Winter Solstice: Volume 1 of the Alaric Trilogy

By David Caldarola

While deep within the chapel, praying hands are trembling low,
And a feeling of dread descends on us, no matter where we go.
Our spirits are disconcerted, like a most discordant song,
Something is supernatural here, there is something going wrong.

You and your companions are trapped in an ancient and mysterious fortress, but you are not alone. There is also another one present who walks the darkened halls. He seems to oppose you, though he has not openly regarded you and your friends as an enemy. He is tall, dark and handsome very well educated and much experienced in the ways of life. He may even be considered wise. He speaks to you, and at times even sings to you with a deep, beautiful baritone voice. He is charming and charismatic and one thing more He is the Devil!

If you could save your souls buy losing your lives, or save your lives by risking your souls, which would you choose? If he has foresworn to answer 33 questions truthfully, what would you ask him? Could you trick the devil; would you even try? But wait act quickly for the solstice is upon you!

Winter Solstice is the first volume of the Alaric Trilogy. It will follow the devils trail from Eastern Europe through Western Europe and eventually to America. But more importantly, it will show how he has changed his ways to adjust to mankinds adapting to the rapid changes in 20th century society and technology. But be not afraid. The Alaric Trilogy will help you spot him, whatever form he takes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467062855

David Caldarola

David Caldarola is a veteran of the U.S. Air Force, the U.S. Navy, and the U.S. Army Reserve. He currently resides in the suburbs of Chicago. Winter Solstice is his third published book and the first of a trilogy. He intends to work in a self-employed status as both a writer and a promoter of his works; which include plans for a self-produced audio book version of Winter Solstice as well as the two remaining future novels in this trilogy.

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© 2011 by David Caldarola. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 10/27/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4670-6287-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-6286-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-6285-5 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011918582

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

To JW

Introduction

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

Acknowledgements

Addendum

To JW

Who escaped the accuser’s wiles and found his way home; but hopefully not too late.

Introduction

I have three things on my mind that I wish to convey: my gratitude that you will honor my work with your time and effort, the nature of the book and a little insight into the way I have approached the writing of this novel. Regarding the first priority—I want to thank you for deciding to read this book. I know there are many books available to the reading public at large, and it is quite possible that even a person who has a taste for the genre this book may fall in, might miss the opportunity to delve into what I hope will prove to be very interesting, if not fascinating pages. I have a personal devotion in my life, one that started in earnest with the first day of the new millennia—January 1, 2000. My devotion is to offer prayer every day, whenever possible and as best I may, on behalf of the souls of the deceased. It is a long story, so suffice it to say that it started with a remembrance of the life and unhappy death of a former child actor. Over time, my offering of the chaplet to the Holy Infant Jesus of Prague has grown to include the names of over 100 people. On occasion, people have asked me why I pray for people I have never met. What did they ever do for you? they would often ask—as if it was necessary for someone to give first before they could be considered worthy of receiving.

To that I tell them that as far as I was concerned, these people—who, by the way, never offended me—gave me so much throughout my lifetime: songs and music, comedy and drama, and many memorable movie and television moments that are still a treasured part of my current existence. True, they never met me just as I may never have the pleasure of meeting you. But I look at my relationship to them as I relate to you now as a writer to a reader. If you find pleasure in this book, if it interests you or even fascinates you, if you take away from it a few morsels of food-for-thought, or perhaps even a full banquet—or even if you simply enjoy this work; give it your assent and speak of it respectfully—then I have written this book for you. I look upon the entertainers of old in the same way; since I love their work and respect their talents . . . caring enough for them personally to dedicate myself to prayers on their behalf, then they sang their songs, told their jokes and danced their dances for me.

The seed of this book sprouted in my mind as the years passed by and an ever increasing disquiet came over me regarding the way humanity has decided to evolve; not an evolution dictated merely by the passing of time, but an evolving that is the result of society’s intentional choices. It is my fear that the world is becoming too sophisticated in its own conceit to bother anymore with God and the devil. Yet, anyone who believes in God must believe in the devil also for all recognized faiths that teach of God also profess that God, through his holy word, has likewise warned us of the devil. With that in mind, it is time for me to welcome you, my friend, to Winter Solstice; the first book of the Alaric Trilogy. For your immediate gratification, Alaric is a Germanic name that applies to this book’s antagonist; a character that will be common to all three books in this trilogy. This story will most likely be the most fanciful of the three and it addresses my fear that humanity is falling deeper into the trench of atheism. God is being more frequently touted as a myth and religion is mocked as radicalism. The danger is that when one falls from God one not only loses His blessings, but one also disregards the devil and becomes susceptible to his machinations. Even if humanity is not overtly embracing atheism, then it is erring in the belief that man can walk some kind of non-existent path of neutrality, neither rejecting nor accepting God and the devil or heaven and hell. But such people have placed themselves at enormous risk as there are two powerful forces at work in a person’s life; one of which will hold sway with him eternally. Unfortunately, it is ruin that is the rule and success that is the exception for destruction is always easier than creation. Success, in the eternal scheme of things, is quite difficult and has been aptly described as hauling a heavy cross uphill, while ruin is more akin to sliding down an oily slope on skis.

