Brontë Sinclair's Island: Chapter VIII

Chapter 8
Sinclair arrived some twenty minutes later. Since Jocelyn still hadn't appeared, I took him through to the terrace. He admired it enthusiastically. Once we were settled I said, "When I told her you wanted to come by and see her, well… You'd have thought I'd said Harry Shreve would be dropping by."

"Who?"

"You're not an SF reader, I see. Harry Shreve is the grand old man of Nova Britannia Science Fiction. In certain circles he's as big as…" I searched for a comparable figure in another field. "As big as Mama Moomoo Miggie."

Sinclair laughed. "Her I know. Oof! Not even on Marooner's Haven have I been able to avoid knowing her. Not exactly my kind of music, but to each his own."

We were interrupted by Percy's measured tones from indoors. "Charlie is on the terrace. He is speaking with someone."

The squeak that answered him was almost unrecognizable as Jocelyn's voice. "He's here! Charlie let him in! Charlie's talking to him, here! On the terrace!"

Sinclair and I had risen. Jocelyn might be my sweetheart, but I liked to observe the niceties. Sinclair now shifted and looked uncomfortable.

"Who is here?" Percy asked. "Why are you agitated?"

"Charlie's friend. The person he's talking to."

"I do not sense a threat."

Her voice rose again. "It's Brontë Sinclair!"

There was a pause while Percy processed this information. After a moment we heard his calm voice. "I do not find that Brontë Sinclair is a threat, a danger or a peril. It is safe for you to enter."

We laughed. "Most reassuring," Sinclair observed in an undertone.

Even in her nervous excitement, Jocelyn couldn't help laughing as well. "I never said he was a threat," she said, her voice almost back to normal, "I merely said I'm apprehensive about meeting him because he's, uh, an important person and I'm not."

Percy must have been practically standing in the doorway by now, though from where we stood we could see neither him nor Jocelyn. But, we could hear him distinctly. "Mr. Sinclair is the son of World Senator Whitman Sinclair. He is a philanthropist and prizewinning sailor. You are an award winning author and the proprietress of this house. I think, Jocelyn, you are on a level of importance with MR. Sinclair. Please enter. I need to finish preparing lunch.

I imagined her drawing a deep breath and squaring her slender shoulders. "All right," she said resolutely. "Take me out to the terrace, please."

She seemed unusually fragile as she entered, leaning on the big, many-armed silver robot. She wore a simple pink dress whose vivid color set off her creamy white skin and jet-black hair, which was piled in some complicated and very becoming arrangement on the top of her head. She'd even put on lipstick. She didn't do that for me very often.

Sinclair advanced a step and I went to put my arm around my love. "It's OK Percy. I'll look after her."

It could only have been my imagination, but I could have sworn there was a note of relief in his voice as he replied, "Thank you, Charlie."

As Percy trundled off, I led Jocelyn to our visitor. "Love," I said very formally, "allow me to present Mr. Brontë Sinclair." Her hand only trembled a little as she extended it. "Brontë, Miss Jocelyn Falconer." He gripped her hand firmly but gently.

"I -" she had to swallow hard and try again. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Sinclair."

"And I, you, Miss Falconer."

I watched this exchange critically, vaguely surprised at the wave of protectiveness, almost jealousy that swept over me as their hands met. But Sinclair held the contact just long enough, not too long and stepped back. Relieved, reassured, I said more lightly, "Let's all sit down."

Jocelyn gave a little start. I glanced at her in amusement. She still looked slightly dazed, but she was sufficiently together to say, "I'm sorry. Yes, please do have a seat, Mr. Sinclair.

Brontë Sinclair's Island; Chapters V through VII

Here's where things start getting rough. It also occurs to me that Chapter 6, with its discussion of Christian theology, may not appeal to all readers. However, in Chapter 7, we finally meet Jocelyn.

Chapter 5
I stared from where Sinclair had been to the locket in my hand. A plain golden oval with the name "Emma" engraved on the front In fancy lettering. Curiously I opened it. Rather than a lock of hair it contained a minute com device. I stared, then snapped the locket closed and slipped it into my inside breast pocket. Then I headed inland, calling Sinclair as I went.

Old Man Morrow's daughter Emma, like Jocelyn, was one of the cohort of children who had been born with disabling neurological injury. And, she was the Emma Sinclair had spoken of. She was the sweetheart he was separated from. Compassion filled my heart, overwhelming other emotions. That romance was hopeless, be he a senator's son or whatever.

With an entire age cohort, a sizable minority of a generation visually or physically disabled to one degree or another, most both, a fundamental societal shift had to take place. No longer were equal access and equal rights laws merely feel-good window-dressing applying to a tiny and thus politically insignificant minority of the population. Everyone who didn't have a disabled child himself had a cousin or a friend with a disabled child. Rich, poor, city-dweller or countryman, private citizen or public figure, this sudden, inexplicable tragedy was an equal opportunity scourge.

So now that the youngest of these children were in their early twenties, Nova Britannia was a fully integrated, fully accessible society, and it seemed that no one could remember a time when it had been anything else. Stairs were a rarity; ramps and elevators the norm. All printed materials were routinely produced in large and jumbo print and in Braille as well as standard print. Most were also recorded, and pocket-book sized "Ready Speak" consoles were already common for best sellers. Wheelchairs, scooters, personal care robots, and adaptive reading devices were mass produced to the highest quality standard, and were exempted from all anti-tech legislation. High visual and tactile contrast control consoles were standard on all devices and equipment except those unsafe to be operated by persons with visual or motor deficits. Even these were better designed for ergonomics and safety. Great advances had been made in a remarkably short time in voice recognition and artificial intelligence generally. A personal care robot was as responsive and reliable as a human, or more so. The whole society had benefited from the scientific and technological advances and corresponding rise in quality of life. And those like myself and Sinclair who had been children when the first disabled were born had simply accepted them as children like ourselves, children we had to look out for a little more, and sometimes adapt our games for, but no different than anybody else.

But some parents were over protective. Morrow and his wife, a quiet, intense woman, fell into this category. Emma was vivacious, intelligent, possessed of a zest for life that her spasticity and almost total blindness couldn't quash. I'd known her almost as long as I'd known her father, and had gotten into the habit of bringing her interesting news and tales from the distant lands where I traded. She wanted to know about everything, and already had an encyclopedic knowledge of the planet. She was a fine horsewoman, and it was to purchase a new horse for her birthday that her father had engaged me this summer. He and his wife loved her very much. But, they cosseted and petted her like a fragile child. I couldn't imagine they would countenance her having a suitor. So, carefully pocketing the com-locket, I strode towards the house calling Sinclair.

I found him in the study, calmer but still showing the signs of a great strain having suddenly snapped. I spoke quietly, trying not to distress him further. But he started all the same, though he did not turn to face me. "Brontë," I said. "Forgive my outburst. I didn't know how things were between you and Miss Emma. I, well, I'm sorry."

He made a muffled, indistinct reply.

I went on. "I know her pretty well. Known her for several years. I'll do anything I can to help…" Here he sprang to his feet, radiant with relief and gratitude.

I held up a hand. "The thing is, I won't be seeing her for some months." He slumped back. "Her father wants me to pick out her new horse for her birthday, so I won't see her again till then."

~~~

I know her pretty well," I continued. "And I know that her parents cherish and pet her as if she were a helpless invalid. If I hadn't seen her on a horse, I'd probably think she was a helpless invalid. But, she's a fine horsewoman." Sinclair nodded enthusiastically and swiveled his chair to face me, apparently mollified by my praise of his beloved. I grinned. "And easy on the eyes, too, if you go in for the blonde persuasion."

I was pleased to see the ghost of a grin flicker across Sinclair's troubled face. "Ah, so Miss Jocelyn's not blonde?"

"Nope. But, we were discussing Papa Morrow and his charming daughter."

His expression grew somber again. "Yes, well. As you've observed, they treat her like a lap dog more than like an intelligent young woman. They don't approve of me, I can tell you. And with her being confined to a wheelchair, the proverbial midnight elopement from her window is not practical.

~~~

I paused in thought and, crossing to the chair where I'd been sitting earlier, picked up my glass. "I wonder," I said and Sinclair raised his head, looking at me hopefully. "Jocelyn went to school with her," I said, smiling at his sudden, alert attention. "I'm not sure, but I think one of their mutual friends is very close friends with Miss Emma. More so than with Jocelyn, if you see what I mean. It might be possible for her, this mutual friend I mean, to send or smuggle the locket in."

Sinclair looked dubious. I don't want to involve too many people," he said unhappily.

"I know." I drank again to gain thinking time. "The best thing would be to talk it over with Jocelyn," I said at last.

He perked up noticeably at that. "I'd really appreciate it," he said almost humbly. "There's more to it than just the com unit…" He trailed off and put his head in his hands. "It all sounds so juvenile, so Eighth Grade cloak and dagger now that I try actually to put it into words," he groaned.

I took one last pull at my ginger ale. More to the job than merely delivering a piece of jewelry. Well, juvenile or not, this business certainly seemed complicated and, frankly, far more intriguing and challenging than selecting a Namoranian. I liked Emma Morrow very much. And I found, though on a far briefer acquaintance, that I liked Brontë Sinclair very much as well. I wanted to help them. At the same time, I saw no reason why I couldn't help from Fairport.

I cleared my throat. "So, what were you trying to tell me about taking your craft and mine being safe here in your harbor?"

Sinclair mopped his face with what looked like a real linen handkerchief and smiled. It was a wan, rather shaky smile, but a smile nonetheless. "More of my hocus pocus I'm afraid," he said cheerfully. "But, you know how you came upon this island at a longitude and latitude where as an experienced sailor you know no island is In the Blue-green Sea?" I nodded, eyes narrowing. "Well," he grinned outright. "There isn't an island there any more." He laughed at my attempt to look and sound unsurprised.

