The Hermeporta
Beyond the Gates of Hermes
Volume 1 in The Hermeporta Series
Hogarth Brown
Copyright © 2017 Hogarth Brown
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9781521801093
DEDICATION
I dedicate this book to all the great minds that have contributed to the progress of human thought, and have thus shaped all our lives: past, present, and future.
The Canonical Hours
Matins (approximately midnight); also, called Vigils or Nocturns or the Night Office
Lauds or Dawn Prayer (at Dawn, or 3 a.m.)
Prime or Early Morning Prayer (First Hour = approximately 6 a.m.)
Terce or Mid-Morning Prayer (Third Hour = approximately 9 a.m.)
Sext or Midday Prayer (Sixth Hour = approximately 12 noon)
None or Mid-Afternoon Prayer (Ninth Hour = approximately 3 p.m.)
Vespers or Evening Prayer ("at the lighting of the lamps", generally at 6 p.m.)
Compline or Night Prayer (before retiring, generally at 9 p.m.)
Contents
Acknowledgements
About the book
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1:
The Promise
Chapter 2:
The Dwelling Place
Chapter 3:
The Sacrifice
Chapter 4:
Space
Chapter 5:
Transformation
Chapter 6:
The Strangers
Chapter 7:
A Self Remembered
Chapter 8:
The Dance
Chapter 9:
The Fugitives
Chapter 10:
The Convent of San Matteo
Chapter 11:
The Bedchamber
Chapter 12:
Bedlam and the Blue Madonna
Chapter 13:
After a Deep Sleep
Chapter 14:
The Witch’s Ball
Chapter 15:
A return to Rome
Chapter 16:
A Steep Learning Curve
Chapter 17:
Hekate’s Message
Chapter 18:
Love’s Revenge
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I just wanted to thank all those that have supported me in this epic effort that is novel writing: one of the most sinew straining and exhausting of Man’s intellectual efforts, yet one of the most rewarding. To write a book is like birthing a child and forging a sword at the same time. The Novel: at once a baby that needs constant nurture and attention, lest it starve and perish from neglect, and at once a sword that must be forged, and hammered till rid of dross, so that it can shine and be strong enough to defend the author from the blows of battle. I wish my child the strength to bare its sword, and to withstand the ravages of time.
About the book
Winston sets out to teach the world, but it is he that has the most to learn.
Prologue
Time is like a web of golden thread, and life is like the dew that clings to it - in the light a necklace of diamonds, in the dark a veil of tears.
Muckross House, Killarney, Ireland late summer 1967
‘You can’t catch me’ shouted Neave, as her brother chased after her through the long grass. The pair stirred the meadow with the zig-zags of their chase - scattering dandelion seeds into the September sunshine. The twelve-year-old ran skipped and shrieked between attempts by her brother to keep up with her. Winston dropped his book, as he chased his little sister, and ran back to rescue it from the meadow flowers as butterflies dashed out of his way.
‘You never put down that book’, shouted Neave, thumbing her nose. Her freckles and dark hair caught the light.
‘It’s Ovid - a very important book’ yelled back the fourteen-year-old,
‘Well, I don’t care because I’m going to be important one day’ said Neave, before she blew a loud raspberry at her older brother, and stuck her middle finger up in the air.
Winston took in a breath,
‘You're naughty. Where did you learn that? I’m going to tell mother when we get back to the teahouse.’ Neave shook her head, stuck out her jaw, and taunted Winston again by stroking her chin as if she had a long beard. The girl then cried out with excited pleasure when Winston gave chase again.
Neave ran, outpacing Winston, towards the trees of an enclosed bank on Killarney Lake. Winston chased her as long as he could before he stopped. He held his ribs and tried to catch his breath in the hot sunshine.
Neave pranced about and laughed at her brother’s fatigue; as the pair were watched from the dappled shade of the undergrowth and trees.
‘C’mon, don’t stop. I want to see the waterlilies’ Neave protested, before Winston, panting, sat himself down, knees up, in the long grass. He flapped his arm through the air to wave her off before he opened his book and started to read. Neave put her hands on her hips and scowled. She glared at her brother as she saw him relaxing: waggling his tanned legs, feet in sandals, one leg crossed over the other. ‘You’re boring’ said Neave, after she crunched back through the grass to stand over Winston.
‘I don’t care' said Winston, 'because I’m going to be someone important one day too.’ Neave crossed her arms, and she narrowed her blue eyes as she looked down at her older brother. Winston ignored her.
‘All you do is read that book’ she protested, but Winston continued to leaf through the pages. Neave spun herself, in her summer dress dotted with flowers, to get his attention - she failed. Neave then stamped her foot, ‘stop ignoring me’, she said. Winston turned away from her and then noticed a spider in the grass next to him spinning its web, the silvery strands of its silk glinted in the light. He watched the spider do its work and mused on what he would say next to his sister.
