshire glared at him like a slavering jackal. Might he have nodded off? The room was stifling. And the poem they had been working on had been so dreadfully uninspired. The poem! He looks around for the vellum. Had Miss Oberlan snatched it from him just as she'd taken flight? Or had that, too, been part of a dream?
"Angus? Are you feeling ill?" Mrs. Oberlan, her back to the window, appraises him with some concern.
"He does look a bit more pale than usual," Mrs. Hampshire agrees, having retrieved the recalcitrant ball of yarn and settled once again into her rocker.
"I hope Matilda wasn't unpleasant. She's not been herself lately."
With a last desperate sweep of the room for the vellum, Angus tells her, offhand, "On the contrary, I think I overtired the poor dear. Mr. Handy warns me I can be quite the martinet."
"You're still helping out round the library, then?"
His head clearer, despite the confusion as to what he might or might not have imagined, Angus realizes what had stirred his resentment earlier. It is quite inappropriate for her to address a man of twenty-two so informally. He would not call her Mirriam. Nor can she be unaware that he is still engaged at the South Providence Library. They had discussed his promotion to first assistant librarian on his last visit. But all he says is, "I am," and then, placing his feet firmly upon the floor preparatory to rising, "Perhaps I'd best be off."
"Certainly, Angus." Mrs. Oberlan takes his arm once he is up and they began the journey out into the hall.
Escorting him to the door, she apologizes twice more for any potential rude behavior on Matilda's part. Apparently, the poor girl has been under the weather all week. Then, looking rather flustered, she wonders where his coat might be before he assures her, patiently, that it is only September and he has not worn a coat.
"Things will go missing!" she declares, apparently quite at wit's end.
Retrieving his hat, Angus continues to reassure her—not only about the safety of his garments, but about her daughter. Seventeen is an age requiring certain forbearances, after all. Then he bows his way out onto the porch, turning to wish her a final goodnight only to find the door closing in his face. The scream of the hinges and the clanging of the latch echo off into the gathering darkness like the sealing of a tomb.
Chapter Two
In which Angus Encounters a Bevy of Extraordinary Characters
Notwithstanding the abruptness of his departure, the fresh evening air acts as an immediate restorative. Even the lingering reminiscences of loam and mulch and electricity vanish. And he tosses his head disdainfully at the notion of the crash he'd imagined shaking the house. Surely he had imagined it. Mrs. Oberland had not heard it. And he knows Matilda's mother frets daily about the prospect of the new gas lines wreaking havoc, so she would have made much of such a commotion. Gone too is the memory of the unnerving feel of the vellum, like varnished flesh in his hands. And the very idea of unimaginative young Matilda dipping into her own veins for ink. With her father's penknife! What had put such an idea into his head?
He steps slowly down from the stoop, his shoes grinding loudly against the dry stone.
Upon reaching the garden gate, he pauses again to sample the air and look both ways. Movell Boulevard, the high street, is a half block away to the left, well-lit and quite possibly dotted with a few shops still open for business. The intersection glows with the warm welcoming amber sheen of many street lamps. To his right, a bit farther away, is Carrington Road, which will take him to Fall Street and, a mere half block from that intersection, his own garden gate.
He glances left again, thinking a stroll down the high street really did appeal to him, but then he shrugs and turns right, toward Carrington, telling himself he is being silly and self-indulgent and really should be getting home.
The sky is heavy and low, an unbroken mass of undulating cloud that make the street, the town—indeed, the entire world—look as if it has been swallowed by some impossibly immense creature and is, even now, being slowly digested in its roiling gullet. Lightning flashes within the miasma, like malevolent fairy lights or marauding angels besieging the clouds from above.
Halfway to the corner, he notices how incredibly dark it is and decides the street lamps have not been lit. Perhaps a gas line has ruptured after all. But surely such an occurrence would have triggered a reasonable commotion, and the neighborhood is deathly quiet.
The thought has no sooner formed in his mind, then again arises the anguished wailing of the she-cat, and, in answer, an entire chorus of surrounding males.
He carries on, reassured by the bold, reverberating echoes of his own steady footfalls. Approaching the corner, however, he spies an eerie, glowing ball of light hovering in the air. The street lamp. It has been lit. He moves closer, discovering that even when he stands beside the lamppost with the bulb positioned directly overhead, its illumination does not wash over him. He sees it glowing, plainly burning with its customary ferocity, yet it seems unable to pierce the surrounding gloom. How curious, he thinks before recalling that he has but latterly resolved to discourage his innate tendency to indulge in idle ruminations over the curious. Hadn't Mr. Handy admonished him that there would be "no more distractions" when he announced Angus's promotion?
Suppressing a faint shiver, Angus turns the corner.
The long stretch of Carrington Road toward Fall Street, suddenly seems farther than three blocks. The dark street, lined with darker houses and covered by the dreary sky, has him regretting his decision to forego a stroll down Movell Boulevard. But, no, he knows these streets like the back of his hand. He has roamed them the past twenty-two years, even if the first two or three had been from within the safety of his perambulator. Something has doubtless interfered with the street lamps, possibly a rupture a few blocks over, which would also explain the absence of any nearby signs of life. Everyone has gone to see. Angus resolves to make his way nonetheless.
Another great yowling cry rises from somewhere in the darkness between houses. And, again, an answer. Two. Three. Angus shakes his head. Have there always been so many cats in his neighborhood? But he strikes out once more with purpose, determined to ignore the feline choir.
Reaching Maple Street—one block conquered—he does not pause before stepping off the curb and crossing to the other side, immediately discerning a tall figure approaching him from the far end of the second block. He gives a slight start and then chides himself for more foolishness. He strides on, deciding he will be first to wish the fellow a cheery good evening. That is when he notices the second man, walking along the sidewalk on the other side of the street.
Carrington Road runs north and south, and Angus is headed north along the western sidewalk. The two men are headed toward him, southward, on either side of the street. If he steps off the sidewalk and crosses at an angle to the east side of the street, he sees he can pass safely between them in the middle of the road, attaining the eastern sidewalk behind the man traversing that side of the street. It makes perfect sense, too, since he will turn right toward home when he reaches Fall Street. And why are these two strangers, so nonchalantly strolling the darkened sidewalks, keeping such an uncanny pace with one another anyway? It is undeniably odd.
The moment he steps into the road, both of the other men stop, which prompts Angus to stop and reconsider his plan. Reaching the opposite sidewalk behind the second man will, with this alteration, require him walking a rather protracted distance down the middle of the road and how might that look? Even as he experiences the first stirrings of panic, his constitution is such that he bristles most at the idea of looking foolish rather than cowardly.
Ironically, this leads him to behave most foolishly. He turns and retraces the ten strides to Maple, thinking he might turn there, head toward Movell Boulevard and enjoy the fully functioning street lamps and whatever merchants might still be peddling their wares.
But upon reaching the corner, he sees a third man, standing directly in the middle of the road. This one, silhouetted by the golden illumination of the boulevard behind him, is revealed to carry a cane and is dressed in a cape and top hat. Angus steps off the curb to cross Maple and head back down Carrington to Ash, the street on which the Oberlans live, though he does not know whether he plans to traverse that street to Movell or to seek sanctuary in the Oberlan household. Halfway across the street, his head turned to keep an eye on the dark figure blocking Maple Street, Angus crashes into a fourth man blocking his path.
How he might not have noticed this fellow, after discerning the presence of the other three, Angus can not fathom. To begin with, he is by no means dark. He wears a shining white summer suit, with a vest of silver silk and a baby blue four-in-hand. The pale flesh of his face, flushed with excitement, fairly glows in the suffocating gloom. And a wild shock of golden hair encircles his head like a nimbus. Amid the abysmal cloying darkness, he shines like some earthbound seraphim.
"I beg your—" Angus starts to say, only to have the words catch in his throat.
For the man is not, after all, a complete stranger to him. Though they have never met, though Angus, in fact, has never imagined he might actually exist, Angus recognizes him. He knows this stranger who stands at the intersection of Maple Street and Carrington Road, holding a sword.
A sword!
"Don't you live in the other direction?" Icy flames dance in the man's bright blue eyes. Pink, rather luscious lips part in a wry grin.