"So, where is it, uh, are we?"

He didn't answer at once. Instead, he rose and crossed to the wall of bookcases and drew out a large atlas. Carrying it to the desk, he waved me over. Curious, I moved to stand beside his chair. He searched for a moment and then opened to the Falibars, a long, roughly lizard shaped archipelago. The native name, which the settlers from Earth had only slightly mangled, meant "Sea Dragon." Sinclair planted the ball of his right forefinger squarely in the sea between the last, widely spaced islands of the dragon's tail. "Right here," he said firmly.

I shook my head. "If you say so."

"Which means," Sinclair went on, "we're about twelve hours sailing west of Fairport." He traced the route.

I looked at him in amusement. "Your craft, the Black Moon, is nonpowered? Strictly sail?"

"Yes."

Straightening, I assumed an air of command. "Right. The Silver Star is a beautiful sailing craft, but also has the most up-to-date electronics and an engine the match of any craft her size I've seen. We'll take her and be in Fairport harbor in four hours."

Sinclair blinked. "Then why couldn't you contact Jocelyn?"

"Because she doesn't have modern telecom. Just one of those telephone thingies."

Chuckling, Sinclair rose and started tidying the room. "Sensible person, your Miss Jocelyn. It's nice being under the RADAR, so to speak."

In a few minutes we were back at the boats. "Will The Moon really be safe here, Brontë?" I asked anxiously.

"Oh, I think so."

I shrugged. "If you say so."

Sinclair set the shore skimmer, and a few moments later he nosed in, six inches from the Star's port side. "There's a grap ladder in the seat where you're sitting," he said. "Would you get it out?" Standing up carefully, I opened the compartment and removed a coiled ladder. I squinted, then threw it straight up. The soft gripper hooks caught on the rail and the ladder uncoiled to the waterline in a moment.

On board, I hauled in the grap pass, somewhat more difficult than casting it, but still only the work of about three minutes. Having hauled up and coiled the grap ladder, Sinclair moved about the deck, looking at everything. Once the grap pass was rebundled, I told him where to open so I could stow it and the grap ladder. Then he followed me down to the cabin.

Settling himself comfortably, he looked about with evident enjoyment. "She's a beautiful sloop," he said, watching me run tests on the electronics. "I'll reel in the anchor, or is that all electronically controlled too?"

"Nope, that's the old fashioned way, by windless. I'd appreciate the help." Sitting back, I smiled at him. "I've been one man crew so long, I've almost forgotten what it's like to have someone to share the work with."

Rising, he saluted smartly. "Aye aye, Captain. Is there anything you want me to do before bringing in the anchor?"

"No," I said, grinning. "Just let me know, uh, sing out when it's in, and we can, uh, get under way."

"Aye, aye," he said again, cheerful and serious, and he hurried up the companionway.

Chapter 6
Once we were under way, there wasn't much to do but to enjoy the sparkling day and to talk. So, with Sinclair at the tiller and myself leaning comfortably with my shoulders against the binnacle box, talk we did.

...

Sinclair stared past me at the expanse of ocean for a moment. When he spoke, it was in a thoughtful, almost musing tone. "I'm not a - what's that word? That one that was ancient before Humankind thought of traveling in let alone colonizing Space? I'm not a necromancer." He shuddered. "I have no powers drawn from commerce with dark spirits, or anything like that. I'm a sincere Christian, to use an old fashioned term, though not really what you might call devout."

He laid his hand on his breast and, at my look of curiosity and concern, drew out a silver crucifix on a fine chain. I was taken aback. I was Catholic myself - many people on Nova Britannia were - but wearing a crucifix, even a small, simple one, was unusual among the laity. He must indeed be devout, or come from a family where such possessions were cherished, or both. Then I smiled. Raising my left arm and pushing back the jacket sleeve, I showed him my wrist. I had my pet archaeisms too.

Sinclair nodded at the windup analogue wristwatch and its cloth band from which hung a St Christopher medal and a St Martin medal. "A traveler and a pacifist," he said with sympathetic understanding. Since I don't wear a watch, I pin mine to the inside of my shirt cuff."

"That's an odd place to put them."

He looked mildly surprised. "Is it? I've always done it that way. It keeps them safe and out of the way."

I thought about this. "It is sometimes sort of awkward having them on my watchband." I regarded the small, silver discs. "But it's less likely I'll lose them or forget to put them on."

"Oh well," Sinclair said lightly. "To each his own. Emma suggested I do it this way; and, really, it seems like the best arrangement for me."

Smiling, I looked again at the St Christopher medal, a gift from Jocelyn. "My grandmother used to say, 'The best way to do something is the way that works best for you.'" Sinclair nodded and let the crucifix fall to his gray sweatered chest. I went on, looking at him with mounting interest. "So, we've established that you're a loyal son of The Church. How, then, can you do the marvels you do?

"Marvels? Well." He sighed. "My family is very old. We have a tradition, or a legend, that we can trace our ancestry all the way back to Earth. Oh, I know it's silly, and I'm not really sure I believe it, but there it is. Some ideas and abilities were lost over time as people settled into this new world; and among those abilities were the allied arts of telepathy and telekinesis. It's a pity, because they surely would have been useful on a new world. But now there are very few people who can practice them. I'm one of those people. It's in the family, you might say. Have you ever had a hunch or a premonition, a funny feeling you know, especially one that has seemed to be accurate?"

"Sure," I said doubtfully. Everyone has. That's common enough."

"Yes. And that's the vestige, or the germ perhaps, of all tele-psychic ability. The human mind is capable of so much more than we have ever fully made use of, more than we've ever even fully documented. Well, telepathy and such things aren't necromancy or sorcery or nonsense of that sort. They're merely a development of that germ that all humans have. And, it can be nurtured and encouraged to develop. You know, it can't be evil. Jesus read minds."

"Yes," I said, aghast, "But Jesus was God!"

"He was true God and true Man, Perfect Man, Man as he should have been and was before the Fall."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he was psychic," I said hotly. "All that sort of thing is evil, corruption that came with the acceptance of the Devil's lies."

"Why?" he said and looked at me.

"Why?" I almost shouted, jerking upright. "Because it's twisted and unnatural, that's why. How can it be natural for a man to be able to read another man's thoughts, or to move himself about just by thinking? It's, it's of the Devil!"

Sinclair looked at me sadly. "Think, Charlie," he said. "Is what you're saying logical? Satan tempted our Parents by the promise that they would not surely die but become as gods. And look at the texts. God created humanity in His image. 'In the image of God created he him. Male and female created he them.' So, they were already as like to God as a creature could be. And, when they ate the fruit, did they gain anything?"

"They gained," I began, and stopped.

"They gained the understanding that they were naked, you were about to say. But, is that a positive or a negative?"

I thought about it. "A Negative, I guess," I said reluctantly.

"A negative. The realization of their nudity was a realization that they were no longer one with the garden on the one hand and God on the other. They lacked nothing before. Afterwards they became divorced from Nature, you might say, from the natural order as God made it; that which God saw on the sixth day and said was good.

"Now, if Man walked with God on the one hand and named and loved the animals on the other before, and if he became afraid of God and was expelled from the garden afterward, then he lost something, a great deal of his native being, wouldn't you say?"

I nodded. I wasn't sure I bought it, but he was interesting to listen to.

"We lost our empathy with, our connection to the other creatures; to a certain extent we lost our connection with one another. We acquired pain and unhappiness, which are antithetical to God's attributes, and we gained so much more, so much that is dark and the reverse of all that is God and is thus the natural state for ourselves, misery and ignorance and hatred. Our minds are closed even to God. But in our natural prelapsarian state we were like God. We had many of his powers and attributes. He can do and make simply by speaking, simply by thinking. We can still make things in our minds. But now it takes sweat of our brows to bring these mind makings into reality. And that may be one of the distinctions between the Creator and the created. But surely as we were originally constituted we must have had more of the divine power than we do now. And it's still there, lying dormant in our minds, just as all the other gifts of God lie dormant there, and each individual realizes them more or less. This is no different. Only people have grown to fear it. And, what we fear, we hate and condemn."

That was true enough, Lord new. Could he be right about this? "It seems to me I remember hearing that before the settlers came from Earth, Jesus himself spoke directly to the people, the natives. They knew who he was, knew him far better than the settlers did," I mused.

That's right. Eventually it was decided not to try to convert them to Christianity, since they already had a faith which understood Our Lord's mission to Earth, and the Crucifixion, and the Resurrection, better than Earth's Christians did."

...

He seemed to understand that I was beginning to waver.

...

Chapter 7
We decided to enter Fairport harbor under sail, so it took a little more than the four hours I'd reckoned on. Still, we came into the busy and picturesque little harbor just after noon. The clerk who'd pulled the lunch shift was an old buddy of mine, as many harbor clerks in many harbors were. So, much of the half hour we spent with him in the small, coolly leaf dappled office was spent in chat. Then Brontë stopped at a café, where he said he'd wait wile I went on to Jocelyn's. I squeezed his shoulder and passed on, along the harbor front boulevard. I turned up a steep transverse street, and then into Sea View Gardens.

Jocelyn's house was on the upper side of the terraced street. I paused, my hand on the gate latch, and surveyed the glorious riot of the garden and the neat bungalow beyond. Then, I stepped in. After several steps, the street sounds faded. I looked up, breathing deeply. Nowhere else is the sky so blue as in the Falibars, enclosing them in wholesome, homey magic. The breeze from the sea blew softly, rustling the baramana tree near the door. The scent of the big, white flowers drifted, riding the breeze like a wave, blending with the salt tang. I always felt content walking this path. I felt content now. Strolling, breathing, looking, I approached the door. But, when the door opened, everything vanished. My Jocelyn stood there. "Charlie," she cried, clinging to me. It was a long, long moment before either of us said anything else.

