Metanoia Page 2
Andy chimed, “What kind of special treatment?”
Our host vociferated. “First off, their boat is docked away from the rest of the competing vessels.
“Secondly, the Olympic yachting committee allowed Supercal’s sail to be flat and vertical, while all the participants’ sails are bowed.”
He paused for breath from vexation. He resumed, “A British pilot specifically flew out in yesterday’s thunderstorm to check their safety, while the rest of us had to rely on our impetus to make it to safety. In my book, they should be banned from competing. These cheaters should be eliminated from participation.”
Andy quickly changed the topic before the Arab could continue lambasting the blonds.
“Which country are they representing?” My guardian asked when we already knew they were from the United Kingdom.
“I believe one is Scottish and the other, English. They are representing Great Britain.”
I asked, “Did you know them before our meeting a few moments ago?”
“I was aware of Ronnie but had not met them until now.
“Ronnie is an intensely private individual and had kept his own counsel and the media at arm’s length. If I’m not mistaken, his first sailing victory was racing at the British School’s Championships before joining the navy.
“His current team-mate was an ex-competitor during their School’s Championship days. Their height and build gave them an added advantage in the upcoming races.
“Not to mention his unfailing determination to win and talent…” he trailed off as if reluctant to bestow his competitor further credit.
I remarked, “You and Sheik Fahrib are similarly built and were ex-classmates. Does it provide added leverage for the both of you too?”
Tad did not answer my appraisal. He remained silent before Andy commented, “In my opinion, I think he sees the press as an unwanted distraction from him winning.”
I chirped before either man had a chance to speak. “Iian mentioned they were school chums.”
“Well, in that case, they deserve each other,” the Arab sneered.
My lover and I exchanged impish glances every now and then, privately acknowledging that we knew more than our host. Tad continued his lambastes against the blondes until we bid him leave after a delicious brunch.
One thing we did not mention to the athlete; we had exchanged room numbers with the boys before his arrival at our table.
Preternatural Vs Natural (Chapter Two)
“The fairy poet takes a sheet
Of moonbeam, silver white;
Her ink is dew from daisies sweet,
Her pen a point of light.”
Joyce Kilmer
Mid-June 1968
Grasmere - Westmorland, England
Auntie Mary welcomed Andy and me with open arms, conferring faire la bise on our cheeks. She uttered excitedly, “Bonjour, vous deux. Comment êtes-vous?”
Andy responded similarly as if the two were of French descent. “Aunty Mary, you are as beautiful as ever,” my chaperone complimented before he introduced her to me.
Aunty Mary’s older brother, Herr Finckenstein was Andy’s father. In her younger years, to the chagrin of their conservative father, Herr Finckenstein Senior, Mary had eloped to France with a Frenchman. In her heyday, the vivacious Mary and her free-spirited lover were entranced by the Parisian bohemian lifestyle and were a part of the cafe society. Unfortunately, her lover’s eyes strayed to another and left the woman to care for herself. Mary’s mother urged her daughter to return to the fold, but she refused to be housed under the same roof as her orthodox father and brother, Finckenstein Junior. With a tough decision to be independent, she vowed to possess her own destiny.
Through her freewheeling connections, her career as an illustrator and writer flourished in France. She managed to carve a stable income to support herself and bought a comfortable home in rural England. It was in the English Lake District that my faerie inculcations were tangilized by my lover’s beloved Aunty Mary.
Her illustrations, writings, surroundings, and our dialogues were of subliminal proof of otherworldly existences, to an otherwise monochromatic reality; since the woman was a staunch believer of the supernal. The charming Fay Haven provided her the solitude to create.
Akin to the famous English nursery rhyme:
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And pretty maids all in a row.
Fay Haven, Auntie Mary’s charming abode was as contradictory as her person. At the drop of a hat, the artist’s charm and congeniality could be overshadowed by an outburst of melancholic apprehension. Like her beautiful edifices of blossoming roses, hollyhocks, foxgloves, primroses, pansies, and sweet peas; weedy dandelions, bluebells, clovers, and forget-me-nots were also competing for survival within this burgeoning horticultural sanctuary. Her graphic art and novels depict enchanted fairies and magical sprites in epic battles with heinous ogres and odious goblins. True to form, Mary’s real and imaginary mind had chartered a course for her subliminal creativity, and she prospered within the corporeal and the metaphysical world; even if she insisted that these contradictions were only bridges between the celestial and the sublunary.
My lover and I were blessed to have had the opportunity to spend some quality time with this extraordinary woman before she departed for her month-long vacation in Europe. My conversations with this erudite lady proved to be didactic encounters that eventually spearheaded my own artistry in the years that followed.
When it came to rancorous discussions of Herr Finckenstein Senior, Andy’s father, and the illustrator’s older brother, she and her nephew had a lot in common; since both were black sheep of the Finckenstein’s clan. When their conversations turned to family matters, I would discretely evaporate into a different corner of the cottage or garden to give them latitude to converse in private.