It is my hope that this trilogy, as it is prepared and presented over the years, will help the reader understand that just as mankind has constantly struggled to keep up with social changes, quite often falling behind the ever-quickening curve of technology, so too does the devil adapt to changes in society. You see, since God and his ways are perfect his ways have no need to adapt to humanity beyond the scope of what has been called the development of doctrine; an ever-increasing exposure to the big picture as one puzzle piece after another is given to man by God. But while the new pieces enlarge the understanding of His ways, the old ones remain unchanged. However, since the devil is imperfect, his ways are always subject to the inexorable and capricious ways of man; those profound changes that are brought about by invention and discovery as well as those frivolous changes that man inflicts upon himself by his obsession with fad and fashion.

The more man values the worthless, the more he disregards the priceless and the more he is apt to fall into the hands of evil. Aesop, the famous Greek storyteller who was born over 2,600 years ago, a man whom I would deem more a philosopher in his own right than a mere teller of tales, once warned: Beware that you do not lose the substance by grasping at the shadow. In like manner, it is my wish to convey to the reader the notion that what is being currently grasped at in modern-day society is unsubstantial and the act of grasping always starts by loosing hold of what is real and worth keeping.

To that end, I have decided to embark on the writing of the Alaric Trilogy; but I have never found it desirable to write of anything if I could not have fun doing it. I try to hold to the precepts of good grammar and proper literary style, but I always leave myself open to an occasional violation of orthodox rules if the straying from those injunctions are, in my mind, necessary and accommodating to my personal desire to make the work as much fun for the reader to read as it is for me to write.

Therefore, there are a few thoughts I would like to share with you. First of all, you will notice that each chapter starts with two stanzas of verse. I like to refer to these verses as poetic mood music to prepare the reader before he delves into the chapter’s prose. These verses are meant to whet the curiosity of the reader as they mirror, parallel or in some way foreshadow either events in the proceeding chapter, or at least—if not actual events—a theme or perspective that is mutual to both the verse and the prose. Additionally, I have rendered one poetic work in this book in iambic pentameter, but then violated its rules at the finish for reasons that were desirable to me. Later, you will find my first attempt at a Sestina. I have followed the rules regarding the number of sestets, the envoi and the repetition of the six primary final words. But I found the adherence to the line pattern of the repetition of primary words; namely 615243, to be too dictatorial. I therefore applied my own pattern which like the established one, ensured that no primary word would occupy the same numbered line twice in any two sestets.

Also, as any writer would tell you, it is always desirable to write in a way that will establish a rhythm for the reader that will keep the prose moving smoothly without disruption. But it is impossible to write in a way that would guarantee such an outcome; sooner or later, the reader will fall into a mental monotone pace and will eventually trip up over certain sentences, particularly longer periodic sentences. You will find that I resort to the use of commas, semi-colons, ellipses and dashes fairly frequently. To me, such punctuation marks are best used to sort out the information in a sentence as well as to serve as indicators to the reader when to pause throughout the reading of a line in order to maintain its clarity. Likewise, I have inserted breaks between paragraphs, sometimes even between individual dialogue which serve the same purpose.

It is unfortunate that most publishers, for the sake of economy, squeeze the sentences and paragraphs on a page as tightly as they can to reduce the physical size of the work. But this would be like Rembrandt squeezing two or more of his masterpieces onto one insufficiently small canvas. It is surely doubtful that any of the individual works of art would have been so well-received if they were combined in such a scurvy fashion. Of course, I am writing this introduction before the book is finalized and published, so I do not know if the publisher will agree with me on this sentiment and allow the blank spacing lines to remain. To me though, they are vitally important as they serve a few desirable functions. First, they act between paragraphs and individual dialogue as the comma acts between words in a single sentence; as a marker to generate a pause in the reading where it is needed to maintain a cadence. They give the work an appearance that is more appealing to the eye and therefore easier to read. I am not the only person I know who has expressed dissatisfaction with the visually jumbled mish-mash of words crowded on a page that makes it necessary to focus so intensely on the small font that it often induces eyestrain or a headache.

It also serves as a visual and mental reminder of where information in a book resides. As an example, I recently read a book that used a particularly interesting quote by John Adams. Shortly after having finished the book, I returned to it in the hope of finding that quote once more. I returned to the chapter where I thought the quote appeared and could not find it. I re-read the entire chapter—and even the preceding and proceeding chapters—and to this day, I have still not found the quote.

Why? Because such a jumbled compression of text on each page makes every page look like any other page in the book. Breaks between paragraphs and dialogue cause some pages to look more unique in their structure than others, thus giving the reader a better visual memory of where to find material he may wish to return to later. I would also like to point out a habit of mine that I had just employed earlier in this paragraph. You have probably noticed the use of a hyphen in the word re-read. Yes, I fully understand that the word is usually rendered as reread, without a hyphen. But words that indicate repetition with re prefixed to them sometimes become confusing the first time the eye sees it and the mind reads it. You will find on more than one occasion in this book that I have rendered reenter as re-enter. Reenter simply looks too much like reen-ter rather than re-enter.