Finally, she drew back, letting the front door close behind us. The foyer was dim and cool, filled with the scent of tropical flowers, or maybe that was Jocelyn's hair. "You said you wouldn't be home till the day after tomorrow," she said almost accusingly. "And here you are, big as life and twice as real; and, my hair's wet - I was just brushing it when Percy said you were opening the gate - and lunch isn't ready yet." I stood there, totally flummoxed, until she laughed and, flinging her arms around my neck again she cried, "And, oh, you big lug, I'm so, so glad to see you!"

I laughed too then, with sheer happiness and love. And, I squeezed her, not very hard, for she wasn't terribly sturdy, but hard enough. "You got my note then?" I asked, allowing myself to be led through to the back terrace.

A pergola covered with Falibar passion flower vines shaded the terrace and filled it with a sweet, wistful scent. Several of the flowers, some the size of Jocelyn's little palm and some the size of my big one, were gathered in a vase on a side table. A towel with a large hairbrush on it lay on the glider (an outdoor couch that could slide back and forth on its base rather than being suspended like a swing). An almost empty glass of lemonade stood on the coffee table beside the current issue of Galaxy, a popular Science Fiction magazine in which Jocelyn's poetry and more lighthearted SF appeared with some regularity. The jumbo print edition to which she subscribed was produced in two thickish volumes. A bookmark protruded from the uppermost volume, but I didn't see Jocelyn's name on the cover. "Give Them An Inch And They'll Take A Parsec" must have been in the other. Beyond the terrace, the back garden was filled with sunlight and pink flowers of various hews and species.

She sat me down on the glider and herself on my lap, her head against my shoulder, before she answered my question. "Your note? Yes, it was hand delivered this morning." She twisted slightly to peer up at me. "What's going on, Charlie? Clearly, you're not in any sort of trouble. But, just as clearly, you've gotten yourself involved in some sort of mystery or adventure." She pushed her fist into my chest. "Give! What are you up to?"

Since I had no idea how to explain the situation, I took a deep breath and plunged in. "You know Emma Morrow?"

Jocelyn's eyes narrowed. Yes…"

"Well, I've met a fellow who… In short, love, he and Emma need our help."

Jocelyn's manner changed from suspicious to sympathetic. "Emma has a beau?" I nodded. "Poor girl. Who is he? How did you meet him?"

"Ah," I said. Well, the first question I can answer easily enough. As to the second, that's not as simple as it seems."

She gave me a quizzical look but said only, "So, who is he?"

I paused a beat for effect. "Brontë Sinclair."

Jocelyn didn't scream or swoon or even seem all that surprised. She merely looked thoughtful. "Poor Emma," she repeated. "It would be bad enough if he were some solid business type that her parents would otherwise approve of. But, Brontë Sinclair, well, I don't know as they'd let her marry him even if she were sighted and able-bodied."

I nodded. "He told me they don't approve of him."

Jocelyn laughed. "Would you approve?"

"Sure. He's a really engaging fellow. I'm certain you'll like him." I paused, squirming inwardly just a bit. "Which reminds me…"

Her eyes narrowed again. "Which reminds you of what? I know that 'casual' tone, Charlie Shepherd. What haven't you told me?"

"Uh, well, uh…" She glared at me. I thought she was really cute when she glared, but I always pretended to be alarmed. "He's at Macklin's, and he'd really like to see you…."

"Now?!"

I barely managed to keep a straight face. "Now."

She bolted into the house, moving at a rate I would not have believed possible if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes shouting, "Percy, Percy! A visitor for lunch. You have to do my hair. I don't have ANYTHING decent to wear! Oh my God! Brontë Sinclair!!"

I sat back and laughed for what must have been a full minute. Then I called Macklin's to Let Sinclair know he'd better wait another few minutes before turning up.

Brontë Sinclair's Island: Chapters III & IV

Chapter 3
There was a little red and white half tent set up a few feet above the tide line, and under it a folding table with two chairs and a large picnic cooler. When I entered, Sinclair was standing at one side, pouring what at first I took to be coffee. As I took the seat he indicated, however, and looked more closely at the small pot and the liquid in my cup, I realized it was cocoa. Setting the chocolate pot down, Sinclair gestured vaguely. "Milk and sugar," he said, turning back to the cooler. "Don't know how you like it, or if you like it. I don't drink coffee myself, and don't usually keep it unless I'm expecting someone." He set a plate before me and removed the cover. "Hope you like scrambled eggs and crisp bacon."

"I do," I said, finding it impossible to keep from grinning. "And, oddly enough, I prefer chocolate to coffee myself. You're only the second grown person I've ever met who shares my peculiar tastes." The other was Jocelyn, of course. Looking around at the neat breakfast, the pale yellow sand and sparkling water, and the carefully tended but simple garden inland, I thought that she would like this place. Sighing, I returned my attention to the table before me, which now also bore a bowl of oatmeal.

Sinclair watched me over the rim of his cup. "Do you like my home, Charlie?" he asked as if the answer really mattered to him.

"Yes, what I can see of it," I replied, smiling. "It's a lovely place, and you set a generous table, especially for trespassers." I stopped, surprised by his earnest regard.

"Not trespassers. You're not a trespasser, you're my guest, though this time yesterday neither of us expected you to be." He leant forward. "Eat," he said. "I don't want to detain you, I know you're a busy man. But, I need to talk to you. So, you eat, and listen, and I'll talk a bit, all right?"

Only then I noticed that he had no eggs or oatmeal, just a cup of chocolate. I put down my fork to face him. "Listen, Sinclair, I don't understand what this is all about, why you're being so hospitable to me, and what on Nova Britannia you could possibly want to talk to me about. But."

His lip curled. "What I, romantic brigand, could have to discuss with you, mundane sailor, trader, and man of affairs?"

I stared at him, taken aback. Then I grinned and took up my fork. "Something like that."

He relaxed. Waving at the food he said, "Tuck in. Listen for a moment, and all will become clear, as my grandmother used to say. Need more cocoa?"

"Not yet," I said. "But, before you begin what you want to tell me, answer a question." He nodded. "How did I get here?"

Sinclair chuckled, settling back comfortably in his chair. "Not up to your usual standard, Charlie. But then, it is only ten past seven, and you haven't had breakfast yet. The question's not how you got here. You're more or less where you should be if you're on the way to Falibana. The question is, how did this island get here, as you know very well it shouldn't be." He paused. At the moment all I could do was nod. He waited for me to swallow and said, "Do you want the long answer or the short answer?"

"Uh, if you don't mind, I think the short answer will do."

He grinned mischievously. "You're not going to like it."

"Try me," I said, spearing some egg.

His grin broadened. "Magic!"

I glared at him, or tried to. "You're right. I don't like it. However, as the guest of the most celebrated gentleman buccaneer and philanthropist in the Nova Europa System, I probably shouldn't complain; especially since his chocolate is the best I've ever had." I returned sternly to my eggs.

"Emma told me I'd like you," he said.

I inclined my head gravely. "My thanks to Miss Emma, whoever she may be." It was obvious that she was someone dear to him, a sister or a sweetheart. But, being private about such things myself, I'd never think to pry.

He nodded. "I'll pass your thanks along." He paused, looking down and playing with his spoon, turning it delicately in his fingers. "I'd like to give you the long answer," he said. "Really, I can't explain my, my problem without giving you the long answer. It's quite a story, though. It will take some time to tell." Breaking off, he looked up and met my eyes. "By the way," he said, "I'd like to ask you a question if I may."

I hastened to swallow a mouthful of egg. "Certainly."

"Why are you going to Falibana? I thought old man Morrow was sending you to Splangliborn. No," he held up his hand. "I haven't been spying on you, but, uh, on Morrow. I know he has business in Splangliborn, and it's pretty common knowledge that you're his most trusted agent. I, uh, my sources felt you would be employed on this particular business. That's why I wasn't expecting you. I had thought to meet you in Splangliborn to discuss my," he hesitated, his open, finely made face darkening for a moment as with doubt or worry. "My problem," he went on after a moment, "and to ask your help."

I could feel my jaw drop. "My help?" He looked at me with those dark, steady eyes, and I faltered. "But, your father is a member of the World Senate. You come from a wealthy, powerful family, and --" his face hardened. "And you have considerable charm and, so I hear, influence in your own right. Why should a gentleman of your accomplishments need help from the likes of me?"

He still looked discontented, but the frankness of my puzzlement and curiosity got through to him. All the same, he answered my question with another question. I'm curious why you persist in thinking it remarkable that I might seek out your council and help. You have a reputation too, you know, Charlie."

I raised my eyebrows over the excellent oatmeal. "You're known to be a hard bargainer and a fair trader," Sinclair continued. "You always keep your word, and execute your work with judgment and dispatch. If it takes you longer to do something than it might take another fellow, it's because you're taking the time to do it right."

He laughed as I stared at this characterization of myself. "You're highly thought of, Charlie," he said. "You're the best. And my father taught me always to get the best, in friends and allies, and in advice, as in anything else. So, I've been wanting to talk with you for some time. But, now I'm uncertain what's going forward. Did you decide not to take Morrow's job? If so, that will make things awkward."

"No," I said, feeling a need to reassure him. He seemed almost like the younger sibling I had never had; unsure, trusting, looking to me for the answers. The feeling was so strong that I was perhaps fifteen and he twelve, leaning on my greater experience to guide him, that I had to blink. And there was the earnest, trusting young man, his gaze troubled, sitting across from me in a little pavilion tent on the beach of a hidden island. And I found myself speaking gently, reassuringly, as to a troubled child.

"I didn't turn Morrow down. I'm just going to Falibana for a bit of a rest. I'll be off to Splangliborn in about three weeks."