Catching Up
Mary commented at High Tea on the day of our arrival, “How have you been Andy? The last time I saw you, was the summer of 1965 when you returned from the Middle East.”
“Couldn’t be happier. I’m having a blast,” my chaperone responded excitedly.
“Now that you have found the love of your life, you should be ecstatic!” our hostess chimed merrily.
My chaperone and I exchanged secret glances and wondered how his aunty had knowledge of our intimate relationship.
The artist resumed, “When your beloved mother, Maria told me you were visiting with a young companion, I was keen to know more of the boy.” She turned my direction before she resumed, “Now tell me about you, Young?”
My lover replied on my behalf. “Young’s family is from Malaya. He’s my charge at school.”
“My dear Andy, you don’t have to be canny with me. I know your preference. When you visited me in Paris at thirteen, your fascination with my male friends was irreproachable. I knew you were gay then,” the sophisticate remarked cheerfully. “It’s too bad your persnickety father cannot see eye to eye with the nature of ‘true love.’ My father and brother are from a similar mold. I’m glad I followed my heart and broke away from them. Otherwise, I would have turned into a grumpy spinster.
“My advice to you dear nephew is to heed your inner voice and do what is best for you,” she counseled.
It took a moment for Andy to gather his thoughts before he replied, “You are my favorite auntie. You can read my mind before I know my thoughts.”
“My darling, you know I love you very much,” the artist trilled adoringly.
“Now that I have the privilege to meet the ‘fairy’ prince, I want to know more about Young.” She directed her gaze at me.
I was caught off guard by her exuberance, and I was afraid to say the wrong thing; so I turned the attention back to her.
“I love your art. You are a keen faery observer,” I quipped nervously.
She and my guardian burst into merriment.
Faerie Realms
Although my response to the artist’s inquiry was meant to be a compliment rather than an incipit, my chaperone gandered at me as if I’d just unlocked the doorway to another realm.
Since I did not understand the word preternatural; Mary explained, “Preternatural or praeternatural is that which appears outside or beside our natural world; where the mundane and the miraculous is suspended.”
Her comment perked my interest. I peered at her intently.
“It is the space where the sprites dwell,” she added.
I questioned inquisitively, “Have you visited this space? What is it like?”
The artist grinned before she answered, “It’s impossible to describe these domains unless you see them yourself. You may have the opportunity to visit their kingdoms when you’re at ‘The Lakes.’”
I stared at her fixedly. “How do I get to visit the fairy kingdoms?”
“By invitation,” she declared. “Magical portals will open if or when you get invited into their realms.”
I queried inquisitively, “How do I get myself invited?”
“By striving to experience life through the eyes of a child. ‘For the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, if anyone does not receive the kingdom of God like a little child, he will never enter it,’” Mary quoted from the Gospel of Luke: verses 16 & 17.
My Valet, who had remained silent, japed, “This ‘child’ likes to invite himself everywhere. He’s a handful.”
The woman countered musingly, “Ahh! If that’s the case, perhaps, this ‘fairy’ prince will be one of the lucky few who will receive invitations to the spritely realms.”
The female exhorted, “Be mindfully conscientious if you accept the fairies invitations to their kingdoms. That sprightly world is also blotched with inky enchantments, extreme ugliness, stony superficiality, forbidding malice, and agonizing tragedy. It is far richer than the make-believe fairy-tales you read in children’s books.”
My lover interposed, “I’m sure my facile auntie will also inform you that faeries are wildly attracted to all manner of creativities, and share deep affiliations with poets, artists, writers, sculptors, weavers, and musicians. Aren’t these the faery traits you told me when I was a lad?”
Mary announced lightheartedly, “My dear nephew, you forgot to mention ‘lovers.’ All arts are indebted to this invisible, capricious, sensible, delicate, incomprehensible and powerful force which we humans term as ‘inspiration’ or ‘Muse.’ It is irresistible in its present.”
I inquired blithely, “Do I fulfill the requirements you mentioned? If I do, I must do my utmost to secure an invitation to their kingdoms.”
Our spritely conversation did not terminate until well-passed supper when I excused myself to bed; to allow my lover and his aunty latitude to catch up on lost time.
October 1968
Acapulco, Mexico
Prince P, Count Mario and a certain Mrs. Andrea Swarovski (a wealthy widow from the famous Swarovski family) flew to Acapulco to join our party to witness the 1968 Summer Olympics. The dispirited Mrs. Swarovski had accompanied the Italian Count to this playground of the rich and famous in the hope that she will again find romance after her late husband’s demise. There was no lack of tall, tan and handsome men in Acapulco for this widow to preoccupy herself during the Olympic season.
The wealthy, the elite, the beautiful and the not so gorgeous had flocked to this vicinity to see, and be seen, and to get and to beget. Without exception to the rule, this wealthy Swarovski heiress had admirers and competitors who vied for her attention and to challenge her stance.
It came as no surprise to Andy and me that Mrs. Swarovski had her eyes on my Master, Tad. She, like many others, was smitten by the well-built, and suavely put together champion; even though she had no clue that this perfect specimen swung both ways. One thing she did know was that Andy and I were under the auspice of the Arab and we were stationed in his residences.