‘The ancient Greeks knew almost everything about everything’ sighed Winston, observing the spider pull silk from itself as it began to add a spoke to its web. Winston took in a deep breath of the scented meadow air and stretched out his arm to the sky as if addressing a crowd of people. Neave recognised the gesture and huffed - anticipating what was coming as her older brother readied himself: ‘imagine having all the greatest minds of all time in one place debating against the greatest Greeks - which side do you think would win?’ Neave looked up to the sky, blowing air out of her nostrils, before she rooted around in the grass, and plucked a flower from its stem and sniffed it. ‘They have lots of wise stories’ Winston continued, while Neave played with the flower, ‘that’s why the Romans copied them you know? Don't you think so Nymph?’ said the teenager. Neave let out a sigh,
‘Stop calling me nymph’ she said,
‘But they’re beautiful creatures’ said Winston. Neave smirked, blushed, and then started playing with her hair. Winston smiled to himself: whenever he wanted to sooth Neave’s short temper, he would pay her a compliment. Neave then puffed out her chest.
‘When I grow up I want to be like Anne Foley and win The Rose of Tralee competition - she’s got dark hair just like me’ said Neave, standing up, before moving with grace and accepting an imaginary sash over her head like the one she had seen the winner receive on television. Winston rolled his eyes before he turned the page of his book,
‘You’re not that pretty’ he said. Neave gasped.
‘I am pretty, you liar, Nana told me so, she said I could be a ROSE, she said I could win the competition one day… and Nana never tells lies.’ Neave chewed her lip, as her eyes began to sting with tears. Winston shrugged before he ignored his sister again. Neave clenched her fists, as Wins
ton hummed and continued to turn the pages of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. She stood still for a while before she spoke:
‘I think you’re just like Narcissus’ said Neave, remembering the old myth Winston often told her, ‘you stare all day at your books, but you’re only looking for yourself’ she declared, before she stepped forward to kick the book out of Winston’s hands. Winston gasped,
‘You’re a spoilt brat’ he hissed, and turned to stare at his sister. Neave covered her mouth. Winston snatched up the spider next to him and tossed it at her. The startled spider landed on Neave’s neck and tickled her flesh as it tried to escape. Neave screamed, trying to brush the spider off herself. She detested spiders, ‘Arachne’s chasing you’ Winston laughed, as Neave flapped at herself. Winston then went to fetch his book from the grass, as Neave rid herself of the spider.
‘You’re wicked - I’ll show you’ she shouted back, ‘I can become a real nymph, I can bring the stories to life - I bet then you would listen to me’ said Neave, before she stomped off towards the bank of trees that faced the lake. Winston saw her walking away drawing closer to the shadows, before glancing up towards Muckross house, in the distance, where he knew his mother and grandmother would be enjoying coffee, gossip, and a slice of cake in the teahouse. When he found his book, he heard his sister singing, as she often did, in her high sweet voice contenting herself. Neave passed through the trees and undergrowth singing before she emerged and saw the expanse of blooming waterlilies that stretched out in front of her. She observed the frogs that leapt from one lily pad to another, smiled, and acted as if she was a magical princess within in her enclave. Neave looked at the water of the wider lake, dark and vast, and then at the water closest to her.
‘It’s not too deep’ she muttered to herself, as she slipped off her dress and unplaited her dark hair. Neave continued to sing as she stepped into the cold water, and enjoyed the freshness touch her pale skin - a relief from the hot September sunshine - her toes tangling with lily roots, as she felt fish brush past her legs.
Neave, oblivious, lost in reverie, walked down to her waist into the water before she picked a lily and placed it in her hair. She stood, amongst the blooming flowers and the dragonflies, arms raised, singing her favourite traditional songs that her Grandmother had taught her, bright and clear, across the water at the top of her voice - a twig fell and broke on the ground behind her. Winston listened to the distant sound of his sister’s voice - they were alone this far from the main house - and mused that he would have told Neave that she was talented if she were not so headstrong. With a loud splash, Neave’s song ended. Winston blinked for a few moments before he sat up.
‘Neave, are you OK?’ said Winston, putting down his book. No answer came. Winston stood up, ‘Neave… can you hear me?’ He stood and listened - silence, except for the rustled sound of crickets singing in the grass. Winston’s walk then turned into a sprint as he bolted towards the trees. ‘Neave!’ Winston shouted - his heart racing by the time he reached the undergrowth. He scanned his surroundings, trying to remember where she had entered, but worried he had the wrong place. Winston called his sister’s name several times again, his voice cracking, but no response came. Panic flashed through Winston’s body; he ran through the undergrowth, his face scratched by branches.
‘Neave’ he yelled again, seeing a flash of silver in the shadows ahead. He dashed forward once more before he saw something lying on the ground. He drew closer and saw where Neave’s flowered dress lay on the soil, next to her shoes. He could not see his sister anywhere. Winston looked at the waterlilies that swayed, as if stirred, in the water. He stood paralysed. Winston wanted to dive in, but a feeling from the water frightened him. Winston turned this way and that, and ran further along up the bank, till his lungs burned, but to no avail. He could not see her. Winston shook all over. ‘Where are you?’ Winston croaked, before he threw up his hands to the side of his head, and howled in anguish till his voice echoed off the hills overlooking the lake.
Winston never saw his little sister again.