He grinned. "Oh, well, I don't want to delay your holiday, no more than I can help anyway. The Falibars are lovely this time of year." I nodded, but would not be drawn into discussing my vacation plans. I hoped he would hurry, though. The morning was slipping by, and I wanted to get on my way. Something of my feelings must have shown in my face because he said, "Is there anyone you'd like to send a message to?"

"No," I said quickly. Then at his quizzical look, "Well, yes. But I can't." I pushed away the empty oatmeal bowl. "No personal telecom gear." I looked him straight in the eye. "I'm running a few hours late, and she'll be worrying, without hearing, being able to hear, from me. So Sinclair -"

"Brontë," he said, smiling.

"Brontë, then. If you don't mind, I'd like to be on my way as soon as may be." I glanced at the remains of my breakfast. "I don't mean to seem ungrateful; but, well, we don't get to have much time together, and…" I stopped, furious with myself. I never spoke of Jocelyn, however obliquely. She was the only thing I had that was mine, entirely mine, that no one could co-opt for his own purposes. And here this stranger had lulled me into revealing her existence. Anger flashed through me.

Looking at him, I saw sympathy; sympathy tinged with sadness. "I understand," he said quietly. "My parents are on Calimar just now. They could get a message to her…"

I shook my head, my anger fading as quickly as it had flared. "I don't know. Her PCR usually answers the telephone, and it doesn't handle unfamiliar voices well." I put my head in my hands. "Jocelyn, Jocelyn, forgive me, love."

Sinclair seemed almost to hear my thoughts. "Charlie," he said gently, touching my arm. "I'm sorry to have distressed you. I think, though, I can work something out. Can she, forgive me, is she able to read handwritten material?"

I sighed. "Yes, but…"

"I was four when my brother Martin was born," Sinclair said in a constrained voice. "Old enough to be excited about a new baby of my very own. You know how little kids are." I raised my head and looked at him in puzzlement. He seemed on the verge of tears. "He had an unusual form of The Plague," he went on. "The nervous system damage was so severe, or maybe just so placed, that breathing was very hard for him."

I couldn't think of anything to say. Everyone, every single person on Nova Britannia had a friend, a sibling, a child who had been affected by The Plague. The first few children born with nervous system damage were a worrisome medical curiosity. When it became clear that all babies, throughout the planet were being born with varying degrees of central nervous system damage, the press resurrected the all but forgotten word "plague," and it stuck. The first victims had passed their third birthdays before the cause was identified, and a further two and a half years went by before a safe and effective means of preventing it was perfected.

And through it all, people continued to have babies, each couple hoping desperately and fruitlessly that their child would be spared; that their prayers or herbal concoctions or incantations would protect their baby. So, there was an entire cohort of disabled Nova Britannians. And, to those of us who had been children and adolescents when The Plague struck, these people seemed as unremarkable as anyone else. But, very few of the victims had died. The Sinclairs' son must have been one of the most severely ill. What could I possibly say?

"My mother let me hold him twice, for a few minutes," Sinclair said. "It didn't take long for them to realize they couldn't save him, so they let her keep him."

"Poor lady," I murmured.

"He was so little." Sinclair swallowed. "He died on the seventh day." He drew a long, unsteady breath. We were silent for a few moments, the soft rustling of the breeze the only sound.

Sinclair looked up. "So, you see," he said, "you can trust me. I, my family has had experience with The Plague. And, well, there's another reason too. I, uh. But we'll get to that. He smiled again, wistfully I thought. "All right." He rose. "Just give me a hand with these things. We're going up to the house." I got to my feet and silently helped him pack the cooler and fold the chairs. "Now, I must warn you not to be alarmed at anything you see or experience in the next few minutes." He paused, looking at me thoughtfully. "Well, time is of the essence, as my Grandmother used to say. So, here goes."

He looked steadily at the cooler, concentrating on it. And, it wasn't there. Before I had grasped this he was looking at the chairs, stacked together, and they weren't there. Finally, the table vanished and he turned to me, fun once more in his eyes. "Excuse me, but I must presume on our brief acquaintance." He grasped me in a firm hug. And, looking over his shoulder, I found that we were standing in a book-lined study.

Chapter 4
I clutched at Sinclair involuntarily. He chuckled, patting my back reassuringly.

"It's all right," he said, detaching himself and leading me, still unsteady, to a roomy, deep cushioned armchair by an open window. "Have a seat and get your breath back while I find something to write with."

I sank into the armchair. Glancing about, I saw him go to a big, old fashioned roll top desk, from which he took writing paper and a pen. Coming to me, he moved a small table to my elbow, where he laid the writing things. He looked at me with concern and I thought again that he was really a handsome fellow, and quite engaging. "I don't keep alcohol in the house, or I'd offer you some brandy," he said. "This seems like the archetypal situation to apply it. But, I can give you some lemonade, or ginger ale."

I laughed a bit shakily. "A teetotaler too? You and I might be brothers to judge by our tastes."

His smile broadened. "That would be nice," he said a little wistfully.

I studied him for a moment and decided that it would be nice. "Yeah," I said, meeting his gaze. "It would. Ginger ale."

He turned away briskly. "Coming right up."

"Uh, is it simply going to appear, or are you going to go get it?"

"I'm going to get it, and you can watch me do it." As he spoke, he touched an unremarkable spot on the paneled wall and a section of the paneling slid aside, revealing a fridge door.

I laughed. "Don't like to go far when you're thirsty, eh?"

"That's right." He produced a bottle and, from a nearby cabinet, two tall tumblers.

When he handed me mine, I examined it curiously, turning it in my fingers and tracing the pattern of leaves graven in the pale green glass. "Beautiful," I observed and raised the drink. "To my generous host."

He smiled and leant forward to touch his glass to mine from where he perched on the broad windowsill. "To newfound friendship," he said and I nodded. We drank.

I set my glass down on the old fashioned wood and cork coaster, like the ones my parents had always used (So many things here were old fashioned, comfortable, familiar.), and looked at Sinclair. There were so many questions in my mind that I couldn't decide which one to ask first.

"I teleported us and all the stuff up from the beach," he said. "Write a note to, uh, your young lady and I'll teleport that to my parents, who will be able to get it to her within the hour."

I stared for a moment, then shrugged. The important thing was to let Jocelyn know I'd be late. I took up the pen and paper and wrote:

Hello love,
I'm sending this note, by very odd means, to let you know I've been delayed. Don't worry. I'm safe, and will see you as soon as I can, probably the day after tomorrow, at which time I'll do my best to explain.

Love,
Charlie

I read this missive over and picked it up. Then I looked at Sinclair. "Do I fold it, or roll it into a scroll, or what?"

"Fold it up and write her name and address on it." I swallowed, but complied.

Miss Jocelyn Falconer
15 Sea View Gardens
Fairport, Falibana

With some trepidation, I handed it to him. He accepted it, but he had a far away look. He held the note for a moment, and then it was gone. He seemed distant for another moment or two and then, smiling fondly, his eyes focused again on me.

"All right," he said, and sipped his drink. "Mother's taken charge of it now. She'll see that Miss Jocelyn receives it. She said it's a lovely name, Jocelyn. When did you tell her you'd be back, if I may ask?"

"Day after tomorrow, if not sooner."

He seemed surprised. "Oh, it won't take anywhere near that long.

I smiled a little tightly. "Not if I can get off today, that's true."

"But," he began. Then comprehension came into his face. "I'm sorry," he said. "Let's walk down to the beach." Mystified, I followed him through the cool, comfortably old fashioned house and back down the lawn to the beach. "Come on," he said, heading for the shore skimmer. I've played games and delayed you long enough. I'll tell you all you need to know for the moment while we get back to Falibana. Would you rather take The Moon or The Star?" He turned to face me on the peer. "If you choose to take my craft," he said, his expression earnest, "I give you my word as a gentleman that your craft will be safe here in Marooner's Haven. I'd prefer to go in mine, since that way I can sail and talk at the same time, and all you'll have to do is listen."

Confusion and unease once more rose, congealing into anger in my chest. "I don't understand," I shouted. "I don't understand where I am, or what you want, or anything. What right do you have to Shanghai me like this? I just want to go home, to have a couple of weeks with my sweetheart. What's wrong with that? Why can't you let me out of this funhouse so I can go home?"

He had turned away, shoulders hunched, head down like a child fighting not to cry. And, it took him a moment to be able to speak. "I'm sorry, Charlie," he said dully. "You're right. Go home." He fumbled with something inside his shirt. Coming to me, he held it out without looking at me. His hand was trembling. "Please give this to Emma Morrow when you see her, whenever you see her," he said. I reached out automatically and took the locket on its fine chain. I drew breath but, before I could speak, he had started to walk to the house. In mid-stride, he vanished.

Brontë Sinclair's Island: Chapters I & II

Chapter 1
I first saw the island at sunset. It had been a fair day, cloudless and blue with a light but steady wind. Now and then sea birds wheeled over the mast or darted into the waves: gulls and terns, kestrels and petrels, sometimes in small flocks but more often alone, their high, wild cries running in my blood like the sweep of the wind and the whispering lap of the bluegreen water. Once, shortly after dawn, I thought I saw an albatross far aloft in the fathomless, pearl-lustered sky. That brought me comfort, though I hadn't known till then that I needed it, for an albatross ahead is an omen of fair winds and following seas. And, that bodes only well for any enterprise.

Now the sun was setting astern and some fifteen degrees to starboard, for I meant to make for the largest of the Falibar islands, not to go to Splangliborn as I'd told Morrow. Not yet, at least. I had business on Falibana, more pressing business than Morrow's, and a good deal prettier. I'd told him I'd be leaving on the Twenty-second, which was true; but, I hadn't bothered to tell him I'd be leaving from Falibana. That was none of his concern.

"The Twenty-second," Morrow had exclaimed, his round, fat face growing red. "But, that's not for three weeks!"