The morning after their arrival I found Mrs. Swarovski sunbathing by the hotel swimming pool. Since she was immersed in a book about mermaids and sirens, I did not want to bother her and went in search of an empty pool lounger.
“Young, come and sit by me,” she called.
“I do not wish to disrupt your reading, ma’am,” I answered politely.
“No worries. It is a book I picked up to keep me company during my travels. Besides, I’ll like to have a chat with you. Where is your chaperone?” the widow enquired.
“He is out rowing. It is one of his passions. I prefer to swim in waters where my feet touch the ground,” I replied genially.
Within the pages of her open book, I noticed an illustration of a group of sirens.
“I know the artist,” I exclaimed. “This illustration is done by an enlightened woman I met a few months ago.”
“Who is she?” the lady queried.
I answered without hesitation, “She is Andy’s, Auntie Mary. She is a prolific illustrator, and novelist in praeternatural subjects.”
“What is praeternatural?” she questioned.
I explained to her like Mary did to me. Before I could finish my explanation, she’d already changed the topic.
“Tell me about Tad?” she inquired.
Caught off guard by her question, and unsure if I should divulge confidential information about my Master, I expressed noncommittally, “Tad is a kind, generous and a benevolent man.”
She pressed, “I know that. But what is the athlete really like?”
Since it was not my place to disclose Tad’s personal information or our intimate liaisons to a stranger, I commented facetiously, “You should get to know him better and discover for yourself, rather than to listen to my titter-tatter.”
Since I was more intrigued by Mrs. Swarovski’s book than prattling about my Master, I let our conversation hang.
Beckoning You! (Chapter Three)
“I think every little gay boy is fascinated by mer-people, especially that of brawny Poseidon and strapping Triton. Or imagining themselves to be The Little Mermaid.”
Andy A. Finckenstein
Mid-June 1968
Fay Haven - Westmorland, England
“There are two reputed fairy sites near Bassenthwaite Lake, just off the main road by its banks is Castle How Fort. The other is Elva Hill. This impressive fairy hill hides the secret gateway into the otherworld. It only opens to those innocents of spirit and pure of heart,” Auntie Mary remarked.
Andy gave a smug smile before he asked, “Why is the mount called Elva Hill?”
“This is the site of Glanoventa (Walls Castle) where King Eveling, king of the faeries lives with his daughter, Modron. This is also the home of the elves, hence the name Elva Hill,” his aunt replied earnestly.
“On the southern hill slopes is a perfect Neolithic stone circle where fairies craft ‘elf arrows.’ That was before the witches took over to cast their magical charms.”
I questioned, “Do faeries still craft ‘elf arrows’ at this site?”
“Unfortunately, they retreated into obscurity after they were driven away by the witches. Young, when the both of you visit Bassenthwaite Lake, you’ll find The Dodd, it is a heavily wooded fell that rise above the southern end. At dusk, discarnate voices and shadowy figures lurk amongst trees during the summer and winter solstices.
“Spiritualist, such as myself believe that during the Dark Ages, condemned witches return to haunt this vicinity,” she exhorted. “Bassenthwaite Lake is a ‘thin place’ and a beautiful area to visit and to enjoy a day out in the country.”
“What’s a ‘thin place,’” I queried.
The spiritualist answered, “It’s a spot in the landscape where the enchanted veil perforates through to the other dimension and is
easily penetrated for those seeking magic and mystery.”
October 1968
Hotel Casablanca - Acapulco, Mexico
Count Mario appeared when Mrs. Swarovski handed me her book. “Here, you can have it since you’re so captivated by its contents. I’ve other reading materials to keep me occupied; besides this handsome man,” she commented as she gazed at her friend, the attractive photographer.
Mario said jestingly. “You, ‘Ms. Merry Widow’ has a way of making me feel delectable.”
“Aren’t you?” she chimed jocosely.
It was evident that she once had the hots for the Italian until she discovered his homosexual preference. Since their interest laid in luxury consumerism and the accumulation of attractive males; they became platonic pals.
Changing the topic, the Count teased, “‘Countess’ (a nickname he gave his pal), who do you have eyes on now?”
She glanced at me to indicate that I was not to reveal the nature of our prior conversation.
Instead, the widow reverted Mario’s question back at him, “And who do you have your eyes on, Count?”
The duo burst into merriment before the playboy negated, “Shall I ask this young man? I’m sure Young will tell me all your naughty little secrets, ‘Countess.’”
They continued playfully, each trying to outdo the other.
I excused myself, to a quiet corner to delve into my newly acquired book.
Before I left, Mario asked amusingly, “Is this woman inculcating you with spry lore?”
“I’m intrigued by mer-people, and Mrs. Swarovski kindly loaned me her book,” I stated.
The Italian quipped, “Did you hear the wailing sirens when you were at sea with Tad and Fahrib?”
Although I knew his banter was a wisecrack, I blurted, “Indeed, I did, sir.”
“You did?” he exclaimed at my repartee.