Pulling back, Angus stumbles, prompting the man to leap forward, grab Angus's lapel and turn him. They move back up the center of Carrington toward the two mysterious dark figures standing on either side of the street.
"They're trying to herd you," the fellow shares confidentially, as if this is a secret he is reluctant to impart. He increases his pace, his hand still tightly clutching Angus's lapel.
Angus tries to keep up, hampered by surprise, disbelief, and an inability to look at anything but the man's stunning face. "But—"
"But nothing." The man suddenly stops causing Angus to crash into him again. "Here they come!"
The two dark figures spring from the sidewalks and sprint toward them. The blond fellow laughs, calling, "Stay down!" and nearly shoves Angus to the pavement. The fellow bounds forward, leapfrogging over Angus and slashing with his sword. The approaching figures fall back, away from the swinging blade, dividing once again toward either side of the street. The swordsman, standing triumphant in the middle of Carrington Road, hollers to Angus, "Run!"
Angus finds himself adhering to the command even as a part of him worries he ought not to abandon the blond fellow, sword or no. But once again the echo of his own pounding footsteps, tearing through the preternaturally silent night, seems to encourage him to ever greater speed. He dashes down the center of Carrington Road toward Cedar, one hand settling instinctively atop his Homburg. Behind him echo the taunting shouts of his mysterious savior.
"Ha! You think so, you dog? Come on, then, try again! Coward! Fiend! Oh, no you don't!"
Halfway down the remaining block of Carrington, between Cedar and Fall Streets, Angus glimpses one of the caped men running along beside him, not in the street, but through the yards of the dark houses. The man springs with uncanny grace over hedges and waist-high fences, gaining momentum, clearly hoping to head Angus off at Fall Street. Indeed, when Angus reaches Fall, his course has him turning right, directly into the path of his pursuer.
He wills himself to run faster, but he has never been athletic. Despite his long legs and lean physique, he has always disdained the vulgarity of the sprint. Drawing breath is already a struggle and pain tightens his chest as he skids to a halt in the middle of the intersection of Carrington Road and Fall Street.
He stands there gasping, desperate to stoop over and brace himself against his own wobbly knees, but too terrified to do anything other than search the darkness for his pursuer. For the dark figure has stopped too, in the shadowy recesses of the corner house's garden, half-hidden behind a verge of rhododendrons.
Why doesn't he attack? Angus wonders, amazed his thinking has progressed to the point that his not being attacked on his way home of an evening's tutoring proves cause for consternation. Yet the men had approached with clearly malevolent intent before being driven back by the blond swordsman, this one all but running Angus to ground. Still the figure remains in the shadows. All that stands between them is the sidewalk corner and a lamp post, the light from which, like that of all its neighbors, burns intently but fails to illuminate much beyond a pale halo perhaps three or four feet in diameter around the flame.
Angus steps tentatively back down Carrington. The figure in the yard takes a reciprocal step in the same direction. Angus takes another step, also mirrored by his stalker, who then takes a smaller step forward, slightly narrowing the distance between them. Angus quickly backtracks north to his original position, and the dark figure does the same. Curious—if curiosity can be considered a viable emotion in the midst of mounting terror, physical exhaustion and profound confusion.
Angus steps toward the figure, but also toward the sidewalk and the feebly glowing street lamp. The figure remains motionless, but Angus hears a low rumbling purr from its direction.
Angus digs into the hip pocket of his trousers. Though Angus does not smoke, Mr. Handy had once explained to him that all men, in addition to a clean handkerchief and trolley fare, should carry a book of matches. He withdraws his, brand new and never opened, claws away the wrappings and strikes a match.
The purring sound immediate ceases, and Angus thinks the shadowy figure tenses. So, perhaps even a faint light can keep his dark assailant at bay. He raises the match and the figure steps back. Angus gazes longingly down Fall Street, his own front stoop perhaps a hundred paces distant. He can dash it, despite the ache in his chest and the trembling of his knees, but the match will not survive. He starts slowly toward home, brandishing his flame like a small, pathetic torch.
After only about half a dozen paces however, the fire reaches his fingertips and he hisses. He angrily whips his hand, losing the match in the process. An answering hiss, as from some maniacal cat, issues from the darkness. Without bothering to look to see if his pursuer leaps toward him, Angus takes off again at a frantic, headlong pace toward home.
He can see his own stoop a mere fifteen yards ahead, twelve, ten, illuminated by the single fixture above the door. The steps and small recessed porch glow like a beacon against the surrounding darkness. Here at last is a source of illumination behaving as a light should. It calls to him with its promise of sanctuary and respite, inspiring his aching legs and aching lungs to push themselves beyond their limits. Yet he can feel his pursuer closing. The man has moved out onto the sidewalk, the sound of his footfalls strangely muffled compared to the echoing staccato of Angus's own.
Reeling past the house one short of his, Angus spies his neighbor, Mrs. Eddy out on her porch in her wheeled chair. She is rather bundled up, despite the warmth of the evening, with a quilt over her failing legs and a shawl draped loosely about her shoulders. Beside her stands her nurse, Winifred.
"Mrs. Eddy! Run!"
"Run?" A redoubtable old woman, quite severe in her bearing, she is not one for easy levity. But his admonition seems to amuse her.
"Get inside!" He skids to a halt, daring a look over his shoulder. Much to his horror, he finds his pursuer no more than ten feet behind him, but once again stopped as completely as Angus has. The dark figure poses motionless at the edge of Mrs. Eddy's yard.
"You're quite safe now, Angus," Mrs. Eddy assures him. "Hurry home. Your mother is waiting."
But Angus continues to stare, fascinated by the man facing him. Though he stands as close to one of the dark figures as he has been, he can discern no features. Like the others, this one wears a cape and a top hat—which has remained curiously fastened to his head despite the running and leaping he's been engaged in. Tremulously, Angus produces and strikes another match.
"Good boy," he hears old Mrs. Eddy croon from afar. "It's always best to see for oneself."
But afterward, Angus will only wish he had never looked, for facing him is not a man, but rather a crude approximation of a man, twisted hairy claws protruding from the sleeves of a somewhat antiquated suit, and the wicked, snarling face of a tiger beneath the silk top hat.
Angus springs back, dropping the match, half expecting, in the restored darkness, the terrible creature to lunge at him. But no attack comes.
"It can proceed no farther," Mrs. Eddy tells him. "You're safe. Go home."
But as if to challenge her apparent authority, Angus watches the creature struggle to turn its head toward her, growling.
Winifred, a large and rather redoubtable woman herself, descends the steps and comes quickly down the path toward the front gate. Wielding a broom, as she nears the edge of the yard she hoists it up, swinging it in a wide arc toward the dark figure's head. The bristles sweep the darkness, and Angus fancies he can see it gathering up the very air into a glowing emerald fire. The flames explode when they strike the top hat.
The creature, yowling, speeds off into the darkness.
Angus, thinking the world has truly gone insane, does likewise, in the opposite direction, toward the welcoming golden glow of his own porch light.
Chapter Three
In which Angus Receives a Summons
"Where's Pratt?"
Having all but fallen through the door, Angus is shocked to find Cecile, the young parlor maid, manning the entrance. He turns from her, reaching up to throw the top bolt, even as she timidly reaches for his hat.
"Oh, sir, Mr. Pratt had a—"
"That's quite all right," comes Mother's voice from further down the hall.
Angus, kneeling to slide the bolt at the foot of the door, calls over his shoulder. "Get Pratt! Get Colin! Get everyone!"
"Angus, dear." His mother uses her soothing tone. "Poor Harold's gone to bed. He wasn't well. And Colin is busy elsewhere."
Rising, Angus turns on her, feeling the blood pounding in his face. Fatigue and fright have strained his constitution to its very limit. "Mother! We must fortify the house! Where is Mrs. Belknap?"
His mother stops near the foot of the stairs. She patiently folds her hands. "Well, really. Calm yourself."
"Calm?" Angus, near shouting, performs a very impatient gesture of exasperation toward the door and the darkness beyond. "There are—"
When he falters, she hoists her eyebrows expectantly. "Yes?"
"Things," he says, realizing how utterly and completely inept he feels. He steps toward her, spurred by some half-recollected notion that her arms had once been all the safety the world required. But how can she possibly save him from that monstrous predator he'd stared eyeball-to-inhuman-eyeball with? "Mother, you don't understand."
She nods once, boldly. "But I do understand. There's been a letter from your uncle."