I shrugged, masking my amusement with polite blandness. "If you can't wait, of course…" I made as if to rise from the over soft, red plush armchair in front of the grain merchant's unnecessarily broad and highly polished mahogany desk.

His face grew redder and his pudgy hands twisted together nervously, but not so that I couldn't see them trembling. "Now, Shepherd, you're the best man I know, the - the best man."

"The best sailor, and the best judge of horseflesh, you mean; other than that, quite beneath your exalted notice," I thought wryly. But, I relaxed and pretended to pay attention to his querulous floundering. He wasn't evil, merely silly and a little pathetic, and I'd never more than half considered cheating him in all the years I'd known him. But, it didn't bother me at all to make him wait till I'd seen Jocelyn. We didn't get to see each other very often, and Splangliborn would be there when I got there.

Morrow was still spluttering. "So, I mean, Shepherd, my dear fellow, if you say you can't leave for three weeks, Well, of course I'll wait. I'll just have too, won't I?"

There seemed to be something desperate in his babbling, and I looked hard at him with a sudden stirring of concern. Was the genial fool really worried that I wouldn't do his job? Really worried, after all these years? So, unwillingly and yet wanting to calm him I said, careful to keep my tone indifferent, "I have a little job in the Falibars, man, that's all." I permitted myself a slight, reassuring smile. "It won't interfere with your business; it just means that I can't start for Splangliborn at once."

Morrow's face cleared like clouds lifting to reveal an untroubled sky. "Ah," he sighed, relief and satisfaction in the long syllable. "Well then, if that's all it is, that's all right." He rose and extended his hand.

Rising as well, I gripped it. "Do you have a bottle of brandy in your desk, Morrow?"

He started slightly and gave me a quizzical look. "Yes. Why?"

"I think you'd better have a nip. You look as if you could use it." Then, I'd turned and walked out.

So, I'd started. And now, the evening of my second day out from Raklebad, I was within thirty-six hours or so of Falibana. And that's when I saw the island that I knew wasn't there.

I was standing at the tiller, letting my mind wander forward to Jocelyn's welcome, for the Silver Star (Jocelyn had named her - graceful, fanciful, bright-eyed Jocelyn) was as light to the hand as a Namoranian, and she sped over the bluegreen sea as surely as one of those spirits of speed and power in horse form sped across the yellow-green planes, seeming to know her way instinctively to port as they knew theirs to paddock. After a time, I came out of my musings, still smiling wistfully. All around me was the whispering copper and bronze evening. I sighed and, pulling myself together, looked ahead. And as I looked, across the rippling, softly sighing expanse of copper and bronze to where, beyond all eyes but those of love and hope my Jocelyn waited, I saw a star.

I stepped back, blinded for a moment and bewildered for I knew the charts better than I knew anything, even Jocelyn's loving smile. Nor was this the first time, or the fiftieth, I'd made the Raklebad-Falibana run. And I knew there was nothing between Raklebad and Falibana in a straight line but sea. And yet, directly in front of me, no more than five miles away, the blue-gray bulk of a rocky island rose between me and the horizon. The suddenly freshening breeze bellying the sail above me, the Silver Star swept onward toward the golden star twinkling and flashing ahead like a beacon, drawing me towards itself and what lay beyond on that unknown island.

Dizzy and nauseous, with disorientation, I fumbled for the telescope. The Trinity be praised, the Star was as modern and well-equipped a craft as plied the seas. My telescope would tell me something about this mirage, if mirage it was. Then I'd go below and set all my sensors to work on it. Focusing the telescope I could see clearly that this western coast rose out of the sea like a great wall, cliffs and crags dark against the darkening eastern sky, with no harbor for any living thing but birds. And, now I saw them, and heard their chorusing cries as they swooped and wheeled, returning to their resting places amid the rocks and whatever rough plants could cling to them. And, that glinting, glittering golden star that had shone out for a time and then faded was a waterfall; a rushing, foaming cataract that fell fully two hundred fathoms to the sea.

As I leant on the bow rail, trying to fit the evidence of my eyes into my knowledge and fighting the sick, empty feeling the mismatch caused, the wind shifted. Automatically I started moving about the Star, tacking, adjusting the sail, accommodating the craft to the wind. The tasks being automated, it was a short time before I returned to the bow. And then I heard, faint but awesome across the distance, the great roaring and booming of the falls. And I thought of the tales I had heard, deliciously shivering in the nursery firelight, of the mermen who call with their echoing, mournful horns, and the living things, great as castles, that live in the depths beyond all soundings and call to one another in the lonely nights. Listening to that strange, rushing roar, never changing beneath the cries of the sea birds, I felt a sudden strange loneliness I had never known before on the wide, wild, silent sea but only in the impersonal press and bustle of city streets.

I had to tack while still far out from the shore, or the maelstrom at the foot of the falls would have finished me. With a sigh, I took in the sail and started the engine. It was a pity to spoil the romance of the summer evening with such a modern, impersonal sound.; but, I didn't want to take any chances. Cruising along northward, I gazed up at the scoured stone, rising like a fortress wall sheer out of the sea, save only for that mighty river rushing down forever through nothingness to crash and echo as its clear, crystalline waters found their turbulent rest. I knew the golden evening light would linger for two or three hours, so I was not troubled but curious as the Star approached the place where the rock began curving eastward. The island lay about one hundred miles south to north (port to starboard as I approached it), with the waterfall some thirty miles south from the northern coast.

Once I was sure of having put sufficient space between the Star and the infall of the cataract, I put In cautiously until I was skimming along right under that towering wall, taking soundings every few minutes. Those mountains of rock might well have outliers, shoals and reefs where the Star would founder, so my sea sense told me. And yet, somehow it felt right to keep under those looming, sheltering cliffs. Though I stayed about half a mile offshore, my short, ten fathom line never cane close to touching the sandy, seemingly level bottom, several hundred feet below me over which the Star's shadow skimmed amid dancing golden lights. I could see that through the gilded waves, now almost as clear as window glass as the water of this sea always is just offshore., yet my sea sense revolted. So close to shore, how could the bottom be as distant as a hundred miles from anywhere?

After rounding the gentle curve of the island where the rock began running eastward, I cut the engine and hoisted sail once more. The all but silent motion of a sail driven craft seemed more fitting than the sputter and hum of an engine that the vast wall of rock reflected like a megaphone out past the Star into the empty ocean. With a brisk breeze once more at my back, I ran along the coast in the gradually paling golden evening, until the cliffs had diminished to gentle hills, sliced shear down with a great knife, and I could glimpse now and then a dim green interior. I measured eighty-seven and a half miles till, now softly rolling and wooded, the land turned again. On this eastern coast, the land and water were shadowed, the last of the sunset light blocked by the western heights. The eastern sky was already dark enough for the first stars to appear. I felt my way along this gentler coast looking for a creek or inlet.

Full dark had fallen, and I had reluctantly lit my lamps and was beginning to despair of finding any way into this strange island when, at last, within about ten miles of the southeastern extremity of the land I found what I was looking for. With a suddenness that made me exclaim in surprise and relief, a harbor mouth opened off the port bow. Being close in, I wondered at not having felt the crosscurrents, but turning the searchlight into the harbor, I saw the water as still and glassy as a pond, and decided to trust once more to that strange sense that had led me to steer close to the cliffs.

I brought the Star around, starlight shimmering in her arcing wake, and with the engine purring, for the wind had dropped, I entered that Godsend of a harbor. I trained the searchlight on the nearer shore, off the port bow, and about a hundred yards in saw a creek, the water black under overhanging willows. "Trust to luck one more time," I murmured, and pulling perhaps seventy-five feet up the little watercourse, dropped anchor in no more than two and a half fathom. After securing the tiller and prowling about the Star to be sure all was in order, I stood in the sternsheets and looked back towards the starsheened water of the harbor, breathing in the calm land air, and wondering mightily where I was. Then, with one last glance around, I went below to eat a long delayed meal, and then I climbed into my bunk, promising myself sleepily that in the morning I would explore this strange and wonderful island.

Chapter 2
In the morning, however, I regretfully decided to forego exploration. I really did need to get to Falibana, and Jocelyn. I had no means of communicating with her. The Falibars were a designated techno-free zone, one of the few desirable living places on Nova Britannia to have that mixed blessing thanks to a far-sighted and strong-willed governor of the last century. So, like the rest of the inhabitants of her island paradise, Jocelyn had no telecom equipment other than the primitive telephone whose clumsy wiring was already familiar, and which the governor aforesaid considered adequate for her people's needs. They also had an ancient audio-video broadcast system; but, of course, that was only for inter-island contact. It was totally inadequate to handle modern ship-to-shore communications.

I looked at the compact satellite array next to the Star's nav console, and wished not for the first time that Jocelyn would let me give her a sata-mini-ceiver. But, she wouldn't. Personal telecom equipment was not absolutely banned in the Falibars, but Jocelyn didn't like bending too many rules or stretching too many points. Her PCR (Personal Care Robot) already pushed up against the outer limit of the acceptable Use Clause; though, the very next clause defined and made exceptions for medical need. No one had ever or would ever dispute that her medical need was real. Still, she was sensitive about it and strove all the more to observe the anti-tecno laws and regulations.

So, I couldn't call her on the sata-mini-ceiver. And, I thought as I prepared to pull out of the creek, what would I tell her if I could? "Hi love, it's me. I'm running a few hours late. Spent last night on an island that isn't there. But don't worry. Everything's shipshape. I'll see you tomorrow night at the latest." Sure! And she'd ask me how much of Morrow's brandy I'd liberated. No, it was probably just as well. But, I had to get out of here, away from this impossible and enchanted island, and on my way.