I have also generously employed the use of phrases that are what I guess could be called identifier phrases. These phrases are used to indicate who is saying what, such as: he said, she said, Frank exclaimed or Sally intoned . . . to mention but a few. I find that in books that use these phrases sparingly, the opportunity to become momentarily lost trying to follow who is saying what in a conversation, presents itself too often for comfortable reading. When a reader has to re-read a section of dialogue a second time because the speakers of that dialogue have become ambiguous, the task of reading can become more of a chore rather than a pleasure. With all of this in mind, and keeping up with my desire to keep the reading of the material fun, I have also occasionally inserted into standard prose what I call a pseudo-verse. This is a sentence or two that have two or more rhyming words within them to hopefully establish a beat in the mind of the reader that will help keep the prose moving smoothly, or at least give it a spur when it may be slowing down. Yet, such a sentence cannot be considered true verse because of the disparity of syllables between the rhyming words.

As you know, prose is very effective but often lacking in elegance—while verse is very elegant but often lacking effectiveness. Many innovative writers try to establish ground rules intended to make the writing of prose more elegant and verse more effective. While I have understood the premises that their ideas are founded upon, I tend to reject them wholly. I prefer to give elegance to prose, the more common of the two styles, by simply injecting verse either in the obvious form of a poem, or in the covert inclusion of verse in the form of what appears to the eye to be just another paragraph. I have also managed to inject prose directly in the middle of a poem without breaking the elegance of the verse. All of this is merely my approach to my personal style as a writer. To me; style is the artistry of the writer.

I confess that this is almost a cop-out on my part as art is as indefinable as style is. But I see art as the physical manifestation of the totality of everything the artist is—in microcosm. Everything the artist has been taught, experienced, learned, perceived and lived in mind, heart, body and spirit congeals to become the canvas of his personal and artistic expression. And since no canvas is large enough to present what a person is like in his entirety, each work of art represents his being in only a miniscule way; a microcosm of his totality. Thus, style—where it regards the writer—is the artistry of the writer.

In keeping with my personal desire to write in ways that are fun and interesting, it is therefore my hope that you will find reading this book likewise fun and interesting. So, if you come upon something unusual, chances are, it was placed there for a reason. Perhaps my personal approach to writing could be termed as wheat and chaff.

Like all literary works, there is chaff that must be winnowed away to get to the wheat that gives food for thought to the reader. Have fun as best you may for the more you winnow—the more wheat you will find. When I wrote this book, I had sowed as best I could. When you read this book, you will harvest what I had sowed.

May you winnow well.

I

Adventure’s Spark

I have counted the myriad blessings, that bridge a life-long span,

And found there lives within me, a dour, ungrateful man.

I have pondered the many years, that drew me near a lifetime goal,

And found there suffers within me, an unhappy and restless soul.

My heart has yearned and moved me, to search for adventure’s spark,

That flickering inspiration, which seeks the light within the dark.

And so it came to pass, when boredom on the holiest day,

Caused the glory-hound within me, to finally go astray.

N.

In 1898, in the south of England, in the town of Exeter, in the stately dining room of a scholar’s abode, four disparate friends gather to bemoan the inconveniences of the forthcoming holidays. These friends may be called disparate in that they are more distinct than likewise, more contrasting than complimenting; as the colors of the rainbow compete against one another for the eye’s attention, yet blend together in a most harmonious way; as the sparkling bursts of fireworks separately work to forge a single display.

Now, my curious one, do attend, and I shall relate to you as they relate to each other as a friend, this extraordinary story from its confused beginning to a sharply pointed end.

As is the case with all friends, there are still a number of sufficient similarities between the four that act as a bond which keeps them together, which perhaps more importantly, keeps them interested in each other’s welfare. In the positive sense, each are credited by their peers as being, to some degree more or less, a master within his appointed trade; the scholar, the minister, the artist and the soldier. Each member of this unique foursome understands and sympathizes with each other regarding their collective need to advance their professions to greater heights of enlightenment, and not merely by the orthodox, casual, tedious and snail-like increase of the profession’s sum total of current knowledge. Likewise does each person of the party appreciate the other men’s stubborn persistence to overcome the even more stubborn resistance to their professional contributions by the elite guardians of their specific calling; those stodgy traditionalists who will not be swayed from their long established and nigh immobile stance.

The first of the four principle players of this soon to unfold gothic mystery is one Clark Edmondson, a youthful scholar of forty-eight years of age whose boyish good looks, accentuated by fluffy light brown hair and dark brown eyes, whose smile of near perfectly set snow-white teeth and a certain disapproval for the adorning facial hair of the times, all conspire to render the appearance of a younger man in his early thirties. Clark has obtained four degrees from three different universities: a Bachelor’s degree in Anthropology, and a PH.D. in Archeology from Oxford, a PH.D. in European History from the Sorbonne in France, and a Master’s degree in Biology from the University of Rome. In exercising his mind to a degree most flexible, his tongue has become equally dexterous at English, French, Italian and Spanish—as well as minor familiarity with various Eastern European languages.