Angus's extended family, at least as far as he knows, comprises all of one member, his mother's elder brother, also called Angus. Angus Adder, an hermitic scholar-emeritus at a small private college outside of Chicago. Angus has met him once, twelve years before, the same night his sister Imogene had come into the world. Professor Adder, unimpressed by the birth, had arrived to share the news that Fergus McAslan, Angus's father, had succumbed on a visit to the Congo. Fergus, Professor Adder sighed wistfully, would not be returning. Ever afterward, Angus has, when unable to completely forget his namesake uncle, come to think of the man as a sort of evil omen.
"Uncle Angus has written?" he says.
His mother, never one for reprising topics already established, draws an indulgent breath through her long, noble nose. "Indeed." She gestures toward the open doors of the study. "Please."
"But they're out there!" He takes a step, drawing even with Cecile.
"And there they shall remain." His mother nods. As if reading his thoughts, she appends, "Nothing will get past Cecile, I assure you."
"But Mrs. Eddy and Winifred! They are—"
"Quite as resilient as Cecile." His mother half-turns, taking a step away.
"But there was a man!"
"Hardly a man." She adopts a dismissive air. "Little more than trained pets. Despite what your dear Mr. Handy has told you, clothes do not make—"
As usual, he nips her disparagement of his employer in the bud. "No! There was a man!" He hesitates to espouse specifics, troubled by what they might portend. "A blond fellow. With….with blue eyes."
His mother pivots smartly on her heel. "What's this?"
He doesn't know how else to put it. "A man. He…he saved me."
She takes a single long stride toward him before rearing back up with her usual dignity. "Who was he?"
"I don't know." He hates lying to his mother. He so seldom succeeds in convincing her. He adds, feebly, "He had a sword."
She frowns, cocking her head to the left. "Surely not."
He shows her his palms. "Well, a foil. Or an épée."
"Perhaps we'd better see. Dispatch Hazel to the Witley's," she snaps to Cecile. "Have Rebecca or Christina see if they can't find this man."
"Rebecca or Christina?" Angus is aghast. What possible help could the neighbor's staff be at such a moment? "Surely we need the police!"
As Cecile scurries from the foyer, Mother offers him another disapproving frown. "Really, Angus. The police are the very last thing we need." She extends a hand in his direction, flutters it gently, enticingly. He might be ten again, refusing to leave his toys and come to dinner. "Now, I must insist you calm yourself and join me in the study."
He removes his Homburg and hangs it on its usual hook, straightens his jacket, and crosses the foyer toward her. She turns and leads him past the stairs into the study. The room is well-lit, its windows bundled against the night in heavy red drapery. The red divan beckons enticingly from the far side of the room, but he remains on his shaky legs. His mother crosses to her desk and stands with a hand atop the back of her chair. The remnants of a sliced envelope lay upon the blotter, alongside her silver letter opener. As usual, the room smells faintly of cinnamon and warmth, of winter nights snuggled in comfort and security. Of chocolate and ponderous tomes.
His mother, closer to him than she had been in the foyer, studies his face under the improved lighting. "Shall I get you a glass of water?"
Angus swallows with some difficulty. "I'm fine. You received a letter from Uncle?"
"I did. He wrote announcing the time had come for you to join him."
"Join him?"
Angus notices a faint whitening of the knuckles of her hand on the back of the chair. She explains, "Yes. In his great work. In the family business."
"Our family business? Archaeology?"
"Well, that is the public persona." She indicates the divan. "Won't you sit, darling? We have much to discuss. I'm afraid I've been remiss in certain duties." She shrugs, and Angus can not help but notice how remarkably girlish the gesture seems. He has seldom, if ever, thought of his mother as particularly feminine. "In my defense, dear, I had only your welfare in mind. I know your father's death—"
Angus cuts abruptly across the room toward the divan. He hates the idea of deigning to sit, of what it represents in terms of his denial of the extraordinary events of the evening. He should be securing the household, alerting the authorities and rallying the neighbors. "Did Uncle mention father's death in his letter?"
"Why, no—"
"Then I prefer not to discuss it." He plants himself resolutely upon the plush, soft cushions of the divan. "Let us discuss the letter. And this idea of a family business."
His mother's lips tighten, and he almost fancies she might be attempting to suppress a smile. She turns her desk chair to face him and sits. "You have been led to believe your Uncle Angus is a professor of Archaeology at Hysak University."
"Are you intimating that he is not? That what I've been told is a lie?"
She offers him another girlish shrug, her head tilting slightly to the right. "More of a fabrication, darling. The fact is rather more…" She pauses, though Angus has a sense it is less a struggle to choose the right word than an attempt to build melodrama. "Amazing." Her face lights up.
Perched on the very forward edge of the divan, Angus folds his hands neatly atop his knees. "More amazing than Archaeology?" And he is being only half sarcastic.
"Yes. He studies the occult."
Angus pulls back his head and makes a face. "The occult?"
"You mean demonology and witchcraft and nonsense such as that?"
"Not nonsense, darling, as you saw for yourself tonight."
"As I—" The objection dies in Angus's throat. What had he seen? And heard? And smelt? A man in a mask. That was it. It had to be. There is no other explanation. And an old woman with a forked tongue and a nurse with a broom that swept emerald fire out of the air. Angus's head begins to spin. His sweaty clothes turn cold against his skin.
"But there is so much more to it than those simple topics. The Arcane Brotherhood studies all manner of hidden knowledge, ancient and modern—"
"The Arcane Brotherhood?"
"The organization your uncle heads. A council of men—which, I suppose, is an unfortunate self-imposed limitation. Although your uncle has at least been willing to discuss the matter, which makes him some improvement over his predecessors." She takes a breath and gives her head a slight shake to help refocus her thoughts. "The Brotherhood is many thousands of years old, began in Sumeria, by ancient scholars, as a way to defend against—"
"Darling, I know—"
"And spare me your dears and darlings. I'm not ten anymore." He combs his right hand through his hair, pushing it back from his brow to hold it in a clenched fist. He stares at the carpet a moment before directing an accusatory gaze up at her. "This nonsense is quite unlike you, Agnes. We've always been honest with one another, haven't we? That was the bargain we made after father's death. When Imogene arrived. We were partners, together to the end."
Her entire disposition alters as he speaks. Her spine straightens and her hands unclasp. She shows him a grim smile. The odor of cinnamon fades from the room. "Do I tell you enough how very proud I am of you?"
He gives his head a tremulous shake. "Speak plainly."
"But I am. Darling. I may indulge the occasional endearment? You are my son. And even before your father's death we were, for the most part, on our own. He was always off on Brotherhood business." She executes another dismissive wave of her hand only to pause, as if, seeing the unseen something she has attempted to brush aside, she is surprised by the reaction it stirs within her. "Our partnership—meaning your father's and mine—was more of an arrangement. A necessity, you might even say. And I daresay I enjoyed the greatest benefit. You and Imogene being foremost.
"Of course, the plan was always to raise a boy and a girl to continue a lineage that has stretched back through the ages. The boy to join the Brotherhood, and the girl to ensure that the line remains unbroken." She pauses again, Angus suspecting, as before, to further dramatize the import of her words, but her expression turns suddenly quizzical. "Have you no comment?"
Angus stares, still unconvinced she hasn't gone mad or decided to engage in some elaborate practical joke, though she has never been the humorous type nor been given to flights of fancy. But he has too many comments to voice any single one. Uncle Angus is not a professor of Archeology? Uncle and Father were members of some Occult Brotherhood? Angus and Imogene are part of some ancient plan? And what had that creature with the top hat and the tiger's face been? Even more than his uncle's profession being a lie and his and his sister's fates apparently having been predetermined by long-dead ancestors, that hideous, hairy face troubles him. It flashes before him each time he blinks his eyes.
Only, that is not quite true. He'd glimpsed another face in the darkened street. A face even more impossible.
"Go on."
Instead she goes to the sideboard and pours two glasses of port. Carrying them back to the divan, she offers one to Angus.
"I haven't had my dinner," he objects feebly. He nevertheless takes it, cupping it in his hands.
Looking down at him, his mother samples her own tumbler, prompting him to do likewise. Satisfied, she crosses to the bell cord and gives it a tug. "Mrs. Patenaude is keeping a tray warm for you. I'm impressed you can eat."
"I didn't say that. I merely pointed out I hadn't eaten." Having tasted the port, he decides he wants more of it and drains his glass. He very nearly offers it back to her for a refill, but, having rung the kitchen she's returned to her chair. Angus continues to cup the empty crystal tumbler in his hands. "That thing had a tiger's face."
She cocks her head. "I suppose that's a fair assessment. Definitely feline, though most descriptions tend toward leonine." She pins him suddenly with a glance. "You saw one, then? Up close, I mean? Not many can say that. They are quite deadly."