I chugged quietly out of the creek into the early sunlight of the harbor. And, my heart sank. There, waiting for me, was a lovely little sloop. The semaphores rippling in the soft breeze read, "Welcome and heave to." I brought the Star along side -- what else could I do? -- and read the name painted in neat white lettering around her bow, The Black Moon. She was black herself, and as trim a vessel as I ever saw''''; And, I'd seen a fair number of sailing craft in my time.

The man who leant over the side, hand held out in token of peace, and called, "Come, my friend. Follow me. We can have some breakfast and a yarn on the beach before you go," was as trim and dashing as his craft. Bemused, I signed my understanding and acquiescence, and twenty minutes later was mooring the Star alongside The Black Moon. "Have you a dinghy or anything of that sort?" the stranger, my host I supposed he was, called to me cheerfully.

"No," I called back. In truth, I had been eyeing the shallows with little relish. An early morning swim was a fine thing, in its right time and place. But, I didn't care to appear before this man, gallant gentleman though he might be, on whose land and water I was trespassing, in close imitation of a water rat. He seemed to understand. "Come across to the Moon, then," he said, throwing me the end of a very modern looking grap-pass, "And we can go ashore together in my little bathtub of a motor shuttle."

Shrugging, I secured my end of the seemingly gossamer light grap-pass, jerked the tabs to inflate the tubing and erect the small support stanchions, and walked across ten feet or more of open water to the other boat.

"Greetings," my host said, extending his hand as I stepped from the suspended passage. "Welcome to Marooner's Haven. I am Brontë Sinclair, proprietor of this little bit of Heaven here on Nova Britannia."

I shook hands, feeling his grip firm and assured but not overbearing. And, I looked into the dark eyes that had been the stuff of young girls' dreams of adventure, and boys' too, for more than fifteen years. Yes, I had heard of Brontë Sinclair, and now I knew why this island didn't show on my charts. What I didn't know was how I had gotten here, or why.

"Charlie Shepherd," I said, smiling in my turn. "En route from Raklebad to Falibana. If I'd been much later, I'd have crashed right into that western wall of yours, or gone down in the infall of the cataract."

The outlaw's grin became mischievous, sparkling in his intelligent eyes and making him look far younger than his thirty-five years. "Now, Charlie," he said easily, leading me across the deck to where a rope ladder hung down the side to a compact little shore skimmer, "I wouldn't have let that happen. Do you want to get in first, or second. She's much more stable than she looks. She's never capsized on me yet, no matter how rough the seas."

I eyed the little boat. Close though not uncomfortable quarters for two men. Shore skimmers were designed for children; so, they were small and light, but the closest thing to indestructible and unsinkable that Man had ever devised. Their seats were well padded with springy, not squishy, water-repellant foam. These were cobalt blue. They had large, simple, brightly colored controls, and a large display screen that could be set to show, individually or in combination, various readouts. The nav console of this shore skimmer was larger and more complex than was usual on these tiny craft, and I suspected she had a lot of specialized and very interesting features.

"Had one of those when I was a kid," I said slowly, remembering that the seats opened to provide storage space. Inevitably, pets and even the occasional younger sibling got stowed away in these compartments. The design even took this into consideration. The front of each seat, rather than being a solid piece, was a fine grillwork through which air passed freely. And tiny fans and low power lights came on when, the lid being closed, sensors detected a warm, breathing creature inside.

I remembered checking out with my friend Tommy what we thought was a miraculous safety feature. We were pouring over my manual, Tommy had lost his, when we came across something we'd never noticed before. "If the Shore Skimmer begins to experience difficulty or if the 'passengers' in these compartments become distressed, the front will open allowing them to be removed safely." We fought all the way down to the river over which of us would be the distressed passenger. Finally, reluctantly, I agreed that as the boat's owner, I was the captain and so could not also be a passenger. In the boat, I started up and set the engine to idle. Then, I helped Tommy into the rear compartment and closed him in. "OK?" I asked. "Lights on and everything?" In the daylight, I couldn't see the dim glow of the compartment lights.

"Yep! Everything's ship shape, Skipper," Tommy's muffled voice replied. I scrambled forward and eased the skimmer out into the slow current of the broad, brown river. "I'm gonna be distressed now," Tommy called. I answered and, tapping the autopilot button, turned around to watch. After a moment's silence, Tommy began to cough and thrash around. I knew it was a fake cough, but the sensors in the compartment didn't. I watched, bug eyed and gaping, as the front of the compartment slid down into the deck and a goggling Tommy crawled out and onto the seat. We stared at each other. "Wow!!!" we both said at last.

I hadn't thought of that in thirty years. Tommy was a bank manager now, with a kind if slightly boisterous wife who had been a nude dancer in her youth, and two loving, high-spirited children, a girl and a smaller boy. I never got up the nerve to ask how he, Mr. Straight Laced Propriety, had met an ex nude dancer. He couldn't have found a warmer, more sensible wife, though, or a better, more loving mother for his children.

"Charlie?"

I started, and realized that Sinclair was watching me with quiet amusement. "Sorry," I said, feeling foolish. "I was just thinking of something a friend and I did when we were eight or nine."

"What did you do?" Sinclair asked, looking interested.

I was taken aback. "Well, we found out by experiment that the front of the compartments under the seats," I pointed, "really do open if the, uh, passenger becomes distressed. He pretended to have a coughing fit, and the front slid away into the floor. Scared the shit out of both of us, really, I think. But we acquired a new respect for our shore skimmers, I can tell you."

Sinclair laughed. "Marvelous little boats, shore skimmers. So, you had one too?"

I looked at him in puzzlement. "Didn't everybody?"

"You'd be surprised," he said in a tone that might have been sardonic or even angry. I only thought of that later, though. At the moment, my habitual observantness was not in the best of trim.

"Yes," I said, looking down again at the boat, scarcely more than a toy, lying on the smooth blue water. "I had one; though she didn't have nearly so much electronics gear as this one looks to be carrying. Good steady boats for kids, shore skimmers. Sure, I'll get in first."

Sinclair watched me to my seat, then followed. The idling, almost inaudible engine surged. "Anyway, Charlie, as I was saying," Sinclair continued, turning comfortably in his seat as the boat moved in a leisurely way towards a small wooden pier. "I wouldn't have let you go down." That boyish grin was back, and it seemed totally unselfconscious. He wasn't putting on an act; he really meant what he said. Or else he was the greatest actor of our time. "I don't get many visitors, as you can perhaps understand." His lips twisted in what looked to me like regret. "I certainly wouldn't want to lose a man of your caliber."

The spell snapped. I snorted. He was having me on for some purpose of his own.

Sinclair laid a hand on my knee. "No," he said, the fun gone from his manner. "I'm not making fun of you." An alarm chime sounded, and he turned his attention back to the boat. Leaping to the pier, he tied up and called to me. "Just shut her down for me, would you, Charlie?" Then he turned his back and walked away towards the beach.

I sat still. Everything he had done signaled that he trusted me. Maybe I ought to trust him. At least hear what he had to say. I found the large, half green, half red toggle switch, just the same as on my shore skimmer, and flicked it to off. I knew even without looking at the display, that he'd performed the simple, pre-switch-off routine. Then I followed him along the dock and onto the soft, warm sand.

The Poppy Fairy

The Poppy Fairy
is the centerpiece of a quilt that listener is making
for her goddaughter's baby soon to be born.

It seems that in this election cycle, with so much struggle in the world
it is Beauty and Imagination that restore us.

Bath Cat

listener painted this Kitty on her wall at home,
to surprise her granddaughters and to cheer any bloggers who visit.

Stone Age Graveyard in the Sahara

A paleontologist looking for dinosaur bones in the Sahara desert instead stumbled across the largest Stone Age graveyard ever found. The human skeletons, tools and other remains were left by two groups of people, the Kiffians and the Tenerians, who lived in the area between 5,000 and 10,000 years ago, when the Sahara was a swampy wetland.

Links
Stone Age Graveyard (slideshow) - The Online News Hour
Stone Age Graveyard Unearthed In Sahara - NPR

Only the slideshow is up at The Online News Hour, no transcript of Jef Brown's interview with Paul Sereno. I'll check again later in the evening...

Voice of Palestine Silenced

Darwish, poet of the Palestinian cause, dies after surgery
By Mohammed Assadi in Ramallah
Monday, 11 August 2008

Mahmoud Darwish, whose poetry encapsulated the Palestinian cause, is to get the equivalent of a state funeral in the West Bank following his death this weekend – an honour only previously accorded to the PLO leader Yasser Arafat.

Tributes for Darwish poured in yesterday, a day after he died, at the age of 67, from complications following heart surgery in a hospital in Houston, Texas.

"He translated the pain of the Palestinians in a magical way," said Egypt's vernacular poet Ahmed Fouad Negm. "He made us cry and made us happy and shook our emotions. Apart from being the poet of the Palestinian wound, which is hurting all Arabs and all honest people in the world, he is a master poet."

Darwish's funeral in Ramallah tomorrow will be the first sponsored by the Palestinian Authority since Arafat died in 2004. The Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas declared three days of national mourning. People gathered on Saturday night in the darkened streets of Ramallah, holding candles and weeping.

May he rest in peace. And, may his people find peace and freedom.

New Lease on Life for Masada Date Palm

Israeli scientists are nurturing a baby date palm, now three years old, grown from a seed found at the ancient fortrus of Masada. Though they don't yet know whether it's male or female the sapling, which is affectionately known as Methuselah, appears to be thriving.

The species to which Methuselah belongs died out in its native Near East in the middle Ages. But it is known to have had great significance, including as a source of medicine. Researchers hope to study the plant's medicinal properties; indeed, a leaf from the sapling has already been sent away for analysis.

Links
Date Palm Buds after 2000 Years (BBC)
Tree from 2,000-year-old seed is doing well (AP)

Candidate for Oldest Place of Christian Worship Found

Ancient cave linked to early Christians in Jordan
By DALE GAVLAK (Associated Press Writer)
From Associated Press
June 11, 2008 10:30 AM EDT
AMMAN, Jordan - Archaeologists in Jordan have discovered a cave underneath one of the world's oldest churches and say it may have been an even more ancient site of Christian worship. But outside experts expressed caution about the claim.

