“...Friendship is precious, not only in the shade, but in the sunshine of life, and thanks to a benevolent arrangement the greater part of life is sunshine.”
--Thomas Jefferson
The guest continued, “Our further discussions, when not pursuing the trail of our story, shall be predicated upon that diagram.” He pointed to the young man's notepad and the drawing upon it. I made the comparison earlier between this mathematical symbol and language. Before we go on, it might be useful for you to know why. Language allows people to communicate, this is clear, but what do people say to one another? An experiment made on this subject yielded the realization that the vast majority of what we discuss is the delivery of information, or recounting, to someone who wasn't there when something transpired in the past and the rest is what may happen in the future.
This is not possible for lower forms of life, let alone necessary. The rest of nature exists in the present, they may have a sense of the impending, and a memory of the recent, but for the purpose of their lives it is immaterial. The recognition of a history and the expectation of a future is integral to being human, thus our vocalizations had to account for these. An organization of labels and directions, understandable expressions of tangibles and intangibles had to be structured in such a way to provide unambiguous communication from one person to another. To imagine that it 'just happened,' is not only implausible but contradicts the evidence of the rapid diaspora of man across the continents in cohesive groups accomplishing cooperative feats of civilized development.
A very high attainment of reason alone explains this conundrum. It is within the fabric of that reason that an understanding of the realities of the world had to have permeated their efforts. This yielded that diagram in front of you. It is a map and it is an explanation. It is the repository of earliest reason as much as language itself...”
“But as you mentioned before, any whole phenomenon, you said could be described by an octave? I did take a course or two at university and the octave we know is diatonic; not the pattern in this symbol at all.” The young host asserted with a mixture of confidence and curiosity in his voice.
“That is the nature of a symbol, isn't it? Like a compass, it points to a direction without offering instructions for how to get there? Armed with the knowledge that all things could be explained through the interactions of these two ideals: a trinity of forces, and a seven-folded expression of those forces, compels the seeker to exercise that same capacity for reason in order to discover an instruction manual---the understanding---from which the symbol was obtained. Clever, don't you think?” added the guest with a wink.
“Why didn't they just say, 'Hey here's the pattern of all existence. Follow these instructions and you will be all you can be!' Why the mystery?” objected the host.
“I see, so you think the language you use now is the same used a hundred years ago, or a thousand years ago, how about thirty, or forty thousand years ago? No? And to respond directly to your skepticism, that is exactly what they did. While the structure and basic components of language have changed little in the intervening years, its usages and application have definitely evolved dramatically. Yet, it has been vaulted to the point that we accept, without question, the saying: 'A picture is worth a thousand words,' this does a disgraceful injustice to the picture however flattering it may be to the language of words and wordsmiths. For no matter how precise the language, it can not perform the same duty as the picture. Which is why they chose a mathematical symbol, a picture. Math is math, unchanging; the objective language, if you will.” And he pointed at the symbol again. “Mystery is merely a lack of knowledge and understanding. All men may be created equal, but few realize their possibilities. There is only so much gold isn't a justification for the rich and self-satisfied, it is a statement of consequences. Reason is gold and its power is life changing.”
The ocean was as if the starry night sky was persuaded to exchange places with Earth, and was laid out before him. He had never perceived that there could be such vastness in the world, nor that he should be a part of it. As the lights of New York disappeared over the horizon behind the ship leaving only a glow on the low clouds to mark its unfaltering presence, Kaitlyn pressed close to Harry as they stood on the stern deck and she said goodbye to America and home. Harry did not feel the separation as keenly. Home for him was always with him, comforting and guiding his thoughts and feelings. Mere distance could not sufficiently intervene, but the immensity of the sea, with its tempo of solitude, he felt deeply inside himself and it played in harmony with his spirit as a swelling call to greatness.
Once again, Mr. Allcock and himself were dining partners of the Spelmans. It was a shift of scenery only, as the conversations, the pauses and the laughter carried forward as they had at the Chelsea. Though now, Harry was less simply Mr. Allcock's traveling companion and more a full member of the little party. He was asked his opinions on topics under discussion, deferred to in matters of a practical nature, and generally respected as an equal. This was fuel for Kaitlyn's pride for her new friendship with the young man of many talents.
