Lemurian Caravanserai

No camel

2005-12-25T01:41:00.000-08:00

Greetings from Deadwood Hall & The Chamber of Horrors

2005-12-24T14:33:00.000-08:00

I've traveled far and wide just to join my friends here in the Caravanserai.

Happy Holidays to You All
Anita Marie

happy birthday Karen

2005-12-24T01:43:00.000-08:00

Dear Karen,
a very happy birthday for yesterday and I hope you will go on to do great things in your second half
love
Traveller

Happy Holidays!

2005-12-24T00:08:00.000-08:00

To Market - by Lois

2005-12-23T16:54:00.000-08:00

To market to market
to meet one and all
Fran & Heather and Luna and all
Home again home again
I think not just yet
I'm having a ball ,as is my pet
Now Anita shows faces that frighten the dead
I can't resist looking even in dread
Now Karens deep thoughts
Make me think of times past
Of dreaming and meanings so dearly said
But now on the breeze
that blows from the bay
I say to myself
What a journey ! I'll stay!
If Faucon keeps writing
There's a song in my heart
For the women & men who's names
are not all forgotten and are such a big part
I don't really mind
I rarely feel blue
I'll close this I call rhyme
for its cuppa tea time.

Loving thoughts to one and all.
(For Luna) "market to market"
Lois (Muse of the Sea)
23/12/05

Ancient Thought for Christmas

2005-12-23T14:57:00.000-08:00

when you find a man whose simple smile
casts light into the shadows
of your soul's loneliness …
follow him

the scrolls of Eskiyalı

Here comes the birthday girl

2005-12-23T06:58:00.000-08:00

Many thanks to all of you who have gathered

for my birthday, offering wishes and adventure. I am sorry I have not been

a regular traveler on this caravan--sometimes my life gets a bit crazy--but today is my birthday, and as you can see, I am dressed for this occasion.

I am ready to dance, to ride the magic carpet,

and to drink deeply of life!

I am proud to call you friends, and am

making serious resolutions for the new year

to travel along once again.

But now, I must go--I see the tall dark stranger

approaches once again for a dance!

PS: Heather, a magnificent job on the advent calendar.

You deserve a long rest!

Heather Puts Her Feet Up

2005-12-23T02:43:00.000-08:00

We have a problem travellers. Heather is sitting with a big straw in a very long drink, looking at the desert sands and tells me it is time to put our feet up. Bless her socks! I think I will leave her be for awhile. The calendar is all finished and she does need to enjoy it too.
yours Sibyl Enchanteur

To market, to market...

2005-12-22T17:09:00.000-08:00

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig,
Home again, home again, dancing a jig;
To market, to market, to buy a fat hog;
Home again, home again, jiggety-jog;
To market, to market, to buy a plum bun,
Home again, home again, market is done.

By Mother Goose

Get Your Magic Carpet's Here

2005-12-21T17:37:00.000-08:00

The Marketplace near Sheba's old palace is the perfect place to acquire a magic carpet. Do take the time to have a magic carpet ride. You can have the carpet take you wherever your heart desires.

le Enchanteur Heading to the Pavilion

2005-12-21T17:34:00.000-08:00

le Enchanteur is heading to the Pavilion for Karen's birthday celebrations.

At the Pavilion...

2005-12-21T16:12:00.000-08:00

The gypsy camp has been transported to the Pavilion of Earthly Delights - lanterns are strung threough the trees, fire eaters and tighrope walkers thrill the onlookers on the green sward and in the Pavilion, Prince Adiguzel and his new Princess sit under a silken canopy with their guest of honour, Karen. As she shares a glass of champagne with them, a tall dark handsome man makes his way through the throng.

No, it is not the Sheik of Araby - it is Lavengro, Gypsy Chief, arriving by flying carpet to claim as his right the first dance with our special guest. He whisks her out onto the dance floor and the band strikes up a lively tune. Everyone stops to watch the couple on the dance floor.
Later in the evening we gather on the green sward outside the Pavilion to watch the fireworks and the gypsies put on a show of dancing and tumbling, a spectacular climax to a wonderful evening filled with light and love.

Not Dancing

2005-12-19T06:44:00.000-08:00

It is a feature or necessity of a Bedouin tent that the protecting outer flaps and layers are separate from those that enclose the inner chambers. This allows me to stand and watch the dancing and trysting maneuvers and ploys of the Sheik and harem wantabe's.

I guess I have always been on the outside looking in at these things. In high school I was sorta gangly and flat-chested, but still could have gone to more proms had I not been trained that I could not refuse a date request, even from George, except by not going at all. In college my growth reversed itself and I then received attention from those who didn't know my name before. I reluctantly went to a nightclub where a former football hero approached and said he would like to get to know me better. He was looking at my chest at the time, and I shocked my friends by saying, "Well I am up here, not down there. Try again when you are a little taller."