"What are they?"
She shrugs. "Like most such creatures, they've acquired a variety of names. They're quite well-known in India, where they're called Rakshasa, according to your father."
"Rakshasa." The word means nothing to him. It sounds entirely as nonsensical as Miss Oberlan's poem. In combination with this second mention of his father, however, it nudges some sleepy corner of his mind, a neglected bed of latent fantasies in which his father had long ago planted the seeds of dreams. What wonderful stories the man used to tell. All about growing up in exotic India, where run-ins with brigands and cobras and tigers were quite routine. Angus had determined to one day explore the far-flung corners of the world himself, to delve the depths of ancient ruins, to discover the secrets of lost civilizations. All, in hindsight, quite silly dreams, long-since relegated to the dustbin of youthful naiveté by the harsher realities of life, such as earning one's keep and fulfilling one's obligations. No globetrotting for a respectable gentleman, he can almost hear his employer saying. One works and provides and does not make a spectacle of himself. One certainly does not roam the city streets at night with a sword.
He draws an exaggerated breath. "That poor devil…"
"I take it you mean your mysterious interloper. The man with the sword?"
Angus looks up at her, making no attempt to hide his shame. "I abandoned him."
She nods her head to one side. "I shouldn't fret. The fact he was out at all after the precautions we took tells me he was no ordinary traveler. And of course the sword." She sips some port.
Angus shakes his head. "Still, I—" Then, pausing, he stares. "What do you mean precautions?"
She half-turns in her chair, placing her glass upon the desk and taking up two pages of parchment. "Yes, well, that brings us back to your uncle's letter. He explains that someone has decided to stop you joining the Brotherhood. He—"
Angus rises so quickly he feels momentarily lightheaded. "He what?"
She searches the letter. "Yes. He's unclear about the source of his intelligence. Only stating that you must come at once and that every precaution—"
He crosses the floor to stand beside her, extending his hand. "May I see it?"
"Well, yes, of course, if you like." But she doesn't offer it to him. Instead she picks up an unopened envelope from the desk. She holds it out for Angus. "He sent one to you as well."
Angus paces several halting steps away from her before tearing the envelope open. He fumbles to smooth the two sheets of handwritten parchment. The torn container drops to the floor. He continues to pace as he reads the fine, precise script he supposes must be his uncle's.
My Dear Boy,
The time has arrived at last for you to join me! I do apologize for the rather abrupt summons, but the situation we find ourselves in is such that the usual pleasantries must be foregone. Still, one imagines that a hardy, inquisitive lad like yourself has been long since champing at the bit for the chance to make his way in the world. Your mother has written me great things about you and I confess I
am equally as eager as you that you should finally join
our ranks!
Please present yourself at once, to the Academia Arcana, at Hysak University in Villers, Illinois. The Arcane Brotherhood calls.
As you know, we are an ancient order devoted to chronicling the occult, and your place among us has been ordained since long before your birth. Nevertheless, you will begin as an Initiate and progress through the ranks in identical fashion to an ordinary recruit. The Brotherhood will provide for your basic means, so please pack lightly. (The weather in Illinois will turn quite cold in the coming months, so do include a sturdy winter coat, boots, and an appropriate assortment of insulated undergarments.)
I daresay your mother has told you many interesting facts about her strange brother. And, indeed, when last we met, I may have seemed quite odd. But my work—soon, also, to be your work—is such that when circumstances demand it take precedent, all other considerations are necessarily rendered quite superfluous.
But, again, I find myself writing in riddles when what you no doubt desire is clarity. Rest assured all will be explained when you arrive at the Academy. There is a process, developed over time, for initiating new brothers. You'll find it benefits one to adhere to.
Yours sincerely,
Angus Adder
Angus reads the letter once through quickly and then scattershot, looking back over it, completely at a loss. "What is this nonsense?"
"Not nonsense, as we've established. What does he say?"
"He says I am to join him at once and, huzzah, how happy he is! It's the letter of a lunatic inviting me to visit his asylum. He reminds me to pack long underwear."
She laughs, lightly, wadding the envelope in her fist before crossing toward the dead fireplace to dispose of it. "Angus has always been quite devoted to his work."
"And yet, like you, he is quite vague about what that work entails or whether it interests me." He stops suddenly, staring into space.
"What's the matter?"
He gives his head a quick savage shake. "I am to join him? I am expected to just leave my position at the library, to abandon Mr. Handy, to disrupt my life?"
His mother stiffens. She turns away from the fireplace to face him again. "I am afraid—"
"You're afraid of what, Agnes?"
"Do not take that tone with me."
She rises to her full height, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. For an instant, he feels the usual reflexive recoil he's grown accustomed to whenever he's considered defying her in the past. But he's gained a good six inches on her, and is not the skinny child he had been. He squares his own shoulders and lifts his own, not insubstantial chin.
"This is madness. No, worse, it's foolishness. I shall write Uncle and tell him I am unable to accept his invitation."
But his mother does not back down. "Need I remind you of what transpired out on the street?"
"You do not," he says, hearing for himself the slight tremor that enters his voice despite his most valiant effort. "I maintain that is a matter for the police and shall contact them myself." He feels an urge to turn, storm from the room, grab his hat and go off at once, but manages to suppress the urge far better than he has his quivering voice. "First thing in the morning."
"You won't. Be reasonable, Angus." When he starts to object, she raises a soothing hand. "Please, allow me to speak plainly, as you requested. The events of this evening are matters beyond the ken of civilized society. They are, in fact, the precise sort of occurrence for which the Brotherhood was established. You asked me about our precautions. Were the streets and houses not dark? Did you encounter anyone you knew? We did that to protect our neighbors. But were any of them questioned as to why they had so secured themselves, almost universally in opposition to how they might normally comport themselves of a late summer evening, a host of misgivings and questions would surely arise. Some might even experience a sort of traumatic—"
"Can you hear yourself?" Angus stares wide-eyed at his mother. She, whom he has always ranked as the most sensible of women, whom even Mr. Handy acknowledges as the rare example of capability among the fairer sex, is reciting lines from a fairytale.
"I can hear myself. And I am speaking the plain truth you requested. A rather severe sort of magic was cast over the neighborhood tonight. Given ample preparation, we would surely have found something less dangerous. But you had already left the library when your uncle's letter arrived. And, for reasons we've yet to divine, no one could see into the Oberlan's household. I was preparing to come for you myself, when Anabeth announced you'd left the Oberlan's for home."
He feels his face twist into an expression of befuddlement. "How could Anabeth—?"
"She was scrying for you." She cocks her head suddenly. "You didn't happen to notice anything strange while you were at the Oberlan's? Their house was quite impenetrable even to Miss Devereaux."
But Angus can also change the subject. "Miss Devereaux? Is she the great sorceress responsible for your severe magic?"
"A spell of the magnitude cast tonight took the combined efforts of the entire coven, naturally."
"Sarcasm doesn't suit you."
"Nor does this phantasmagoria suit you." Suddenly feeling the wind drain from his sails, he again seeks the safe port of the divan. His head bows toward his knees, and he presses his palms to his forehead. "This can not be happening."
"It is. And until you reach the safety of the Academy, I fear you remain in grave danger." She pauses, perhaps offering him a chance to respond. When he stays silently holding his head, she steps toward him and softens her tone. "We're all quite safe here inside the pentacle. At least at present. But if what your uncle claims is true, that members of the Brotherhood have been corrupted and aligned themselves against—"
"Please, stop," he moans, his voice devoid of all his previous resistance. He remains on the divan. His hands still cover his eyes. But he can not abide another word.
His mother hovers but otherwise acquiesces to his plea. Finally, he hears the rustle of her skirts as she moves back over toward her desk. He looks up as she settles in her chair, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. She gazes across the room at him, clearly undeterred by any of his objections.
"You believe this," he says.
"It's all true, I'm afraid. Your uncle is the leader of a secret cabal of wizards and your mother is a witch."
Despite their conciliatory tone, her words have a physical effect on him. His stomach lurches, and he covers his mouth, not wanting to soil the lovely crimson carpet.