Harry settled into his studies, read and reexamined his knowledge of the texts and formulae represented in the tomes until he should at last be convinced that he knew the material. Mr. Allcock and Mr. Spelman met and enjoyed the company of Captain Hamilton Perry and in turn the ship's captain found time to enjoy their company as well. The trio could be seen in any corner of the ship, during any of the captain's time away from the bridge. Mrs. Spelman mostly stayed in her cabins the first couple days, unaccustomed to sea travel and suffering the maladies attendant upon the traumatic difference between land and rolling swells. Kaitlyn mothered her, read to her, fetched and cleaned her, dressed and bathed her until at last Yolanda was inured to the constant motion of shipboard life. The weather held. Those first days were bright with few clouds, the nights were starry beyond belief, and always the ocean spread past reckoning around them, calling them onward.
After an early supper, almost midway through the voyage, Kaitlyn was called upon by her mother to entertain their little party and the few others in attendance in the mid-ship's salon. The others watched as Kaitlyn went to her father's side and engaged him in a silent meeting. He rose, nodding, and advanced to the piano. With all eyes raised in surprise, he tested its tune and began to play an intricate melody. Kaitlyn's voice, a full whisper at first, rose to harmony and then into counterpoint with the music. Her resonance and command of the piece truly enthralled the audience. Her voice rang through the little hall in a triumphant appeal, then fell into echoing supplication, and gathered itself in the air into a crescendo of glorious beauty, and then, as quickly as it had begun, it trailed into silence. In a moment's pause, during which they might hope for the performance to continue, it was finally recognized for the end it was, and a wave of applause and genuine pleasure sounded through the room like a clap of thunder as it washed back upon Kaitlyn and her father. Her beaming smile and her father's expression of devotion and pride met the roar, and the performers bowed their appreciation for the response, a little taken aback that so few an audience could produce so loud an ovation. When they returned to their places in the little gathering, and Kaitlyn was again seated next to her friend, it was Harry's comments to which Kaitlyn most attended.
“Wow,” he could just vocalize in whispered awe, and it was Kaitlyn's turn, at last, to feel idolized and special. “That was angelic. Your voice is so clear and strong, and commanding and entreating and sweet and perilous and...” Harry was having difficulty managing his modifiers in the expression of his complete rapture of her performance. “You're beautiful... Your voice is magnificent, I mean,” he stammered.
“Thank you, Harry. Thank you very much,” demurred Kaitlyn, in quiet ecstasy that her new friend was so taken with her skill and talent.
“And Mr. Spelman,” Harry turned to Lawrence, “You play as a virtuoso!”
“Thank you Mr. Livingson.” said Mr. Spelman simply, still delighted in his daughter's performance. “As you can see, Kaitlyn was quite convincing when she insisted that she pursue public performance.”
“No doubt, no doubt could remain,” added Mr. Allcock enthusiastically.
“But I will not always have you to accompany me, father, and because of that I am sometimes unsure of my resolve,” said Kaitlyn sincerely.
“Nonsense Kat, you shall succeed honorably, always,” replied her father.
The smile which played on Harry's face carried him through the night and into the morning, so that at breakfast the next day he was still as enchanted as much as the evening before. This was not lost on Kaitlyn, nor anyone else. This was a brightness which outshone the gathering clouds of the eastern sky---now aflame at sunrise. As seafarers knew, it was an ill omen of the weather to come.
Kaitlyn and Harry strolled the promenade deck, enjoying the fresh scent of sea air. She revisited the evening in the city when they left the theater and were delayed momentarily by that band of four louts. “Harry, why were you so coy about admitting to your training before; when I asked if you knew about the Ten Tigers?”
Harry explained to her, “My ancestors would turn in their graves to know that someone, or group, used the external training of their art for self-aggrandizement. It is a mockery of the discipline and is a shallow expression of true understanding.” He continued, “You see Kaitlyn, my own training was the result of my heritage, a legacy of devotion and knowledge passed from parent to child in an unbroken trust, generation to generation. As my father told me, 'There will always be the opportunity to do the right thing... some would use these skills to fill a void in their heart where Conscience should be and exercise that power to influence others, but you must not succumb to such a temptation, our service is in humility and faithfulness, without selfish gain, nor personal merit.' So, hearing about the Ten Tigers was somewhat reprehensible to me, and I only wished to distance myself from any taint of exhibitionism they represent.”