It was sometimes a problem protecting the girls from men. Sadly, there are those who feel that any female who is unattractive and even deformed should be so appreciative of attention that they will put up with abusive attention. 'quoise could have held here own at any performance before a Sheik or king, but was protected by here innocence and sharp elbows and instinct. She was once arrested for breaking a man's finger that was in her bra at the time. The judge let her off because she is 'retarded' and didn't know any better.

I divorced my former "mister wonderful" when it turned out he had lied about wanting children. Turned out that he had several un-named children already. Obviously the woman's fault. He saw no inconsistency in not want "legal" children, while feeling free knock up anyone for free. Maybe if I had gone to more dances I would have known better. But if I did choose to seek another man in my life I wouldn't use a dance card. Does anyone know of a spiritual and moral credit app anywhere?

Nessie

THE PASSION OF THE DANCE

2005-12-18T22:31:00.000-08:00

Oh for the romance,the romance of the dance.
I dream it to be so ,once again
The closness of two
who glide and sweep and sway on
the terrain of their making.
Tis that youth has passed me by
is no reason to forget!!!!!
The many times I danced
on that ballroom floor by the sea in St Kilda.
The large dark stained doors,brass handles,old but beautiful
open to a breath of air.
Young ones ,passions and hot breaths
needed cooling
Young maidens in frocks of organza and lace
No plunging necklines
but full bosoms to tempt amid the folds and gatherings of
soft materials
The orchestra of 20 on centre stage
swirling couples circled around and around
She sang jazz and old time rhythms,she is long gone
Her voice remains on records and cd's ,not forgotten
by me and those of the 1950's scene,a jazz singer renowned
We walked home after midnight,all together,no paired couples
30 or more girls and boys of 18 or so
Shoes were taken off tired feet,and held in the hand by the strap
It was romantic I remember,some held hands,others too shy
Boys egged each other on,to take up the challenge
"Go on hold her hand" they whispered pushing the young shy lad foward
Young lasses were less shy ,and if they were,they held the hand of
their girlfriend.
My favourite best dress was green,fine cotton 3/4 length
with a fuzzy wuzzy green bolero made by my Aunt Nell.
Shoes were gold ,thick heel for dancing but quite high
As a 4'11 lass why did tall young men always asked me dance?
Bending my head in the modern waltz made me feel dizzy
To rest my head on a tall youth's chest was romance indeed
I could hear his heart beating faster and faster.
I wasn't sure what it meant ,at 18 we were not well versed
as todays young are .....
Today I still believe that the dance will always be
"Ecstasy &Passion like no other"

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 19-12-05

Invitation to the Pavilion of Earthly Delights

2005-12-18T02:03:00.000-08:00

The prince goes to meet his bride

The beauteous Parveneh

The Pavilion of Earthly Delights

I have received a communication from Lavengro:

Dearest Travellers,

While you are adventuring on the Silk Road, we have not forgotten you, nor our sworn promise to celebrate your birthdays and anniversaries.
I have been in touch with my dear friend Prince Adiguzel, whose mother was a Gypsy dancer, like mine. The Prince will be celebrating his wedding to the beauteous Lady Parvaneh this month. This is a true love match and the Prince and Paveneh are very happy to share the occasion with Karen, who celebrates her birthday on the 23rd. Adiguzel has thrown open his palace and grounds to you, so please use your magic carpets to be at the Pavilion of Earthly Delights on December 23, where there will be dancing and feasting and much joy for our dear friends.
My cousins the Gypsies will also be there to entertain the guests with feats of daring such as fire eating and tightrope walking.
Le Enchanteur has kindly lent me a magic carpet so I may have the first dance with our own guest of honour – so I will see you there.
I hear the ladies have been to a ball with the Sheik of Araby. Beware of this man. No doubt he is charming, but his camels have more honour. I will not have him trifle with ladies of such quality.

Yours respectfully,

Lavengro
Gypsy Chief
Lemuria

The Dancer

2005-12-17T15:14:00.000-08:00

Oceans of silken cushions await
the collapse of shy-veiled maidens --
danced beyond breathless vengeance
on a night too soon a memory.

Snitternoch -- poluush -- kooree

It is not drums that pound in fury,
nor distant scent of music's longing
that brings a blessed, heaving stillness
to the carpets 'neath the tented stars.

Nihush - nihush ne zaman

The golden child glides on feathers
before the Sheik and gifted splendor
to place a bowl of azure ripples
at the zenith of wondrous sighs.

Shildi -- oofshan, nidick roo

A single tear drop falls intended,
churning mists from the cherished sea --
offered thus in sublime innocence
and bound magick of the ancient trust.