Clark was, perhaps, destined for a life of study and the attaining of greater knowledge as was demonstrated by a youthful endeavor when he disassembled his father’s pocket watch. This is no rare feat for a child, only in Clark’s case, he reassembled the device quickly and in, arguably, better working condition than when he first laid hands upon it. But such childhood successes as these gained him no credit as the other children his age simply regarded his abilities as a manifestation of an inner conceit that was not there; but in what esteem is the opinion of children held? As his boyish good looks lingered well into his teenage years, Clark appeared more like a dandy than a person destined for any manly occupation. This caused him to initially take up fisticuffs to prove his manhood since he was not about to change his personal appearance or mannerisms to satisfy his detractors; all of whom were, of course, his intellectual inferiors. As a young adult he immersed himself in study and forsook the boxing gloves, although he found pleasant physical therapy in track and field.

Originally from Manchester, he eventually called the hallowed halls of Oxford his home. Yet oddly enough, once degreed, he had only a casual interest in pursuing a career in the fields he had so arduously studied. Having been more comfortable as a student, he pursued higher learning first in France and then later in Rome. To augment his earnings he has held many seminars and lectures and has authored over a dozen successful books on a number of themes; whether he was degreed in those subjects or not. This is the beauty and efficacy of innate intelligence; it gives one an ability to discern the nuances of a subject with more credibility than a dull student’s ability to declare superficial facts; a betrayal of what little said student was able to learn.

Later, Clark accepted a teaching position at Eton and eventually the role of a staff administrator. But he soon became tired of being forced to strictly follow university protocol, no matter how pointless the rules were. He became equally frustrated by the attempts of the society patrons to encourage him to wed their daughters. He had no interest in intimacy or in marriage and family life which he felt would stymie his further educational pursuits. He thus took up residence in Exeter where he lives with an older woman, Svetlana, who is also a scholar of note; but more on her later. Clark, well past the age of physical maturity; although his mental progress still endures, stands at five feet ten inches in height and is trim in build; although this does not indicate weakness from a lack of physical activities as he still engages in an occasional cross-country run to maintain his stamina and energy. For the moment, this stamina is being put to the test as he, a rare drinker, shuffles several bottles and glasses in almost a teetotaler’s traditionally awkward attempt to prepare the drinks for his guests.

The room is rather quiet now, although a few moments ago the last of a pleasant and pleasurable discussion was still in progress; slowly drawing to a close. From the kitchen nearby can be heard the muffled chattering of three ladies, two of whom have agreed for fair remuneration to tidy up after the four excellent gentlemen and will soon be leaving for home; preparing their own abodes for the forthcoming holiday as it is now; this very moment to be exact, 9:43 pm of the clock on the eve of Christmas Eve. The third lady, the eldest and most educated of the three, Svetlana, suddenly emerged into the room silently, gathered the few remaining dishes that still adorned the table, and quickly returned to the kitchen. The room in which they dined, relieved of its supper clutter now appeared to be much more fine; more like the dwelling of a fastidious scholar sublime; with painted walls of a cheerful and light green not like the rind, but more like the tender fruit of the stimulating lime. Accented with wooden scrolls of white, the walls contrasted remarkably well with the ebony lacquered table and chairs which were upholstered with dark evergreen velvet cushions.

As Clark turned around, looking over his left shoulder, having momentarily lost memory of who drinks what concoction, the first to attract his eye was the Reverend Harold Avery. Difficult is he to miss. For Harold, even seated and partaking of one of his two vices, if vices they could be called for he attends them infrequently, is not only tall at six feet four inches in height, but he also bears a near Viking-like girth about his chest and midsection. Originally from Scarborough, Harold never imagined in his youth that he would someday pursue a passionate spiritual life. He was, after all, a sportsman in his university days: a Wrestler, Cricketer and Oarsman to name just a few. As a man in his twenties, athletically built, even for a man of such height and near to 250 lbs., feminine companionship was never far away. Yet, inexplicably, as soon as one would think that a life of carnal hedonism was his fate, something caused him to lose interest in such dalliances.

Some have proposed the notion that his lack of feminine devotion came from a sudden dissatisfaction from the physical surge of sporting locomotion; as if to posit that since he had already vanquished the world of temporal rigors, his only suitable challenge came from on high; a field and profession no single man—with the obvious exception of Jesus Christ—had succeeded in besting in a single lifetime. But those who know him best would quickly recall the summer of illness that led to an autumn of soul-searching during which time Harold composed a beautiful prayer to a Lord he had hitherto ignored:

Be now with me, oh my Lord, in my times of illness, be my sacrificial lamb; alleviate an illness which sapped my strength and exposed the fragile man I am.

Turn not thy ear from me my Lord, hearken unto the call of one would not listen to your gentle words of care, nor offer in return even a whispered adoring prayer.

Judge not my foolish ways as I squandered precious days of that gift of life that only you can give—or take away.