Kaitlyn thought intently upon his words. Perhaps because they were the most he'd strung together in a personal account, since she'd met him. Yet she also felt the earnest appeal to her sense of integrity which he expressed so clearly. “I see. And I understand, now, why you were so off-hand after that encounter on the street. You didn't want to have revealed, so publicly your own formidable skill; lest you might be cast in the same mold as those you so pity for their own lack of depth.”
Harry stopped walking. He turned and looked at Kaitlyn as if seeing her for the first time.
“What is it Harry? Did I say something wrong?” She petitioned.
“Not at all. I am just so very touched by your perceptiveness and insight. That is so rare in most people.” He replied. Kaitlyn blushed and walked on, pulling him along, embarrassed a little that he should acknowledge her with such candid respect.
The clouds continued to press towards them, even as the ship raced onward. The lowering sky at last forced people into their cabins and the public places of the ship's interior. Harry escorted her to her state room and went to his own rooms just down the passageway on the same deck. He tried to imagine a storm at sea, and was carried into his own memory of the 'great storm,' and his first taste of helplessness in the face of forces beyond his strength to manage. He settled into a chair, selected a book, and had just begun to read when there came a fervent knocking upon the stateroom door. He set down the book and was putting his coat back on as he opened the door. Kaitlyn was there, trembling, though her eyes revealed her determination to remain calm.
“Harry, please come to our rooms, mother is frantic at the rocking of the ship and is in such a state...” She trailed off frailly. “I don't know what to do to help her. Father is up on the bridge with Mr. Allcock and the Captain.” Harry was locking the door behind him and following her along the passage already. They entered the Spelman's rooms and Harry went to the side of Mrs. Spelman who looked up at him with terror behind her eyes.
“Hello, Mr. Livingson,” she said, “I'm afraid I'm not...” A loud creaking and a sudden rocking of the ship cut her words short, and she gasped and fell into a tense quiet. Harry sat next to her and reached for her hand. She grasped at it as if it were a life line, and gripped it tightly.
“This reminds me of a storm we faced on the Tahoe several years ago. May I tell you the story?” His voice was comforting and calm, and for a moment soothed her racing heart. Kaitlyn sat down on her other side and took her mother's other hand.
Harry began his story. “It was early spring, and the crisp air of the mornings invited a sense of invigoration after the harshness of the last winter. White Feathers, Jameson---my best friend, and Titania were riding the mountain trails southwest of the Great Tahoe. Hipolyta and I had just spent the morning putting out fresh linens in the lodges for the coming guests at the start of the new season. My father and mother were making last minute repairs and the final grooming of the bungalows' buildings and grounds, when the eastern winds came stampeding across the lake.
The riders crested the summit of a ridge with a commanding view of the lake and surrounding mountain range. White Feathers saw the advancing storm and cursed his inattention to the gradually rising wind and fading light of the sun. “Make for that outcrop up to the right, there!” he called ahead to the backs of the riders in front of him. He was able to keep his voice level, but with imperative surety. They had just begun to dismount after reaching the steep sheltering escarpment, when a rolling boom struck the canyon walls. Titania's old gelding shied in terror, and she grasped the reins with all her might to wrestle the rearing horse back to the ground.
“Take off their saddles and gear, but leave on the reins. Tie them off to that tree, and make sure your knots are tight,” instructed White Feathers. They arranged the saddles over the trunk of an oak which reached outward in a tortuous angle from a cleft in the granite crag, and hitched the horses to it securely. The overhang of the outcrop offered little shelter for the three of them, but it would have to do. The old man strung a rope across the opening, made it taut, and bunched their saddlebags into the nook at the back. “Titania, help Jameson get out some food for us before the rain hits and we'll lose the chance for a meal.”
The young man and young woman made a hasty serving of the few provisions they carried for the excursion. “Where did this come from Great-Uncle? It was such a beautiful sunrise,” asked Titania looking across the narrow canyon at the treetops being whipped in the early fury of the growing winds.