Archaeologist Abdel-Qader al-Housan, head of the Rihab Center for Archaeological Studies, said this week that the cave was unearthed in the northern Jordanian city of Rihab after three months of excavation and shows evidence of early Christian rituals.

The cave is under St. George's Church, which some believe was built in the year 230, though the date is widely disputed. That would make it one of the oldest churches in the world, along with one unearthed in the Jordanian southern port of Aqaba in 1998 and another in Israel discovered in 2005.

Al-Housan said there was evidence that the underground cave was used as a church by 70 disciples of Jesus in the first century after Christ's death, which would make it the oldest Christian site of worship in the world.

If varified, this discovery is very exciting both from the archaeological and the Christian point of view. That's because it would fill in the historical record just a bit between the life of Our Lord, for which there is, sadly, scarce historical/archaeological evidence, and the Second Century A.D., when the historical/archaeological foundation of Christianity first becomes firm. We'll be watching for further developments.

Nazis' disabled victims honoured

Crossposted at Disabled Americans for Democracy

Nazis' disabled victims honoured

The one million disabled people who were persecuted, sterilised or killed by Nazi Germany are to be commemorated in the UK's first such memorial.

Several survivors are expected to attend Sunday's event at the Holocaust Centre in Newark, Nottinghamshire.

A rose and plaque will be dedicated in the centre's rose garden to the memory of the murdered disabled people.

The centre's Stephen Smith said there had been "little recognition" of the persecution the disabled suffered.

Up to 270,000 disabled people died in the Holocaust. Six major killing centres for the disabled were set up around Germany.

"Colossus cracks codes once more"

A cooperative project between Britons and Germans is pitting a reconstructed, World War II era computer, Colossus, against modern PC's. The project's goal is to draw attention to the National Museum of Computing, based at Colossus' home, Bletchley Park.

My money's on Colossus, but we'll have to wait and see. The results won't be in till Friday.

Human Destruction of Ecosystems Nothing New

One of Western Europe's earliest known urban societies may have sown the seeds of its own downfall, a study suggests.

Mystery surrounded the fall of the Bronze Age Argaric people in south-east Spain - Europe's driest area.

Data suggests the early civilisation exhausted precious natural resources, helping bring about its own ruin.

The study provides early evidence for cultural collapse caused - at least in part - by humans meddling with the environment, say researchers.

Some things never change.

Link
Eco-ruin 'felled early society'

War weary

This month's issue of the "Voices in Wartime" e-newsletter features the following "Editor's Reflections:"

In the documentary film Voices in Wartime, visual images accompany the words of Rachel Bentham as she recites "War--the concise version". In the pause between each scene, her lines rest in near stillness as if we don’t want to go on. We know what’s next, and indeed, are weary of the war’s resistance to all forms of compassionate thought.

Lately we’ve become justifiably weary of the ineptitude of our nation’s politicians. Their cheaply costumed rhetoric easily infuriates the anti-war warrior. We’re weary of the news media, its opinions and attention deficit regarding the civilian suffering in Iraq, while the silent masses tune out via the new season of sitcoms and the NFL. Patience is a different war of nerves as the work continues to put this war into its grave.

Read the entire article

The ongoing war in Iraq, together with the collective unwillingness of Congress to take meaningful action to conclude it, are indeed frustrating and wearisome, as is the call of some on both sides of the aisle for another unprovoked, irrational and illegal war, this time on Iran. In Burma, in Afghanistan, in the streets of Mexico and the U.s., wherever one looks in the world, violence and conflict abound, seemingly forces of nature, as unpredictable and uncontrolable as weather. For myself, I can't altogether condemn those who "tune out via the new season of sitcoms and the NFL." Under the circumstances, tuning out seems almost to be not only a viable, but a reasonable response.

REading Lost Gravestones with High Tech

Illegible words on church headstones could be read once more thanks to a scan technology developed in the US.

Scientists at Carnegie Mellon university are making high resolution 3D scans of tombstones to reveal the carved patterns in the stone.

A computer matches the patterns to a database of signature carvings which reveals the words.

The technique could one day also be used by doctors to examine a patient's tongue for signs of illness.

Scientists often find it difficult to distinguish between natural phenomena and man-made art works carved into stone, due to the build-up of algae and surface dirt.

At the moment, archaeologists are forced to do hand-tracing work with plastic sheets and to examine objects first hand in order to decipher obscured writings.

Full Article
Scans reveal lost gravestone text

Ooooooh!!!

Harry's here, Harry's here, Harry's here!!! WOOT!!!

I was going to wait a few days till the unabridged audio cassette edition arrives. But... Really, how can I wait?

*ruful grin* Yes, I actually am a mature, intelligent grownup person. But, damn it, everybody needs a little fun and silliness in her life once in a while.

Gotta fly. Harry's waiting!

Viking Treasure Hoard Found in Yorkshire

The most important Viking treasure find in Britain for 150 years has been unearthed by a father and son while metal detecting in Yorkshire.

David and Andrew Whelan uncovered the hoard, which dates back to the 10th Century, in Harrogate in January.

The pair kept their find intact and it was transferred to the British Museum to be examined by experts, who said the discovery was "phenomenal".

It was declared as a treasure at a court hearing in Harrogate on Thursday.

North Yorkshire coroner Geoff Fell said: "Treasure cases are always interesting, but this is one of the most exciting cases that I have ever had to rule on.

"I'm delighted that such an important Viking hoard has been discovered in North Yorkshire. We are extremely proud of our Viking heritage in this area."

The north of England, especially the area now known as Yorkshire, was a vibrant center of Viking culture in the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries. At the same time, large Viking finds in England are rare.

Link
Viking Treasure Hoard Uncovered

Alan Johnston, Freed in Gaza

The BBC's kidnapped Gaza correspondent has been freed!

BBC's Gaza Correspondent Released

Oh, how wonderful to be able to remove that banner!!!

Vikings and Emperors

A replica of a Viking ship has set out to sail from Roskilde to Dublin.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, a hitherto unknown chamber has been discovered in the tomb complex of Qin Shihuang, first ruler of a united China.

Links
Viking Ship Sets Sail for Dublin
China Finds Secret Tomb Chamber

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

I've just finished The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte. Believe it or not, I'd never read it before. Depressing, how many books I've never read. However, that number is now reduced by one.

For others who may not yet have read this dark, powerful novel: The title character is Helen Graham, a pretty, strong and selfreliant young woman, ostensibly a widow, who has moved into the largely ruinous Wildfell Hall with her young son and only one womanservant. She is surrounded by mystery and, soon, also by malicious gosip, in which the village's handsome young squire, proprietor of the Hall, figures promanently. Gilbert markham, a substantial farmer and landholder, falls reluctantly but inexorably in love with the inigmatic Mrs. Graham, but is baffled in his attempts to learn her history both by the lady herself and by his friend, Squire Fredrick Lawrence whom, in his jealousy and despair, he eventually attacks.

Mastering his anger at what he believes to be the perfidy of his beloved and his friend, Gilbert returns to the Hall to confront Helen. But, though she confirms her return of his love, she maintains that it must not be consumated or even allowed to flurish in their hearts. Finally driven to frenzy by Gilbert's persistance and lack of understanding, she thrusts a thick manuscript into his hands, and commands him to go.

The manuscript, with a few pages torn from the end, proves to be Helen's journal. In it she recounts her courtship by and marriage to one Arthur Huntingdon. Though her aunt, her guardian, remonstrates, Helen believes that she can discourage what is bad in Arthur and cultivate what is good. However, her life with him gradually becomes intolerable as his drinking, philandering and general Debauchery come to threaten the wellbeing of their young son. With the help of her brother, none other than Gilbert's friend Squire Lawrence, and her faithful attendent Rachel, Helen devises and carries out a desperate plan of escape. But, no sooner has she returned to Wildfell Hall, her childhood home before her father sent her away to live with her aunt and uncle following her mother's death, but village tongues start wagging. To add to her troubles, the handsome young cockscomb, Gilbert Markham, has attracted her attention...

Now understanding both her sorrows and her scruples, the broken hearted Gilbert avows his undying love, but at the same time agrees to honor Helens request that they part. Hurrying to Lawrence, he apologizes awkwardly but sincerely, and Lawrence welcomes the return of their friendship. But, shortly thereafter, Gilbert learns from a malicious former sweetheart that Helen has returned to Huntingdon. Lawrence confirms this, explaining that Huntingdon has sustained severe injuries in a riding accident and, since he is gravely ill, Helen has returned to nurse him. Through Helen's letters, which Lawrence freely shares with him, Gilbert learns of Huntingdon's final illness and death. Lawrence gives Gilbert no encouragement, and between this and his own well-meant but misplaced delicacy, his pride, and his tendency which he shares with even the best specimines of his sex to be a blockhead, Gilbert lets time slip past without trying to write to Helen, as she had asked he do at their last interview.

It is, of all people, the same malicious former sweetheart who saves Gilbert by laughingly informing him that the former tenant of Wildfell Hall is to be married in two days' time. Travelling to Grassdale Manner, Huntingdon's estate, with all possible speed, he finds that it is not Helen but Fredrick Lawrence who has just been married. Warmly congratulating his friend, Gilbert travels on to the aunt's home, where Helen is now staying. But, his hopes are finally dashed forever, as he thinks, when he learns from the conversation of his fellow coach passengers that Helen has inherited a substantial fortune from her uncle. In despair, he walks up and down in front of the park gates, knowing he must leave yet unable to do so. Thus it is that Helen finds him when she returns with little Arthur and her aunt. It is almost more than Helen can do to persuade him that she still wants to marry him, despite her newfound wealth. Eventually, however, he grasps the miraculous fact, and while he gains his heart's desire, she earns at last the quiet, happy life she deserves.