text:
Finally managed to upload the pix from the dslr into the lappy!!!
These were from 2 weeks ago? If I remember correctly?
If I'm not wrong, we were supposed to get our hair & nails done that day but we missed both appointments.
So horrible, I know I know.
Been so tired lately. I don't know if it's becos I haven't been sleeping much + I'm sick or becos I'm just getting old :(

subset: commoncrawl


text:
Files with fll file extension are related to the The Sims video game. A fll file stores floor data.
There are 3 other file types using
the FLL file extension!
.fll - Visual FoxPro dynamic link library
.fll - Micrografx Designer image fill pattern
.fll - TextPipe Pro filter file
Software that open fll file
FLL file extension - The Sims floor data
What is fll file? How to open fll files?
File type specification:
The ffl file extension is associated with The Sims, a life simulation video game for Microsoft Windows operating system and other platforms, developed by EA.
The fll file stores some kind of game data.
The default software associated to open fll file:
Company or developer:
Electronic Arts, Inc.
The Sims is legendary strategic life-simulation computer game released in 2000. The Sims is about creating, managing, and controlling the lives of tiny computerized people who dwell in miniature homes.
List of recommended software applications associated to the .fll file extension
Recommended software programs are sorted by OS platform (Windows, macOS, Linux, iOS, Android etc.)
and possible program actions that can be done with the file: like open fll file, edit fll file, convert fll file, view fll file, play fll file etc. (if exist software for corresponding action in File-Extensions.org's database).
Unspecified and all other actions for computer programs working with fll file - The Sims floor data
Click on the software link for more information about The Sims. The Sims uses fll file type for its internal purposes and/or also by different way than common edit or open file actions (eg. to install/execute/support an application itself, to store application or user data, configure program etc.).


text:
Hisaya Nakajo's manga series Hanazakari no Kimitachi he ("For
You in Full Blossom", casually known as Hana-Kimi) has been a hit
since it first appeared in 1997 in the shojo manga magazine Hana to
Yume ("Flowers and Dreams"). In Japan, a Hana-Kimi art book and
several "drama CDs" have been released. Her other manga series
include Missing Piece (2 volumes) and Yumemiru Happa ("The Dreaming
Leaf", 1 volume).
Nakajo bases his shojo manga (Japanese girls' comic) on the common manga plot device of a girl dressed as a boy. Thirteen-year-old Mizuki Ashiya idolizes high-jump champion Izumi Sano. She somehow manages to transfer to his all-boys' school by masquerading as a boy, and becomes Izumi's roommate. Mizuki wants to see Izumi do the high jump, but is shocked to learn he quit the sport because he couldn't stand the pressure. Mizuki believes Izumi still loves high jumping and wants to high jump with him. Readers will be impatient for Mizuki to take Psychology 101 so she'll figure out what "high jumping" is a euphemism for. The story founders on its own absurdities. When Izumi sees Mizuki's back in the shower, she deludes herself that Izumi still thinks she's a boy, while he knows the truth but acts as if he does not. In a side story, a boy named Kaede comes to live with his second cousin Toko, who is outraged by Kaede's womanizing, until Kaede genuinely falls in love with Toko. Nakajo's visual storytelling is often cramped and confusing, and his drawing style is mediocre, although he does create attractive love scenes. This tale panders to the illusions of sexually na?ve young girls who, one hopes, can discern that misogynists are not Prince Charmings and Mizuki is really an obsessed stalker. (June) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.


text:
This week is your final chance to submit proposals for posters or lightning talks for this year's networking conference, TNC15. Many good proposals for papers, lightning talks and posters have been submitted, but further ideas are still welcome. If you would like to participate with a poster or lightning talk, you can submit your ideas until midnight CEST on 15 April 2015.
You can submit your ideas via our participation page.
If you would like to become a sponsoring partner / exhibitor of TNC15, or would like to demonstrate at the event, please contact the conference organiser, Gyöngyi Horváth, at email@example.com.
Registration discount
If you haven't registered for TNC15 yet, the conference team invites to you participate in an Easter Egg hunt in which you can collect a discount on the TNC15 participation fee! The Easter egg hunt started on Monday 6 and will last until Friday 10 April 2015. In order to find the eggs, please visit the TNC15 website. You'll really need to use your skills to find them. When you find an egg, click on it and it will be added to your 'egg basket'. At any point in time during the hunt, you can claim your prize by clicking on this basket. Fill out your email address and you're done! Each egg found gives you 25 euros discount on the participation fee of TNC15! You will receive an e-mail about your discount after the hunt has finished.
Please register before 5 June, as after this date only on-site registration will be possible at a fee of 750 ex. VAT. Please also note that payments may be made by credit card, bank transfer or in cash. If you require supporting documentation in order to obtain a visa please contact visa enquiries.
Further information
TNC15 captures the current debate with the conference theme 'Connected Communities'. The conference provides a full programme in which a wide variety of other hot topics in research and education networking will be discussed, including future education models, advanced networking infrastructures, and federation and middleware.
TNC15 is organised by GÉANT Association and hosted by FCT-FCCN, Portugal's unit for the operation of the National Research and Education Network within the funding agency for science and research in Portugal, between 15-18 June 2015 in Porto. All information, including the full conference schedule can be found on the TNC15 website.
Also follow our #TNC15 weblog with entertaining blogs running up to TNC15!