White Feathers followed her gaze, “The Sierras are as fickle as a debutant at her first ball, sweetheart. They can fall into a rage faster than a peregrine dives. I should have heeded her first whispered hint in that early eastern sky, crimson and fiery, when we were only a mile or two out of the village. I'm getting thick in the head, I suppose.”
Jameson felt the first few timid drops of rain, “Well it's here now.” He observed without emotion.
“You two pull on your rain gear and tie yourselves onto that rope, its going to get slippery here, very fast, and I don't want to have to chase down this canyon after either of you,” said White Feathers as he donned a poncho and demonstrated with his own length of cord.
The full force of the storm blasted them in their perch like a wall falling onto them, and they crowded up under the outcrop to hide from the brunt of its savagery. White Feathers was relieved at the kids' lack of fear and earnest patience through the storm. His pride in them kept his own grip tight and his heart warm. The horses bowed their heads in surrender to the onslaught and simply stood like statues as the rain pelted their flanks and backs.
Titania let go with one hand to clear her face of moisture, only for a moment. Her foot slipped just then and she began a sudden slide beneath the safety rope. Jameson was quicker than the flash of lightening which struck out at the same moment, and held her in his embrace, safe from gravity and and the fall. She gasped in relief at her lost footing so quickly checked by his instant reflex, and lingered without struggle in his arms perhaps longer than really necessary to regain her balance. White Feathers noticed but said nothing, whatever kept them from worrying in the face of the peril facing them was alright with him. Jameson only loosened his hold when she thanked him aloud in a voice of both gratitude and intimacy.
Meanwhile, my father and mother, and Hipolyta and myself were latching shutters on the house and lodges against the brutal gusts of rain, flying sideways in their flight before the terrible storm. Slipping through the muddy torrents coursing from the Main Street down the Lakeside Road, we reached the shelter of the porch and I went with father around to shutter the store windows, just in case the winds shifted suddenly and threatened from the north. Hipolyta and mother disentangled themselves from their rain hoods and boots and hung their clothes over a line in the kitchen which they'd strung for drying. They went to the bathroom, toweled off and put on dry garments.
When father and I came in, we followed suit and in a little while we sat around the hearth and sipped hot tea, as the winds and rains lashed at the shutters and roof in a noisy percussive concert. “I wonder where Titania and Jameson were when this hit?” asked Hipolyta out loud, staring into the embers of the fire hoping to see an answer there as if it were a crystal ball.
Mother answered quickly, “White Feathers will have seen it rising and prepared them for the blast. They'll be just fine.” Her voice was quieter than certainty suggested and I looked in my father's face for some hint of salvation from my own thoughts of foreboding and helplessness. Father was calm, and steady in the gaze he returned to my searching eyes, “This reminds me of my first storm in these mountains. I had just set up a tent---In a low area of a wash, it turned out, and I hadn't seen to the horse's tether. The rains marched through as if they were iron instead of water, and when in an hour or two the wind abated enough for me to look around, my wagon had floated off, the horse had bolted, and I was knee deep in a stream of runoff where my tent had been. And there I was holding onto the rope which once held up my tent pole.” He actually smiled in the recollection, and we had to smile with him at the image he described. The moment was short-lived as a peal of thunder deafened us, and our thoughts snapped back to the plight of our missing family. “These winds always remind me of a story every child, at least where I grew up, knows well.” Father then began a story, to which we all listened intently.
“Once in China there lived an old widow and her son, Chen. The widow was known all over for the brocades that she made on her loom. Weaving threads of silver, gold, and colored silk into her cloth, she made pictures of flowers, birds, and animals, so real they seemed almost alive. People said there were no brocades finer than the ones the widow wove. One day, the widow took a pile of brocades to the marketplace, where she quickly sold them. Then she went about buying her household needs. All at once she stopped. “Oh, my!” Her eye had been caught by a beautiful painted scroll that hung in one of the stalls. It showed a marvelous palace, all red and yellow and blue and green, reaching delicately to the sky. All around were fantastic gardens, and walking through them, the loveliest maidens. “Do you like it?” asked the stall keeper. “It’s a painting of Sun Palace. They say it lies far to the east and is the home of many fairy ladies.”