For from the beginning of everlasting time, the Father kept me in his heart sublime, waiting for the time when that single beat, as a life-giving bell tolls in single chime, declaring through the universe that now the gift of life is mine.

Hear my words, oh Lord, from the foundation of my soul to the end of all my days, shall I hold myself devoted to all thy words and all thy ways.

This led to his belated entry into theological pursuits. Yet, even after attaining the title of vicar in the Anglican Church, he found his interest in shepherding a flock to be less than a true man of the cloth should possess. Perhaps, as is often the case with fallible men, Harold, long and longer still separated from his bout of illness, taking a prolonged endurance of good health for granted began to forget the honorable sentiments he once transcribed to his maker. However, because of his size, matched with a genuinely pleasant nature, he rose through the ranks of his calling rather quickly. The zeal for being a pastor neither increased nor diminished, and this problem seemed to be compensated within him by the perks of such a profession which supplies earthly needs quite adequately without the need for anything closely resembling manual labor. At first, this was an equitable situation for Harold throughout his middle-age years. But as time passed and he matured, he began to take his calling more seriously.

Still, it can be said that the formidable minister is still a work in progress, even at sixty-one years of age. It is arguable that he is not sure, even now, of what he wants in life. Sometimes he desires to reform the faith in his own image and likeness; at other times he would simply like to inaugurate his own little church and be free of the shackles of higher authority. He married only once, an ill-fated union indeed as his young wife perished in a carriage accident only one year after they had taken their vows. She bore him no children. For reasons known only to him, he has had no inclinations over the years to either marry or to even court again.

Now, in his elder years, he is about 280 lbs. and still quite healthy and strong. His black hair having long since turned salt and pepper; although it bears more salt than pepper now, is combed straight back and he has well formed, almost excessive, sideburns. He is rock-jawed with dark brown eyes, and he has a tendency to vocalize the sound ay when he speaks—as in the expression Hey, what? minus the what and with the H in the word hey dropped according to popular English tradition. This expressive habit usually manifests itself at the end of a question, or a remark that seems to infer a question that seeks a comment in return. Clark, where in heaven is my gin, ay?

Coming right up, Harold, was the somewhat truthful if not entirely sincere reply by Clark who had momentarily forgotten that gin was Harold’s brew of choice. For the moment, Harold would have to be content to puff away at his Calabash; a large curling pipe that extends initially downward from the lips and then suddenly curves upward again granting the smoker a fine opportunity to sample a full wisp of discharged smoke before it ascends heavenwards. With a glass of gin smartly poured and standing at attention on a sterling silver tray, Clark’s next preparation of the entity of libation was performed with neither reservation or hesitation; a small glass of sherry for the gentleman sitting to Harold’s right, the well groomed and proper Peter Allen Daniels; artist most excellent in both painting and sculpture, although he is better known for the former than the latter. Now, bear in mind my friend and I will try—to explain that biography, like sherry, can often be dry. But if you do not know where they have initially come from, you cannot discern where they currently stand or why.

Peter is the only person in the room who was both born and raised in Exeter. His early studies included critical thinking and debate in addition to the arts. By the time he turned twenty years of age the arts became his sole passion, although he is still quite capable of the reasoning of a sound debater. As his early works of art were somewhat unappreciated by the local population of Exeter, it became clear to him that he needed to present his work throughout the country where it would be exposed to people of various tastes. This led to some success sufficient to allow him to travel to the continent where he gained a more than modest level of wealth and recognition.

As is the case with art amongst the enlightened and modern man, Peter’s progression, often seeming to exceed the cultural curve, as it were, began to outpace even the most open-minded patron. But there was a catalyst to that progression, for like a lovely tree that had fallen across a determined traveler’s path to Nirvana laid Elinor—Peter’s muse and model. She is barely more than half his age and is indeed guilty of once providing her youthful beauty for profit—and would still be plying that trade if she were not found by Peter, who treats her much more like a daughter than an object of affection. Still, having a young lady in residence without the bonds of matrimony to ennoble the relationship, their association has been the source of untold rumors by the town’s old ladies, if lady is a proper description, as their incessant chattering and gossip is born out of many inner feminine faults none of which are ladylike, nor even Christian. Though not fully scandalized, his reputation took something of a bludgeoning, enough for him to remain quietly in Exeter where he augments the wealth of his initial successes by accepting commissions from society patrons. This, however, was not the career path he had hoped for. Such commissions are necessary to keep him from drawing funds away from his principal savings, but they are not the kind of artistic work he either enjoys, or wishes to pursue professionally. And yet, Peter has acknowledged to himself, almost disturbingly, that as his artistic vision continued to develop in his heart and in his mind, the necessity of apparel worn by his model seemed to diminish proportionally. Peter’s fondest dream would be to uncover a similar progression in artistic thought from a more ancient time; thus showing that his development is rational and normal to other more previous cultures. Unfortunately, virtually all of the examples he has found so far are the product of either extremely dated civilizations which are dismissed as barbaric, or by the great masters whose legacy excuses them from such carnal thought patterns; something the less than great Mr. Daniels cannot yet lay claim to. Thus, for him, tradition is becoming the enemy and he is becoming desperate for a way to channel his artistic passions in a way that will command the assent of his peers.