Chapter 1
The Promise
The Kings Road, London, Summer 1975
Gerald gave a ragged wave to the barman, after drinking yet another ‘Rusty Nail’, before he shuffled out of the Chelsea Potter pub, and staggered into the evening dusk that had gathered on the Kings Road. The sun had baked London all day, and the heat oozed back up from the pavements to envelop the fifty-four-year-old in an embrace that chafed at him like a woolly scarf. Street pigeons flew up to the roof-tops to stuff themselves into their dung streaked crevices, in contrast to the chic promenade below, and the birds, in their habits, had taken on much of the characteristics of London: grubby, crowded, and in need of a good wash. Gerald loosened another button on his pale blue shirt that grew damp at the pits,
‘Damn this heat’ he muttered to himself, and fussed with the grey coat slung over his arm, and tugged at the waist of his blue corduroy trousers, ignoring the sweat between his thighs, before he rolled up his sleeves, chastised himself under his breath, and shambled south along the Kings Road. Gerald looked at other walkers as he made his way along, and shook his head as fellow pedestrians walked past in hot pants - if they were female - skimpy shorts - for many of the males - and flares for much more: an item of clothing Gerald could not understand. ‘Why must people walk around as if they’re dressed for the beach?’ he grumbled to himself, and attempted to move past the Chelsea Old Town Hall but tripped and fell on the dusty steps of the Victorian building, after he stumbled into a man walking with his girlfriend from the opposite direction.
‘Are you alright?’ said the woman as her boyfriend, with some effort, tugged Gerald up from the steps.
‘I’m fine’ Gerald bit back and ignored the frown upon his helper’s foreign face. He waved the couple off, their comments a muffled distraction at the back of his mind.
‘Could you smell him?’ The accented man said to his girlfriend, and she nodded. The couple paused to watch Gerald’s ramshackle advance down the Kings Road.
‘He must have been drinking for hours?’ she said before she pulled her lover along to continue their night together. The street lamps above began to give off a gaudy amber light, although the sky still clung in places to the sunset that had abandoned the humid air - air that carried a whiff of swollen bin liners that had bloated in the sun. Gerald swooned, lurching back, as a red double-decker bus swerved to avoid him as he drifted into the road.
‘Watch where you’re going’ shouted the bus conductor, swinging from his pole on the number 19 bus, as Gerald lumbered back to the pavement. The conductor shook his head as the middle-aged man gave him a one-fingered salute, and carried on his meandering procession. Professor Gerald Sloane, an educated man, had done well at Cambridge and liked his status as a lecturer on Greek Antiquity, and often enjoyed popping into the antique shops to tell the owners that a prized vase of theirs was a fake, or congratulating them, in turn, upon acquiring a great find. Many of the shop owners along the Kings Road were old friends, and they had seen the worry creep, in ever deeper furrows, across his broad and angular face. ‘He’s not quite himself’ they would mutter to others when he left their premises and made his way to the pubs.
The traffic hummed along, punctuated by the rattling ding-ding-splutter of double-decker buses: full of some passengers that sprung to the pavements at their leisure. Whenever the buses paused, the fashionable leapt above dark plumes of exhaust fumes - they: so keen, lithe, and shiny to arrive, plat formed heeled, upon the newest thrill. Those left behind, the grey and beige of London, looked on and wondered aloud from where they got their spending money. Gerald spied some Union Jack’s, with two black letters in the far corners, in a few of the terrace windows above the shops, although the flags were smaller than in other parts of the city, he raised a brow and wiped at his clammy skin. He walked past the colourful shop fronts, some too garish for his taste, but smiled at the vintage charity shops that sold clothes from the ‘flapper�
��s’ era. Gerald closed his eyes for a moment to recall his mother and father, embraced, enjoying the heights of their age. Gerald’s expression curdled, after he opened his eyes, as he walked along when he observed alien creatures that had gathered outside the Kings Road Theatre.
‘They ought to shut the place down’ he mumbled as he wobbled past excited fans of the Rocky Horror Show, dressed as they were in outlandish colours and striking makeup, resembling, to him, a gaggle of Macaws blown into London by a strange and foreign wind. ‘Sweet Jesus’ Gerald exclaimed further on, before he swiped his hand across his sweating brow, ‘what’s this place coming too?’ He shook his head with an incredulous gesture in the direction of a fashion boutique with the word ‘SEX’ written in huge pink PVC covered letters hung above the shop door.
Gerald zig-zagged to navigate the traffic of Ford Escorts, Austin 1800’s, and Opel Mantas. He ignored the jarring honks from the elderly driver of a goggle-eyed Triumph Herald, forced to swerve on its clapped-out axles and burp a cloud of soot from its exhaust. Once across the junction, Gerald advanced to the pink framed shop windows to peer inside. He looked at an event taking place within as he scrutinised a collection of odd looking people assembled inside. They listened to music, from a record player, that seemed to screech at him: the words sounded profane, but Gerald found what he heard unintelligible. He saw a woman among the group wearing a scrap of tartan tossed over her shoulder, clad with black PVC, her glossy body stocking cut out, here and there, to expose her pale flesh. With her lips painted dark, her hair orange and erect, she sipped red wine from a mug and passed among her acolytes, and clothes, which were as strange as herself.
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