“It’s wonderful,” said the widow with a shiver and a sigh. “It makes me want to be there.” Though it cost most of her money, the widow could not resist buying the scroll. When she got back to her cottage, she showed it to her son. “Look, Chen. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful? How I would love to live in that palace, or at least visit it!” Chen looked at her thoughtfully. “Mother, why don’t you weave the picture as a brocade? That would be almost like being there.”
“Why, Chen, what a marvelous idea! I’ll start at once.” She set up her loom and began to weave. She worked for hours, then days, then weeks, barely stopping to eat or sleep. Her eyes grew bloodshot, and her fingers raw. “Mother,” said Chen anxiously, “shouldn’t you get more rest?”
“Oh, Chen, it’s so hard to stop. While I weave, I feel like I’m there at Sun Palace. And I don’t want to come away!” Because the widow no longer wove brocades to sell, Chen cut firewood and sold that instead. Months went by, while inch by inch the pattern appeared on the loom. One day, Chen came in to find the loom empty and the widow sobbing. “What’s wrong, Mother?” he asked in alarm. She looked at him tearfully. “I finished it.” The brocade was laid out on the floor. And there it all was—the palace reaching to the sky, the beautiful gardens, the lovely fairy ladies. “It looks so real,” said Chen in amazement. “I feel like I could step into it!” Just then, a sudden wind whipped through the cottage. It lifted the brocade, blew it out the window, and carried it through the air. The widow and her son rushed outside, only to watch the brocade disappear into the east. “It’s gone!” cried the widow, and she fainted away. Chen carried her to her bed and sat beside her for many hours. At last her eyes opened. “Chen,” she said weakly, “you must find the brocade and bring it back. I cannot live without it.”
“Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll go at once.” Chen gathered a few things and started to the east. He walked for hours, then days, then weeks. But there was no sign of the brocade. One day, Chen came upon a lonely hut. Sitting by the door was an old, leather-skinned woman smoking a pipe. A horse was grazing nearby. “Hello, deary,” said the woman. “What brings you so far from home?”
“I’m looking for my mother’s brocade. The wind carried it to the east.”
“Ah, yes,” said the woman. “The brocade of Sun Palace! Well, that wind was sent by the fairy ladies of the palace itself. They’re using the brocade as a pattern for their weaving.”
“But my mother will die without it!”
“Well, then, you had best get it back! But you won’t get to Sun Palace by foot, so you’d better ride my horse. It will show you the way.”
“Thank you!” said Chen.
“Oh, don’t thank me yet, deary. Between here and there, you must pass through the flames of Fiery Mountain. If you make a single sound of complaint, you’ll be burnt to ashes. After that, you must cross the Icy Sea. The smallest word of discontent, and you’ll be frozen solid. Do you still want to go?”
“I must get back my mother’s brocade.”
“Good boy. Take the horse and go.” Chen climbed on, and the horse broke into a gallop. Before long they came to a mountain all on fire. Without missing a step, the horse started up the slope, leaping through the flames. Chen felt the fire singe his skin, but he bit his lip and made not a sound. At last they came down the other side. When they’d left the flames behind, Chen was surprised to find that his burns were gone. A little later, they came to a sea filled with great chunks of ice. Without pausing a moment, the horse began leaping from one ice floe to another. Waves showered them with icy spray, so that Chen was soaked and shivering. But he held his tongue and said not a word. Finally they reached the far shore. At once, Chen felt himself dry and warm. It wasn’t long then till they came to Sun Palace. It looked just like his mother’s brocade! He rode to the entrance, sprang from the horse, and hurried into a huge hall. Sitting there at looms were dozens of fairy ladies, who turned to stare at him, then whispered to each other excitedly. On each loom was a copy of his mother’s brocade, and the brocade itself hung in the center of the room. A lady near the door rose from her loom to meet him. “My name is Li-en, and I welcome you. You are the first mortal ever to reach our palace. What good fortune brings you here?” The fairy was so beautiful that for a moment Chen could only stare. Li-en gazed shyly downward. “Dear lady, I have come for my mother’s brocade.”
“So you are the widow’s son!” said Li-en. “How we admire that brocade! None of us has been able to match it. We wish to keep it here till we can.”
“But I must bring it home, or my mother will die!” Li-en looked alarmed, and a flurry of whispers arose in the room. She stepped away to speak softly with several others, then returned to Chen.