Peter is thirty-nine years of age, and is the shortest amongst the mature members at five feet and seven inches in height, and because of his height, his build is more noticeable in the chest than in the arms or legs. He has black hair that is tied with a black band in the back, eyes that are dark brown, and a nose that is small and somewhat curved along the top. His lower lip is thin and his upper lip barely shows. Odd features indeed for one who can bellow with authority when excited in debate; although he always chooses his words carefully. Peter patiently waited for his drink while gently drawing—in complete contrast to Harold’s full-lunged pipe puffing—on his slender and polite three shilling cheroot. The final drink was about to be poured; a medium glass of whiskey that will find as it destination one Volker VonWaltrin, Major, German Army, retired; though Austrian born.

From his earliest childhood days, Volker, if not the entirety of his family, had been long suspected of guarding some nameless and terrible family secret; probably because their name indicated they were neither of noble lineage nor of true Austrian heritage. Because of this, the VonWaltrins became fiercely competitive, and tolerated no abuse from others. Though initially rejected by the Austrian Army, Volker soon learned it would be best for him to enter into the German Army. But Germany had an identification crisis of its own at the time, since much of its northern parts were still considered as an element of the Prussian Empire.

Because of a minor degree in military history, Volker was signed into the German Army as a junior officer. Two years into his career, he gained a reputation for tenacity and courage during the war of Sedan in 1870. His career stalled as Prussia eventually gave way to the Germany as the world knew it around 1887. By this time, he had been serving for almost twenty years. Throughout his career Volker took advantage of whatever opportunities arose and although he succeeded in making some strides in those opportunities, German nationalism seemed to prejudice him. He became uneasy as pure-blooded German officers with less experience were passing him by on the ladder of rank. To compensate, as any true VonWaltrin would do, he began to develop a personal and progressive military philosophy that he was certain would amaze the hierarchy. Instead, he and his theories were deemed as unorthodox and this was attributed to his lack of pure German blood. He retired from service in 1894 with twenty-six years to his credit, but this was hastened by rumors that a gaggle of his superiors were conspiring against him in order to have him forcibly retired. For the next four years, he traveled and wrote a few books on military training and tactics. Although the tomes were initially well-received around Europe, they eventually began to dwindle in sales. Volker suspected that the rank and file of the German army, those who first showed the most interest in his work, were being pressured by the chain of command to disavow his unorthodox philosophy for the official military philosophy of the day.

Volker left Germany with all of his belongings, as well as a fair bank account, which he had accumulated throughout his military career, augmented by royalties from his book sales, and moved to England. Though he lives humbly on investments, he found he could still afford a man-servant if he were willing to share his accommodations with him. In 1896, he had a chance encounter with a negro man named Samuel with whom he took a liking to since both were, to differing degrees, prejudiced on racial or ethnic lines; but Samuel, like Svetlana and Elinor, must wait for the nonce. Although Volker knows all within the circle of friends involved here, he is closest to Peter Allen Daniels, who on a handful of occasions has crafted military busts and paintings with either Volker as model, or with Volker’s military knowledge to guide the artistic project.

Volker is six feet tall and very well built; certainly the most muscular of all present. He speaks with only a slight German accent which usually manifests itself in the form of words such as dance and chance being pronounced as dahnce and chahnce; a vocal elocution that many well-bred Englishmen also employ. His hair is cut very short on the sides and only slightly thicker on top. He wears no sideburns or other facial hair such as a beard or moustache. His hair, once a bright blonde in his boyish days, has since turned to a light brown or what might be called a dusty or dirty blonde with specks of gray throughout that are barely noticeable due to the presence of small strands of what little blonde remains. Yet, even now, this color scheme is quite attractive when viewed in conjunction with his dark blue eyes. He is rather pedestrian in his tastes and prefers to wear an unadorned military uniform for his daily attire. He rarely laughs aloud and is more likely to offer only a smile, smirk, or stifled chuckle with his mouth closed. This gives those who do not know him well the impression that he has no overt sense of humor. But Volker’s humor often manifests itself whenever he engages in some sort of rare and capricious joke which is often funny, but never meant to ridicule.

Now is the time to move this story in a direction going forward, and introduce to you, as I have promised, since I would never do anything to you untoward, to Clark’s associate and boarder, Svetlana. The carolers are out early this year. Oh, bother . . . it is Jeremy, Reverend Avery’s ward. Very well, we shall start with him, and quick this should be as he is but a lad of some seventeen or eighteen years—no one knows for sure; not even Jeremy for he was left on the church steps as an orphan when he was but a baby. Jeremy is a redhead with green eyes; though by redhead the color of reddish brown is indicated more than a true redhead with orange hair. He is five foot seven inches in height but still growing. Jeremy is playful, but in an easy manner. He does not engage in pranks, but he has a tendency to find a moment of delight in those day to day troubles that most people find a source of anger in. This is probably due to the fact that he has not yet had to support himself; those daily responsibilities that can wear a person down have not yet burdened him. Still, while he is not the first in line to volunteer for hazardous duty, when the occasion demands a response to difficult circumstances, Jeremy usually performs well with merely a single push forward to get him started.