I didn't measure, but I should think Helen's narrative takes up at least half the text. And, a harrowing narrative it is, detailing her struggle to maintain her dignity and her child's safety and innoscence in the face of Huntingdon's decline from casual vice to confirmed, despairing evil. Helen does sometimes seem a trifle too good. Certainly, she quotes Scripture with disconcerting fluency. We must remember, however, that Anne Bronte was a clergyman's daughter. Also, perhaps, she wanted to underline the difference between Helen's simple yet deep and sustaining piety on the one hand and Huntingdon's rejection of both human and divine law on the other. Only occasionally was Helen's piety cloying or distracting. For the most part, I found her a strong, attractive and deeply sympathetic character.

Huntington is by no means as strong or memorable a character as Rochester or Heathcliff. He didn't strike me as being as strong a representative of evil as Gilbert is of good. Still, the contrast is stark enough. Gilbert's egotism is relatively harmless. He is well off, handsome and intelligent; but, if he is aware of these advantages, he is likewise aware of being petted and spoiled by both his mother and his sister and realizes that he may not be quite as fine a fellow as they fondly imagine. On the other hand, Huntington's selfishness, willfulness and popencity towards cruelty manifest even before his and Helen's marriage.

The way Bronte has set up the novel's structure leads the reader almost unconsciously to contrast Gilbert favorably with Huntington. That is, we meet Gilbert first, finding him sympathetic if somewhat exasperating, as young people are wont to be. We also see his and Helen's growing affection, and are able to contrast it readily with the relationship between Helen and Huntington. In other words, this reader at least was predisposed to find that Huntington suffered by comparison. Yet, I do not think this is an authorial trick but rather a deft manipulation of material. If Bronte had told the story in chronological order, beginning with Helen's meeting and falling in love with Huntington and concluding with her meeting and falling in love with Gilbert, some at least of the emotional force of both storylines would have been lessened. Both are strengthened by the mutual contrast.

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is not summertime fluff, but rather more of a thoughtful winter's afternoon read. As brooding and powerful as Wuthering Heights, it is yet less clostraphobic and achieves brighter sunshine in the end.

Editions
Paperback
Unabridged Audio Cassette

Hatshepsut, Greatest Ruling Queen of Egypt Finally Recovered from Mellennia's Obscurity

Sorry it's taken me so long to get this up. I spent the entire evening on an unrelated wild goose chase. Ooh, but I hate not being able to find what I'm looking for, especially in cyberspace!

Be that as it may, the discovery announced today is being hailed as the Egyptological find of the century. A mummy that has long been known but has languished, unidentified, was finally identified as the great (female) Eighteenth Dynasty pheroah Hatshepsut.

Herself a princess, Hatshepsut was married to Thutmose II. Upon his death, she became regent for her young stepson, Thutmose III. In time, however, she assumed the throne in her own right (some sources use the "U" word, "usurper"), ruling strongly and successfully for twenty years. When Thutmose III eventually deposed her, he took his revenge, and a terrible revenge it was by ancient Egyptian lights, by defacing all statues and monuments he could find that bore Hatshepsut's name or likeness. Thanks to his efforts, the greatest female ruler of Egypt long languished in obscurity. I'm very tired, and can't remember just now how she came to be rediscovered. I'll try to remember to look into the matter tomorrow.

Links
Find of Century for Egyptology
Hatshepsut (from Wickipedia)
Hatshetsut (from answers.com

On Writing

The BBC's kidnapped Gaza correspondent, Alan Johnston, has been missing for one hundred and one days.

As part of their continuing coverage and efforts to keep Alan's plight before the eyes of the world, they have posted a piece he wrote about a year ago on the art of journalism. Reading it, I found myself repeatedly nodding my head and murmurring, "Yes, yes." For, though he was talking about radio reportage, Alan wrote a lovely, concise article on fiction writing as well. I highly recommend it to all here.

Click the title to go to Alan's article.

Music

Crossposted at Disabled Americans for Democracy.

I've decided to learn to read braille music. To this end, I've bought, and am about halfway through, a book called who's Afraid of Braille Music?.

Naturally, I can read print music. But, even the largest of large print music is a struggle, while having music read to me to play and learn is, well, not particularly enjoyable. So, on a whim I bought the book and have been reading a little at a time. *shrug* It keeps me out of trouble.

The book itself is in braille - getting the print edition seemed a trifle counter intuitive - and the reading is going pretty well. Braille will never supplant audio in my life, but having access to a variety of media is helpful.

Feel free to discuss your own experiences with music, print or braille.

Thanks to Alan at Howard Empowered for the Wikipedia link.

Al and Gwen

Earlier this evening, The News Hour interviewed Vice President Al Gore. Read the interview.

It's been a long time since I heard Mr. Gore. Of course, I remembered him as devastatingly intelligent, but I didn't remember him as so charming and engaging. What an all round great guy!

Has Anyone Seen The Kettle?

Today the BBC has a story that would please Arthur Dent: Tea Healthier Drink than Water. Well, we knew that, right? *grin*

In a related story (from a few days ago), Blair Pines for Good Cup of Tea. The PM's finally got his priorities straight. LOL

India Works to Shield Traditional Knowledge from Modern Copyrights

A new digital library in India is safeguarding ancient knowledge from patents, which can force royalty payments for knowledge that is common in that part of the world. NewsHour correspondent Fred de Sam Lazaro reports from New Delhi.

I found this fascinating, and most gratifying. It's about time people started fighting the modern propensity to copyright and pattent everything, whether they have a legitimate cause to do so or not, especially in the U.S.

This particular digital library program was brought on by several people claiming pattent rights on traditional Indian medicines and healing techniques. This seems to me only slightly less repugnant than pattenting new animals and plants. I hope the project flurishes.

History Pulitzer for Race and the Press

The 2007 winner of the Pulitzer Prize for History is The Race Beat. This evening, The News Hour aired a conversation with the book's authors, in which they discuss the role of the press in popularizing the cause of Civil Rights.

As with all News Hour Arts reportage, the segment is available only in RealAudio format.

India 'neglects' its historic heritage

As India celebrates the 150th anniversary of the first uprising against the British, the town where the first shot was fired by sepoy (soldier) Mangal Pandey is witnessing the gradual obliteration of its historical heritage.

Mangal Pandey fired the famous shot at a British officer on 29 March 1857 at the Barrackpore parade ground - now on the outskirts of Calcutta.

It was an action that stirred up a wave of rebellion in north India against the colonial power, and meant that Barrackpore would be a name always prominent in Indian history books.

But 150 years later, many of the sprawling bungalows and imposing structures from the colonial past have been completely swallowed by wild undergrowth.

I'm ambivalent about this. On the one hand, as a history buff, I naturally deplore neglect of historic sites. On the other hand, it seems to me that India has bigger problems and higher priorities than maintaining colonial era buildings. Parts of India are jungle, for Pete's sake! If these buildings are so all fired important, let britain maintain them.

King Herod's ancient tomb 'found'

An Israeli archaeologist says he has found the tomb of King Herod, the ruler of Judea while it was under Roman administration in the first century BC.

After a search of more than 30 years, Ehud Netzer of the Hebrew University says he has located the tomb at Herodium, a site south of Jerusalem.

As exciting as this find is, I can't help but be reminded by it of the priceless archaeological treasures lost or destroyed forever by the current war and occupation in Iraq.

'Stunning' Nepal Buddha art find

Paintings of Buddha dating back at least to the 12th century have been discovered in a cave in a remote area of Nepal's north-central region.

Researchers made the find after being tipped off by a local sheep herder. They discovered a mural with 55 panels showing the story of Buddha's life.

The mural was uncovered in March, with the team using ice axes to break through a snow path to reach the cave.

The find was in the Mustang area, 250km (160 miles) north-west of Kathmandu.

Journalists jailed in Azerbaijan

Two journalists in the former Soviet republic of Azerbaijan have been jailed after publishing an article that some Muslims said insulted Islam.

Samir Sadaqatoglu and Rafiq Tagi, from Sanat newspaper, were sentenced to four and three years in prison respectively, for inciting religious hatred.

It is the latest in a series of jail sentences for journalists in energy-rich Azerbaijan.

Violence and reprisals, such as prison sentences, against journalists have been on the upswing for the past several months.

Related Links
Committee to Protect Journalists
Reporters Without Borders

Gladiators' graveyard discovered

Scientists believe they have for the first time identified an ancient graveyard for gladiators.

Analysis of their bones and injuries has given new insight into how they lived, fought and died.

The remains were found at Ephesus in Turkey, a major city of the Roman world, BBC Timewatch reports.

Ancient Treasures of Gaza

A new exhibition showing off the archaeological riches of the Gaza Strip has just opened in the Swiss city of Geneva.

The exhibition, called "Gaza at the Crossroads of Civilisations", contains more than 500 artefacts dating back more than 5,000 years.

They reflect the diverse civilisations which at one time or another all spent time in Gaza.

Curators at Geneva's museum of art and history, which organised the exhibition, say Gaza's modern problems have so overshadowed its rich past that most people today are completely unaware that Gaza has any archaeological treasures at all.

The article discusses a project, supported by UNESCO, to build a Gaza museum, which would house these and other archaeological and cultural treasures. I think such a museum is a very bad idea. It would automatically, simply by vertue of its existence, become target No. 1 for the Israelis to bomb with their American-built planes and other armorment. As valuable as a museum of Gazan antiquities would be it, as so much else related to any sense of normalcy in Palestinian life, is held hostage until the mutual recognition by Israel and Palestine that the two states, the two peoples, exist and must live together in concord.

Link:
Gaza's ancient treasures revealed