“We surely must not let that happen to her. Only let us keep the brocade for the rest of the day, so we can try to finish our own. Tomorrow you may take it back with you.”
“Thank you, dear lady,” said Chen. The fairies worked busily to finish their brocades. Chen sat near Li-en at her loom. As she wove, he told her about his life in the human world, and she told him about hers at Sun Palace. Many smiles and glances passed between them. When darkness fell, the fairies worked on by the light of a magic pearl. At last Chen’s eyes would stay open no longer, and he drifted to sleep on his chair. One by one the fairies finished or left off, and went out of the hall. Li-en was the last one there, and it was almost dawn when she was done. She cut her brocade from the loom and held it beside the widow’s. She sighed. “Mine is good, but the widow’s is still better. If only she could come and teach us herself.” Then Li-en had an idea. With needle and thread, she embroidered a small image onto the widow’s brocade—an image of herself on the palace steps. She softly said a spell. Then she left the hall, with a last long smiling gaze at Chen. When Chen woke up, the sun was just rising. He looked around the hall for Li-en, but saw no one. Though he longed to find her to say good-bye, he told himself, “I must not waste a moment.” He rolled up his mother’s brocade, rushed from the hall, and jumped onto the horse. Back he raced, across the Icy Sea and over Fiery Mountain. When he reached the old woman’s hut, she was standing there waiting for him. “Hurry, Chen! Your mother is dying! Put on these shoes, or you’ll never get there in time.” Chen put them on. One step, two, three, then he was racing over the countryside faster than he could believe possible. In no time, he was home. He rushed into the cottage and found the widow in bed, pale and quiet. “Mother!” Her eyes opened slowly. “Chen?”
“Mother, I brought it.” He unrolled the cloth onto the bed.
“My brocade!” The widow raised herself to look. Color came back to her face, and she seemed already stronger.
“Chen, I need more light. Let’s take it outside.” He helped her out of the cottage and placed the brocade on a rock. But just then a sudden wind came, and the brocade rose slowly in the air. It stretched as it rose, growing larger and larger, till it filled their view completely. The palace was as large as Chen himself had seen it, and standing on the steps was the fairy lady Li-en. Li-en was beckoning with her hand. “Quickly!” she called. “While the wind still blows! Step into the brocade!” For a moment, Chen was too astounded to move. Then he took hold of his mother’s arm, and together they stepped forward. There was a shimmering, and there they stood before Sun Palace. Li-en rushed up to them, and the other fairies gathered around. She said to the widow, “Welcome, honored one. If it pleases you, we wish you to live with us and teach us the secrets of your craft.”
“Nothing could please me more!” cried the widow. “But, Chen, is it all right with you?” Chen looked in Li-en’s eyes and smiled. “Yes, Mother, it’s just fine with me.” So the widow became teacher to the fairies, and Chen became husband to Li-en. And people say there are no brocades finer than the ones they weave at Sun Palace.”
As father finished the tale. Hipolyta seemed to be still listening, turning her head from side to side, with a confused expression on her face. “I think the storm has passed! I can't hear anything at the shutters, or the door, or on the roof.”
I went to the front door and after pulling it open, turned and said, “It has stopped. The storm has passed!”
They came out of the house and we all stood on the porch looking at the run-off, standing puddles and small ponds, and streams slowly winding toward the Tahoe. “I didn't even notice the storm after you started telling that story.” I said to to father. Mother smiled at Hipolyta, who was looking to father waiting for a response.
My father explained, “Children, when you are faced with forces beyond your power to overcome, you must submit. Yet in your surrender, you must also not yield to the gnawing of fear and foreboding. The only way to do this is to send your mind to a place of comfort and security, as a shield against the attack of doubt and anguish over your helplessness.” My sister and I nodded to show our understanding, and set about opening shutters and investigating any damage the storm may have caused.”
Harry finished his story. Kaitlyn and Mrs. Spelman sat relaxed, enjoying the aftermath of the tale. “And what about your sister Titania and Jameson and your Great-Uncle?” asked Mrs. Spelman, not realizing that the storm at sea had abated and the ship once again sailed on smoothly. Harry said, “They didn't get home un