If Jeremy suffers from any form of inner confusion, it is probably due to the conflict between his faith in his Christianity, and the disappointment he occasionally feels when he witnesses a mature adult of the Christian faith acting less gracefully than their years should allow. Jeremy has a tendency to extrapolate spiritual perfection based on age and comparative traits. By this it is meant that Jeremy has a tendency to assume people of greater age, who have been working at their inner perfection longer than he has, should certainly show better results. Yet, he often sees adults engaging in unchristian behavior that he himself would never do. Due to his lack of years and experience with the temporal life, Jeremy has yet to learn of the debilitating nature time has on one’s hopes, dreams and ability to face the cruel reality that most people face when they reconcile to themselves the fact that they will never be what they wish to be.

As an acolyte to the Reverend, Jeremy usually wears a brown, unadorned religious cassock over his simple clothes. He is currently sitting on the shelf of a large bay window; pressed hard near a window frame that is only slightly more than merely ajar, for it is the 23rd of December and the air outside is more than fairly chilled. The gentlemen within cannot yet hear the approaching carolers, and Jeremy, always mindful of his better’s health and comfort, will not open the window any further until the song of the performers can be heard more clearly by all in attendance. Wonderful! While Jeremy waits, I may fulfill my promise.

Svetlana Korsimirov is a Russian woman who traveled to England to find the educational opportunities unavailable to women in Russia. She has had a difficult life, more difficult than many, but has stalwartly managed to make the most of her opportunities. At five feet ten inches tall, she has always carried herself with the confidence and comportment of a Tsarina. Although she had the usual youthful fantasies regarding romance, they quickly dispersed as she gained academic knowledge, finding all too often that most men presented themselves with an air of bravado matched only by a distinct aroma of stupidity.

She became far more interested in what she knew and what her mind could master than in leading a simple domesticated life replete with all of the physical exertions that attended it; such as childbirth. As she drew near to receiving her PH.D. in Philology, she was afflicted with a form of vocal cord paralysis that the attending physician misinterpreted as the result of cancerous polyps. This led him to the ill-fated decision to operate—only to find that his diagnosis was incorrect. After having finished the operation, declaring of course that it saved her life, Svetlana was left mute; only able to make an occasional hissing or high-pitched whistle sound, and even then only with tremendous physical effort. Still, she managed to find work as a librarian to the English aristocracy. Between duties, she always managed to find time to read, or study at a local library, but only if the local library was a greater depository of knowledge than her employer’s library. At irregular intervals, a university professor would engage her in research; something she always took advantage of as the subject matter delightfully changed capriciously from one project to the next.

This eventually caused her to make the chance acquaintance of a charming, yet sophisticated young professor named Clark Edmondson. Clark was different from the rest. He was brilliant for his age, and like Svetlana, was far more interested in knowledge than carnal relationship; the latter of these never was a source of difficulty or embarrassment as Svetlana is twenty years Clark’s senior. This makes her the eldest person in the group. No one is certain what her youthful hair color was for it is now fully silver-gray. Her dark brown eyes portray her face in a consistent state of calm. She is not one to panic or exaggerate, and she seems always to have a slight, casual smile which underlies an inner sense of peace. She has never been seen to frown.

Carolers, is it, ay? inquired the Reverend Avery as he turned in his chair to better face in Jeremy’s direction. Without replying to the Reverend’s question in word, Jeremy smiled slightly, opened the window a little more than it had previously been and allowed the melody of the singers to enter the room; something done easily as Clark’s house had no front yard to speak of, merely a strip of narrow grass-covered soil between the house and the street on which the group of several carolers were now slowly proceeding along.

Oh, how heaven’s angels sing,

What the word of God did bring,

A marvelous shining light,

On a frigid winter’s night,

Shepherds, shepherds, make your way,

He’s sleeping, sleeping, on the hay,

Where saints are soon to trod,

Come and greet the Lamb of God.

Oh, how heaven’s angels fly,

Bringing joy to mankind’s cry,

Repenting from within,

For to sooth the guilt of sin,

So seek him, seek him, all your days,

The savior, savior, lights your ways,

His blood will feed the sod,

Come and greet the Lamb of God.

It doesn’t sound like any English carol I have heard before, master, was Jeremy’s inquiry as the Reverend Avery raised his large and formidable frame from his chair and leaned on the bay window shelf. I don’t believe they are Englishmen and ladies, Jeremy . . . Peter, are these not the touring entertainers from the continent that you mentioned to me a few days ago, ay?

I believe so, Harold, though their name escapes me this moment, replied Peter. After a slight pause, Peter continued . . . I believe they are Eastern European, Hungarian, Romanian or the like.

... Shepherds, shepherds, make your way,

He’s sleeping, sleeping, on the hay,

Where saints are soon to trod,

Come and greet the Lamb of God.