text:
29 June - 7 July 2017, Castelgandolfo
"Breaking Rays", First Phase
At the conclusion of nine intense days together, the participants of the Breaking Rays project (consisting of 3 phases: in Italy, Brazil and Philippines, respectively) write "It was a profound and sincere experience based on building true relationships, which clearly showed how, also in a technical context like this, true human values are the key of everything".
Marco Aleotti, Kim Rowley and Paola Cipollone – the initiative coordinators – provided us with a full report of the event while trying to follow the rules of good journalism, according to the 5 "W": Who, What, Where, When, Why.
The participants were 22 young filmmakers from 10 countries (the Philippines, Indonesia, India, Burundi, Italy, Malta, Hungary, Germany, Brazil, Argentina) – from 20 to 41 years old, who already had experience and/or training in the field of audiovisuals. Most were filmmakers but others were graphic artists and/or photographers.
This varied composition, concerning age, experience and origin, was a very positive and enriching element and was expressed by many as the most interesting aspect of this formation phase.
In the same way, the group of tutors was composed by professionals with different experiences and skill sets. Among the ones who spoke: Gianni Bianco, Declan O'Byrne, Michele Zanzucchi, Aurelio Molè, Saverio D'ercole and Laly Hernandez. Each one of them generously shared with the participants their technical/professional experience, as well as very meaningful personal life experiences
The sessions on technical aspects were very successful: Storytelling for audiovisuals, shooting, interviews and point of view, lighting, audio, editing, social media. To lead them along with Marco Aleotti and Kim Rowley were professionals such as Carlo Sgambato (Director of photography), Nino Giuffrida (audio engineer), Giulio Mainenti (director and editor), Ivan Turatti (corporate communication and social media expert)
The dialogue and the active participation of everyone built true communion on several levels. This dynamic interactive approach was much appreciated and was an effective method of learning from one another.
The project was held from June 29th to July 7th 2017. But in a certain sense it started well before the 29th!
At their arrival, several participants shared their challenges with getting visas, obtaining permission from work, trepidation in leaving the family (one was newly married, another one had a 3 months old daughter).
There were those who felt they didn't have an enough valuable contribution to offer, and felt too inexperienced.
The invitation to leave everything behind in order to share talents, thoughts, suggestions, ideas, making space for each other, was fully embraced by all and turned everyone into a protagonist. This laid the foundations for an experience where there was no "hierarchy" of tasks, rather collaboration and sharing of responsibility in harmony.
The focus of this first phase of the project was preparing a News Report. It was important to have a common vision about what makes a story valid and also about how we offer it to our audience.
In addition to the workshops and the moments in the main hall, two and a half days were dedicated to a real life work experience in small teams of three, where the participants filmed and edited a story, 3 to 5 minute long.
Each group carried out the entire process in its entirety: research and pre-production, shooting and assembly. This exercise, besides providing an opportunity to put into practice some of the things that were just learned, was also a way to live shoulder to shoulder and produce something worthwhile together. Some worked well into the night in order to meet the delivery deadline.
The stories collected were of various natures: from the Vatican Astronomic Observatory to a start-up business of a young farmer; from a "historian" of Castel Gandolfo, to a family trying to manage the use of cellphones of their teenage children; a school that teaches English to Italian schoolchildren; as well as viewpoints and testimonies on immigration.
The Press Office of the Castel Gandolfo City Hall followed the Breaking Rays' program and spoke about it in their social media channels
The stories were screened all together in a plenary session where each group recounted difficulties and successes throughout the production process. Usually in this field a critique of one's work is often perceived as a personal criticism; however here the evaluation of others, even when pointing out weak points or errors was always constructive, with no sign of personal judgments. Everything that was said was offered and received as an extremely useful exchange and perceived as a tremendous opportunity to grow.
The workshop was held at a house on the lake in Castel Gandolfo, and turned out to be the perfect place for this kind of experience. As someone noted, the landscape conveyed peace and serenity and ... favored creativity
Being able to live together 24 hours a day meant that everything - from the main sessions to lunch, from the workshops to the breaks – everything was training, and was time and space for creating trust and sincere relationships. And it was this strong fabric that made it possible to have productive and effective moments of learning.
Another important moment was the visit to the house of Chiara Lubich, founder of the Focolare Movement, and the emotional meeting with Eli Folonari, one of Lubich's first companions and the one who was entrusted with communications.
In summary, the project coordinators wrote: "It seems to us that this first phase of Breaking Rays highlighted a formation path focused on raising sensitivity to group work and relationships: even while using a movie camera, a microphone, or a video editing program, we are called to build relationships among people."
Breaking Rays Video-summary: Phase 1


text:
Genevieve M. Livermore, CA 3/30/13
For the past couple of years, I have looked in the mirror wondering, "What happened to the 100lb person that I used to know?"
You would not guess, even now, that I was that skinny, even into my early 20's. 'Skinny fat', I referred to myself as, because while I did not weigh much, I also had no muscle and ZERO athletic ability. Over the next 8 or so years, my weight gradually increased, and at my highest I was 160lb. I emphasize the word gradual, because let's face it, 8-10 pounds a year is not gradual and not healthy. But I continued to file it away in my head as an irrelevant concern. Over this time period, I would find myself sporadically attending 24 Hour Fitness and yoga sessions; when achieving minimal gratification and results, I would find an excuse to not go back.
2 years ago my now sister-in-law, Janelle, began her journey into the paleo lifestyle and subsequently found CrossFit. Always the healthy living advocate, she would insist that this was different, and that I needed to try it out. "Sure, sure…" I would respond and then disregard until the next time that I saw her. It took seeing pictures of me wake-boarding after the summer of 2011 to realize that I needed to address my health. Not only was Janelle looking the best that she ever had, but I was also about at the heaviest that I had ever been. My boyfriend and I began by eliminating unhealthy items such as soda, and limiting our caloric intake, but this found me still eating fast food and processed foods on a daily basis. The weight was dropping minimally, but not at a level that I was satisfied with.
In March 2012, I finally said enough is enough. I am tired of living life this way, and my recent engagement helped strengthen my resolve to get healthy. So I began reading. Wheat Belly, Robb Wolf's The Paleo Solution, Mark Sisson's Primal Blueprint are a few that made huge impacts in my lifestyle change. April 1st, my fiancé and I started Robb Wolf's Paleo 30 day Transformation and I was hooked. By the end of the 30 days we both had lost noticeable weight, and felt great! For the 1st time that I could recall, I woke up without stomach pain or a headache. What next, I thought? Well, Janelle was right about Paleo, so let's try out CrossFit. We left messages with the two CrossFit affiliates in our area, and lucky for us, the right one got back almost immediately.
ENTER CrossFit 580.
To say that I was intimated is grossly understated. I had done some research on CrossFit, and I was terrified. I am not an athlete. I could not run a mile without stopping; complete a push-up or a pull-up for that matter! If not for Joy's encouraging character, I am not sure that I would have had the guts to continue. With such functional movements, I quickly learned that it is so simple to scale anything at the box. Instead of dreading working out, I could not wait for work to be over so that I could go! In such a short period of time, there were so many things that I can do that I never thought I could. The best part is that every day I get better and better. In the first 5 months attending 3x per week, I went from 160lb to 145lb and 34% to 29% body fat. I slowed down momentarily to enjoy the newlywed bliss and the holidays, but since January I have increased my workouts to 5x per week. Within the 1st month of CrossFit 580's 'Look Better Naked' challenge, I checked in at 131lb, 24%bf, and down THREE jean sizes! My original goal was to be 'high school skinny' again, but now it is so much more. CrossFit has made me want to be strong no matter the number on that scale. I still have a way to my goals, but I now know that my new lifestyle (and pintresting motivational quotes) will get me there.
I am so grateful to Mark and Joy and what they have built at CrossFit 580. Each coach at CrossFit 580 is amazing, both motivating and instructional. They personify the spirit that is CrossFit and have truly created an environment that will be your 'home away from home' J


