Magdalen…or The Dancer & The French Monk ~ Part 2 (a portion of Glowien)
January 26, 2010 § 1 Comment
For part 1, click here.
The Dancer kept thinking about her Father’s terse words and attitude before she boarded the Gulfstream G650.
She loved this plane. Many memorable hours were spent traveling with The Monk for leisure and business dealings – fascinating conversations she can still remember from her childhood. “We never really grow up, do we?” she thought to herself.
Her attention returned to the flight. From this altitude, turbulence was never an issue. She could sleep in undisturbed peace if she desired. But sleep, at the moment, was not an option. Her small entourage, chosen personally by The Monk, could not be ignored. She loathed having more than one comrade on tasks as this. It was definitely less discreet. And discretion was what her chore required.
“Madame de Bouillon,” her personal assistant and flight attendant, also closest friend since kindergarten, interrupted her thoughts.
“Sophia, please. We’ve had numerous conversations about that.”
“Forgive me, Madame. Pardon zee formalities. Your Father eez on your private line,” she spoke with heavy laden French overtones.
Sophia always used the prim version of her beloved friends’ task name when her Father was near. He insisted that every precaution be taken to preserve his daughters’ anonymity when on journeys. It was, after all, for her protection.
Magdalen extended her graceful hand towards the smartphone while thanking Sophia. “Je vous remercie, Mon Sophia.”
With a slightly nodded head, straight back and a gentle bend at the knees, Sophia flashed an artistically coy grin toward her employer.
“Je t’aime, Ma Dame,” she whispered as she lovingly placed the mobile in Magdalens’ grasp.
All who knew them were aware of how close they are.
Although born and raised in the Pyrenees in a nearby village close to Magdalen, Sophia was of Japanese descent. She spoke eight languages, and from a young age she was trained for her current occupation, which included more than has been unveiled. Her beauty was quarrelled by only her mistress, and all that stood near the two, paled in comparison to this lovely duet of pulchritude.
Magdalen absorbed the caress of Sophias’ voice. Then she put the phone to her ear.
“I’d prefer you don’t speak French,” said The Monk.
“As you wish,” said Magdalen. And they began to speak The Sermo Familiaris, or the “The Friendly Speech”, or more commonly, Medieval Latin.
The Monk saw to it that his particular dialect was drenched with ancient and out-moded words and phrases. He couldn’t risk the chance of any government or other esoteric organizations listening to their conversation. Besides, all cell phones are traceable.
“You never know who may be listening,” said The Monk, continuing in Latin.
“A myth,” replied Magdalen, passing an obscure test.
“Very good,” he commended. “The time for vigilance is at hand, My Love.”
“I’m aware, Padré.”
“That, I am sure of.”
“So what do you will of me?”
“Your flight course has been changed.”
Magdalen made no effort to hide her smile, nor her joy. The Monk couldn’t see her anyway.
“To where?” she inquired.
“Portland. The artistic director of The Oregon Ballet Theatre has allocated an apprentice position for you in the company. You have a first balcony middle seat next to him for tomorrow night’s premier at The Keller Auditorium.”
The Monk paused. “I consens your happiness,” he said.
“It’s apparent, is it not?”
“Yes, it is, My Love.”
“Gratitude is unnecessary towards me for this decision. It was a wise suggestion on your part.”
The Monk took a deep breath before proceeding.
“You’ve been sent an e-mail.”
“From you?” she asked.
“It’s a forward from The Order. It needs The Family’s assistance.”
“For what?” she hasted.
“Open the message and see for Yourself.”
Magdalen motioned for Sophia, who was always keenly aware that she might be summoned by her Stewardess. Sophia was on the other end of the private jet – the divider that gave the back cabin privacy from the goings-on of the front, was closed, and you could not see through. Magdalens’ beckon to her helpmate came from within, and not with a wave of her hand or a shout of her voice.
Sophia was prepared.
“Madame,” she said as she slid the laptop on the small desk that came built into this exquisite airliner.
“You never cease to bewilder me, Sophia.”
“You are too kind,” she replied humbly with a bow similar to the previous. She realized her presence was no longer needed, but desired, and felt it best to remove herself so that Magdalen could resume her business with The Monk.
Magdalen observed Sophia as she made her way back to the front cabin. She anticipated their conversation at the hotel later that evening. She felt a pang of excitement at the thought.
After a moments worth of turning on the machine, logging in, and locating the proper letter cleverly sent from a “Juan Castaneda,” Magdalen clicked on the sender to find an attachment named Truth and opened it. She knew she could’ve just viewed it from her phone, but she preferred the screen size of the computer.
Authors Note: Click on Truth and observe what Magdalen saw before continuing the reading.
She held her breath in calm shock. Exhaled.
“I had the same reaction,” said The Monk.
“This can’t be,” Magdalen said stubbornly, realizing her irreverence to her Father, who was not at all offended by his daughters characterless outburst.
“Forgive me,” she said quickly.
“It’s alright,” comforted The Monk. “I take it you understand the importance of this message then?”
Before her Father could disconnect, Magdalen persisted.
“It’s too soon, Padré.”
“Embrace yourself, Filia.” Magdalen knew the severity of The Monk’s attitude when he addressed her with this locution. It was an archaic admonition.
He too had to gather himself, for he was after all, still a man. And Men sometimes felt fear. Although he couldn’t remember the last time he had – until now.
The Monk recommenced. “We need you at Montségur.”
“Not quite,” he replied. “We have recruits, so to speak, and We ask for your assistance in their initiation. One in particular.”
The Monk paused.
At this last statement, Magdalen accepted her fate, and her choice. Sophia was already by her side, yet again prepared, holding her hand gently. She truly was a remarkable companion.
“I’m sure you’ve already considered how much energy this’ll expend from me,” she chided.
“I have; though, as you know, it’s necessary. Sophia is apt for restoration.”
“Aye, that she is,” responded Magdalen, giving a firmly-affectionate squeeze to Sophias’ dainty but strong hand.
“Time is obsolete for us all, My Love. Celerity must be advised,” The Monk concluded.
“…so below,” and as she stated the last half of her sect’s historic greeting & farewell, they disconnected.
Sophia pulled the phone from The Dancer’s ear, always maintaining perfect cohesion with her. She put the mobile in her Halliburton.
Magdalen & Sophia focused on one another. They are the epitome of an interrelationship.
Sophia spoke. “It’s time, Madame.”
“That, it is.” Magdalen’s tone was distantly slow.
“To where is our locale?”
“The Castle of Montségur.”
Sophia sighed mildly. “At last.”
Magdalen smiled and returned to her normal virility. She knew how eagerly her most trusted partisan had longed for this announcement. Sophia was trained never to expose her passions, nor her eagerness. Only Magdalen knew Sophias’ secrets – and only Magdalen could.
Simultaneously, they closed their eyes.
They concentrated their intention on the chosen destination.
Relaxing completely, they took elongated deep breaths. And as they made a final exhalation, the G650, and the world around them, vanished.
~ author: Hiram Surtyr, illustrator: Ruth Barbee ~