At that moment, Clark finally returned to the dining table with silver tray in tow, obviously proud of his accomplishment that he accurately remembered the proper beverage of choice for each guest. Harold, rising up from the window’s shelf gently closed and locked the window as the singers in question were now moving down the street away from the party’s address. Jeremy, help the ladies in the kitchen. Such commands from the impressive preacher were common to Jeremy’s ears and they were quickly followed without any sense of agitation as Jeremy had learned from experience that the Reverend Avery never sets him to a task that is unimportant or belittling; something many masters inflict on their wards, usually in a spirit of domineering conceit. And so, as Reverend Avery returned to his chair at the table at the precise moment that his gin also arrived, Jeremy, with a casual grin on his face, for he knows the Reverend has charged him to aid in the cleaning up duties in hope of sharing a few quiet moments in adult conversation with his friends, smartly sprang from the bay window shelf and exited quickly through the kitchen door.

Without uttering a word, Clark completed his bartending duties: gin for Harold, sherry for Peter, whiskey for Volker and a small glass of Moscato D’Asti for himself. Though Clark is not one given to alcohol, he does on rare occasion treat himself to that crisp white wine whose meager alcoholic content would require the guzzling of at least half the entire bottle to produce even the most muted effect on the senses. Setting himself down upon an evergreen cushion opposite of Harold, Clark wondered who will render boldly without restraint, the first discussion, the first lament, the first complaint; wholeheartedly sincere, without deception or dishonest taint. For this is the one great denominator that all present hold in common, namely; a near all-consuming boredom and dissatisfaction with the holidays they once looked forward to with delight, as any person of normality would, as any common soul of society would humbly receive.

For the moment, Clark is wholly disappointed as the only audible gesture from his assorted guests came from Peter who contributed a single, but deep, exhaling sigh. You see, each man has excelled within his profession, each has noble designs to expand the limits of his calling into new boundaries, each longs to the marrow of his heart to be the next contributing hero of his field; remembered with those founding giants that they themselves were inspired by, now wishing to aspire to. Their obstacles are many: elite authoritarian figures who man the hierarchies of the day, ignorant peers, indifferent public, and, perhaps worst of all, the slow mental and spiritual torture of delay that the holidays provide. When each would much rather apply himself to his devoted cause, the celebrated dates of the calendar compel not only them, but all of society as well, to wait, hold, stop, linger for seemingly interminable hours, or even days; to resign oneself to redundant observations and tedious relaxations.

Not that they are adverse to occasionally relaxing, but that such hindrances to their duties are forced upon them when they are in the rhythm to proceed with their noble cause; the acorn of what they hope will bring forth the lifetime accomplishment that will live for centuries long after they themselves have turned to dust. Worst of all of these social stoppages is Christmas. For days, even weeks, perhaps even months before this singular festival takes place, a multitude of unhappy activities disrupt the beautiful flow of the routine schedule their lives are use to; the ongoing progress towards their goals, the measured beat of time that allows their otherwise unfulfilled lives to move forward with seeming unnotice. And even more so, the days afterwards, to the measure of a full week are equally disconcerting as all humanity pauses in eager anticipation for the forthcoming New Year celebration. None of these gentlemen are currently married, nor have any children to attend to, with the possible indirect exception that Jeremy provides the Reverend with. So the norm of the season is for each to participate in the festivities with relations; those chattering women who will aggravate the ear almost as much as the clamoring of the children will agitate the nerve. Increasingly uncomfortable with the near all-consuming apathy that seems to be infecting his friends, Clark spoke first . . .

What is wrong with us, friends? One would think we could find peace for a few days without sinking into this annual lethargy. Peter, having proclaimed the finish of his sherry by setting the empty glass upon the table with a pronounced tap, glanced to the good Reverend and passed the duty of answering the question to him.

That sounds like a question that falls within the purview of your expertise, Harold. The Reverend Avery, to the possible surprise of all present, attempted to answer Clark’s inquiry not in the traditional sense of a sermon, but more in the manner of a sinner offering confession to a priest; with serious introspection. I’m not sure of your motives, Peter, but you are essentially correct. If I can explain my feelings on the matter, if I can justify my response to what should be the highlight of my pastoral year, then I suppose I would also justify everyone else’s rationale regardless of specifics, ay? The Reverend, having pushed his empty gin glass forward, as if it were in the way, which it couldn’t possibly be, now emptied the cremated remains within the bowl of his Calabash into a pewter ashtray and then moved it forward towards the glass; as if full explanation of one’s inner self and motives required physical space, just as table space may be needed to display articles of evidence at a court trial.

"As you all know, I came to my calling somewhat later than most; not to say that I was old, but the bulk of my college years were already behind me. I entered the faith in a most peculiar fashion; part excited and eager, part uncertain and cautious. As the years passed, I became increasingly comfortable with my calling, but it seemed that just when I had the faith well understood and secure, like fog on a cool spring morning, it would suddenly slip through my fingers. First there was a resurgence of faith and hope, then a crisis that sorely tried both. Later came Emily, my beloved but erstwhile wife, and then came tragedy. It was almost as if God kept testing me just when I felt comfortable. Perhaps to see