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Stocks: Sectors
- Energy
- Materials
- Industrials
- Consumer Discretionary
- Consumer Staples
- Health Care
- Financial
- Technology
- Utilities
Seasonal Start
Economic Data
Golden Queen Mining Co. Ltd. (OTCMKT:GQMNF) Seasonal Chart
Seasonal Chart Analysis
Analysis of the Golden Queen Mining Co. Ltd. (OTCMKT:GQMNF) seasonal charts above shows that a Buy Date of January 20 and a Sell Date of May 6 has resulted in a geometric average return of 15.93% above the benchmark rate of the S&P 500 Total Return Index over the past 20 years. This seasonal timeframe has shown positive results compared to the benchmark in 15 of those periods. This is a good rate of success and the return strongly outperforms the relative buy-and-hold performance of the stock over the past 20 years by an average of 29.7% per year.
The seasonal timeframe is Inline with the period of seasonal strength for the Materials sector, which runs from November 20 to May 5. The seasonal chart for the broad sector is available via the following link: Materials Sector Seasonal Chart.
Golden Queen Mining Co Ltd is
engaged in exploring and developing the Soledad Mountain mining Project located
south of Mojave in Kern County in southern California.
Stocks mentioned in this post: GQMNF
Symbols by Letter: A | B | C | D | E | F | G | H | I | J | K | L | M | N | O | P | Q | R | S | T | U | V | W | X | Y | Z
|Sponsored By...


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Design material for Zsuzsi Vinkler's "From The Here And Now - Középkezdés" exhibition, organized by the Ferenczy Museum Center in Szentendre. The visual outcome is based on how I was inspired by working and thinking with the artist herself, and the curator Katalin Kopin.
Installation: Robin Kecskés, Attila Pokorny
Technical staff: Tibor Flóris , László Kun, Balázs Kun, Szilárd Masika, Mátyás Tóth
Photo: Balázs Deim, werk: Andrea Csuport
..................Check out....................
the online exhibition catalogue
..................on Issuu ......................


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Lil Wayne Sells 217k Copies of 'I Am Not A Human Being II'
In spite of an early leak and some mixed reviews, Lil Wayne managed to move 217,000 copies of his new album I Am Not A Human Being II.
That's a solid release for Weezy, but still left him in second place behind Justin Timberlake's The 20/20 Experience, which officially went platinum in it's second week. It's better than the first week of the first IANAHB, but still a far cry from Tha Carter IV's near-million debut in 2011.


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AirAsia X A330-300
Malaysian long-haul low-cost carrier AirAsia X has reported a 2015 third-quarter net loss of RM288 million ($64.4 million), deepened from a RM210 million loss in the year-ago period. AirAsia X CEO Benyamin Ismail said the results were due primarily to a slump in exchange rates for the Malaysian ringgit. "The USD:MYR depreciation of 36% year-on-year has caused us a substantial forex loss of RM241 million in 3Q15," he said. Third-quarter revenue rose 13% to RM793 million while ...
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"AirAsia X posts $64 million loss in 3Q " is part of ATW Plus, our online premium membership. Subscribing will provide you access to exclusive news, carefully researched airline financial, fleet and traffic data, plus the option to receive our popular, award-winning print magazine. To learn more, click here. If viewing via ATW Mobile, please login and click "Read web article" to view fully. Questions? email@example.com.


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Download Airbus A320 files for Microsoft Flight Simulator X. This FSX download category contains free files for the Airbus A320.
Tiger Airways Airbus A320
FSX Tiger Airways Airbus A320-200. Model by iFDG.
Finnair Airbus A350-900 V
FSX Finnair Airbus A350-900 V5. This version 5, features more improved and detailed aircraft model (image comparison between v5 and v4 inside), also modifications have been done on both, taxi lights and wing lights. Taxi lights will add new night lighting on main landing gears and wheels and add bleu LED ground lighting effect for each gears. Landing light will add logo lights on winglets, (more info regarding proper functioning of the night effects in the Read Me FSX). Version 5, included CamSim's own static displays and Animated Ground Servicing (AGS). Model design and paint by Camil Valiquette." "as_a320_air_new_zealand.zip
Airbus House Colors Airbu
FSX Airbus House Colors Airbus A360. The A360 should become, with a design based on the Airbus A350, the Airbus A320 replacement. This CamSim aircraft has new Animated Ground Servicing (AGS) for this type. Model design and paint by Camil Valiquette.
Air France Airbus A360
FSX Air France Airbus A360. The A360 should become, with a design based on the Airbus A350, the Airbus A320 replacement. This CamSim aircraft has an Animated Ground Servicing (AGS) features. Model design and paint by Camil Valiquette.
Saeta Ecuador Boeing 707-
FSX Saeta Ecuador Boeing 707-373C. This aircraft, registered HC-BLY, was the sole B707 operating for SAETA until the early 1990's. It was replaced by younger 727s and A320s however this aircraft proved profitable specially in flights between Quito and Guayaquil. Textures only for the payware Captain Sim Boeing 707-300 model, normal installation and ACE compliant. By Rodolfo Estrella C.
UPS Cargo Boeing 767-300
FSX UPS Cargo Boeing 767-300 ER with blended winglets and animated ground servicing (AGS). Model design and paint by iFDG / CamSim." "faib_a320s_csn.zip


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Fireside Chat Ep. 27 - Moral Dilemmas and Premarital Sex
We are LIVE with Dennis Prager from his home study. Topics today include moral dilemmas, classical music, and book recommendations!
Stay up to date on our latest releases
PragerU is changing the minds of millions worldwide. Help us keep our videos FREE!
Prager University is a 501(c)3 nonprofit, Tax ID: 27-1763901. Your contribution is fully tax-deductible in the USA.


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Boiler Installations
Boiler Installation from £1550 or £15.99 per month
Upto £350 saved on heating bills
Upto 12 years parts and labour warranties
Gas Safe
EPH Boilers are gas safe registered
Anyone installing, servicing or repair a boiler must be by law!
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Oil Boiler installations from £1995.00 or £19.99 per month.
Save over £350 off fuel bills with a a rated boiler.
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You must hold Oftec registration to work on Oil fired boilers
Finance Available
EPH Boilers can offer finance for all boiler installations.
0% Apr finance or interest bearing
We will find a package to suit your budget.
Gas & Oil Boiler installations
Our Gas registered and Oftec Registered engineers have over 20 years industry experience under their belt. Installing boilers is the core activity of EPH boilers. Being pretty good at it, we are recognised by boiler brand such as Worcester Bosch, Vaillant, Ideal, Baxi and Grant Boiler.
Why get a new Boiler from EPH Boilers?
- We can offer up to 12 years parts and labour warranty on some boiler brands.
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- New A rated boiler professionally installed will add value to your home or property.
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- Finance packages available on all boiler installations.
- Boiler on finance from £15.99.00 per month
A new boiler can save you as much as £350 a year, and can last decades with proper maintenance, so what have you got to lose?
Please contact us today to discuss your requirements, for free, professional, friendly advice.
get in touch to Book a new boiler
boiler engineers visits
Installation booked
From start to finish we have been impressed by the professional service. The quotation Steve supplied was thorough and provided a range of options and costs. His experience and knowledge were invaluable and helped us to make an informed decision. Work was completed within the agreed schedule and to a very high standard. Pride in their work was obvious throughout the job from laying dust sheets to sympathetic pipe work. Genuinely a great job and we would highly recommend Steve and his team."
Customer in Bishopstortford
Customer in Epping
Customer in Chingford.
Grange Lane, Roydon, Harlow, Essex,


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Albert Cheng
Albert Cheng joined the World Gold Council in March 1993 as a Regional Manager, becoming Managing Director, Far East in 2003. He retired at the end of March 2015 and has been appointed as Advisor to World Gold Council since 1 April 2015. In addition, he was appointed International Advisor to the Shanghai Gold Exchange since 2002 until now.
His marketing career began with Dentsu Young & Rubicam, Hong Kong in the early 80's, moved on to gold marketing in July, 1985 when he joined the Royal Canadian Mint as a Regional Manager for S.E. Asia.
He was appointed honorary CEO of Singapore Bullion Market Association in Nov, 2015.
Albert Cheng, Chief Executive Officer of Singapore Bullion Market Association joined the line up of speakers at Mines and Money Asia 2018. Download the 2019 programme now


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Raw organic whole food activated charcoal
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Grand Design Imagine XLS 21BHE Travel Trailer For Sale
Grand Design Imagine XLS travel trailer 21BHE highlights:
- Outside Kitchen
- Murphy Bed
- Booth Dinette
- 76" Double Size Bunks
- Privacy Curtains
This travel trailer layout gives you a spacious living area and privacy not only during the day, but also at night. The Murphy bed and sofa, the double size bunk beds, and the booth dinette allow for various entertaining and sleeping options. Perfect for the year round camping because of its heated and enclosed underbelly and residential heating system, plus outdoor amenities such as an outside kitchen, a spray port, and an electric awning. The process of getting hooked up is done quick and easy with the Utility Center located in the unobstructed pass-through storage.
Each Imagine XLS travel trailer by Grand Design offers the Four-Season protection package with a heated and enclosed underbelly with suspended tanks, a moisture barrier floor enclosure, and many more features allowing you to camp any time of year you like. Some other highlights include the Utility Center in the pass-through compartment for easy accessibility, a deep seated stainless steel sink making clean up after meals much easier, and the "Stays Made" Murphy Bed on most models allows you a versatile area to relax and sleep. So, if you're looking for lightweight towing, home-like comforts, and quality construction, then choose your favorite Imagine XLS model today!We have 3 21BHE availableView Inventory
Sleeps 7 Length 24 ft 11 in Ext Width 0 ft Ext Height 10 ft 5 in Int Height 6 ft 6 in Hitch Weight 456 lbs Gross Weight 5995 lbs Dry Weight 4497 lbs Fresh Water Capacity 43 gals Grey Water Capacity 39 gals Black Water Capacity 37 gals Furnace BTU 25000 btu Number Of Bunks 2 Available Beds Murphy Refrigerator Type Double Door Cooktop Burners 3 Number of Awnings 1 LP Tank Capacity 20 lbs Water Heater Type Quick Recovery AC BTU 15000 btu TV Info HD LED Awning Info 15' Electric w/LED Light Axle Count 2 Number of LP Tanks 2 Shower Type Standard Electrical Service 30 amp
Similar Travel Trailer Floorplans
Travel Trailer
Holiday Bonus Cash Eligible!Holiday Bonus Cash Eligible!
- Stock #: 40659
- Length: 24 ft 11 in
- Location: New Oxford, PA
- Sleeps: 7
- Interior: PEBBLE
- MSRP Price: $28,943
Holiday Bonus Cash Eligible!Holiday Bonus Cash Eligible!
- Stock #: 40770
- Length: 24 ft 11 in
- Location: Thurmont, MD
- Sleeps: 7
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Holiday Bonus Cash Eligible!Holiday Bonus Cash Eligible!
- Stock #: 40868
- Length: 24 ft 11 in
- Location: Thurmont, MD
- Sleeps: 7
- Interior: PEBBLE
- MSRP Price: $28,988
Beckleys RVs is not responsible for any misprints, typos, or errors found in our website pages. Any price listed excludes sales tax, registration tags, and delivery fees. All prices may not include Beckley's Camping Center's 145 point pre-delivery inspection. Manufacturer-provided pictures, specifications and features may be used as needed. Inventory shown may be only a partial listing of the entire inventory. Please contact us at 833-930-0691 for availability as our inventory changes rapidly. All calculated payments are an estimate only and do not constitute a commitment that financing or a specific interest rate or term is available.


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Demystifying Mobile Security Attacks
Attacks on your mobile devices and traffic are quickly evolving. Mobile attackers are stealing (hey, it's what they do) tried and true methods from the "traditional" (wired) world and applying them to the mobile one, as well as coming up with new, never before seen tactics that really take advantage of the new pathways mobile devices offer into an organization's network.
The following is a quick look at some of the most common types of mobile attacks and what you need to arm yourself with to prevent them.
- 3 Steps to implementing an effective BYOD Mobile Security Stategy
- Check Point Sandblast Zero-day Protection: The Best Protection at every level
- Demystifying Mobile Security Attacks
- Exposing the Unknown: How Sandboxing Technology Fights Modern Threats
- How mobile Malware compromises your secure containers and enterprise content
- Network Boundaries Have Gone Mobile
- Smart Prevention Expect The Unexpected
- The top 4 Cyber Security Threats to Android Mobile Devices
- The Top 6 Cyber Security Threats to IOS Devices
- Threat Research: Targeted Attacks on Enterprise Mobile


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Nagpur : Delhi University Professor 'G.N. Saibaba', along with five others, was sentenced to life imprisonment by the Gadchiroli Sessions Court, after being found guilty of helping a Maoist group. In 2014, Prof Saibaba was arrested who was active in Gadchiroli, a Naxal dominated district in Maharashtra. Today, along with the others, a 'Jawaharlal Nehru University' female student is also convicted by the Sessions Court.
Back in 2014, on 9th May, Delhi University Prof G.N. Saibaba was arrested on charges of supporting the Naxalites. Meanwhile, in 2013, JNU student 'Hemant Mishra' was also arrested for alleged Maoist links. During the police investigation, Mishra confessed that he was acting as a courier between Prof. Saibaba and the Maoist leaders in Chhattisgarh. Mishra is a student of 'JNU'. Along with Mishra, former journalist, 'Prashant Rahi', and three others were also arrested at that time. As per the evidences found in Professor's computer, his links to the Maoist organization is unambiguous. The Professor did the job of indoctrinating and recruiting youth to the Maoist organization. By supporting the Maoist ideology, the Professor was clearly found guilty of waging war against India.
Prof Saibaba was arrested in Delhi. Following his arrest, he was lodged in Nagpur Central Jail for several days. But he managed to get bail on health grounds claiming his 90% physical disability. This had led to a stream of disputes. Meanwhile, the Gadchiroli District and Sessions Court had fast tracked the proceedings of this case. Prosecutor investigated 23 witnesses, while the Defense lawyer investigated none in this case. The accused were convicted under Sections 18, 20, 36, 38 and 39 of the 'Unlawful Activities Prevention Act' and the hearing was conducted. The stringent 'Unlawful Activities Prevention Act' is used for dealing with the activities directed against the integrity and sovereignty of the country.
After an elaborate hearing of both the sides, Principal Judge of District and Sessions Court, 'Suryakant Shinde', closed hearing after pronouncing the verdict on 9th February. Later on Tuesday, while Prof Saibaba was pronounced guilty of Maoist links and for "waging war against India" along with him, his associates, 'Prashant Rahi', 'Hem Mishra', 'Vijay Tirke', 'Mahesh Tirke' and 'Pandu Narote' were also found guilty and received life imprisonment.