Nihush - nihish ne ziman

Swirling fronds of gossamer whispers
conceal the form of the faerie dancer,
stepping from the incensed dreaming
of all women as one in silence.

She draws from each trembling maiden,
Enchantreus, Muse and faire winsome lass,
a bit of Goddess in surrender
to the oasis of the soul and will.

She is the siren of the desert,
each man's dream of passion's touching,
hidden behind each spirit's veil,
found in ev'ry mother now to be.

Shinna -- shinna luu falla!

Slipped into something more comfortable

2005-12-17T13:58:00.000-08:00

le Enchanteur has made herself at home at the Palace and has slipped into something a little less formal and a little more comfortable.

Charleston!

2005-12-16T23:36:00.000-08:00

Me and the Sheik gettin' it on!

Luna as Red Sultana

2005-12-16T17:54:00.000-08:00

To the Palace of the Sheik!

2005-12-16T16:24:00.000-08:00

Many gathered, myriad colours,

a feast of splendour,

magnificent palace.

Perfumed silk, mystery and

intrigue, the magic

of a Masked Ball...

le Enchanteur Goes Arabian

2005-12-16T16:21:00.000-08:00

le Enchanteur has also decided to woo the Sheik with her designer Arabian outfit.

Dressed for the Ball

2005-12-16T16:19:00.000-08:00

There was a flapping noise, as of wings, at the window and the carpet sailed in and drifted down to land at my feet. Carefully sewn into the pattern was the invitation to climb aboard to be transported to the Sheikh of Araby’s masked ball.

What excitement - the chance of fly on a carpet of my own!

I carefully sat myself down in the middle of the carpet, which rose a few inches into the air as if to test the weight of its passenger. Seemingly reassured it passed through the window once more and out into the dark of the velvet night sky embroidered with thousands of diamonds twinkling across the heavens.

We sailed above oases and ribbons of silver rivers before arriving at the turrets and minarets of the palace. Gardens with tinkling fountains surrounded it and heady aromas of incense rose into the sky. Intoxicated by all this, I was already entranced by my surroundings when the carpet delivered me safely to the wardrobe room where I was left to choose my costume.

In keeping with the exotic theme of the caravanserai, I decided upon layers of filmy fabric wound around my upper body and hips. Jewelled slippers adorned my feet and a harem mask hid most of my features, leaving my hair to cascade freely around my shoulders. A jewelled collar and crown completed the outfit.

I made my way towards the music and the smells of food. A banquet indeed had been set before us, with cool sherbet to slake our thirst. The walls were inlaid with patterns of mother of pearl and there were beautifully patterned blue, white and green tiles covering almost every surface. Lanterns hung from the walls casting odd shaped shadows on the floors. Dancing girls with bells on their hands and feet swayed to the music of pipes and stringed instruments. The other costumes were as varied as the characters on this journey. Brilliantly coloured silks shimmered wherever I looked and light glanced off the jewels, silver and gold. Singing birds in the cages added to the music.

I immediately recognised the Sheikh of Araby, a tall, dark-skinned character with very dark eyes and a dark beard and moustache – a handsome enough looking guy but I didn’t altogether trust him even from my vantage point at the edge of the room.

I watched as he danced each dance with a new partner until it was my turn. In truth he was an excellent dancer and managed to steer my two left feet around the room without making me feel too much of a complete idiot. My gauzy costumer shimmered around me as we danced and I felt like a queen, for a few fleeting moments. From the corner of my eye I could see the amazon queen casting furious glances in my direction but le enchanteur seemed happy enough. After this I was glad to seek the cool of the night air on one of the terraces. I looked up into the sky and thought about how I had come to be here, on this journey, and here in this magic place. I should make the most of this evening as we would be continuing our travels soon enough and our paths would take us away from all this opulence.

Soon, too soon, the time came to climb aboard my carpet and be returned to my room. Silver ribbons still glowed down below and the stars still twinkled in the night sky. The carpet landed softly in my room allowing me to return to earth and then flew out through the window and away, up like a piece of ash up into the skies. Like Cinderella at midnight, my silks and jewelled slippers gave way to more mundane garb.

I climbed into bed, to sleep, perchance to dream …..

A gown of moonlight

2005-12-15T21:26:00.000-08:00

In a distant peaceful land
A young girl lives in a kitchen

She often falls asleep reading books near the fire
Her stepsisters unkindly refer to her as Cinderella

The ash covered girl loves books
Especially the ones given to her by her father

Humble chores connects her to her father’s estate
And his books give her the world

She cares little for fancy clothes and gossip
What she likes is walking in the forest and daydreaming

She makes up stories she tells the cat
Or the birds in the trees

Unnoticed and unwanted Cinderella becomes a lovely lady
With intelligence and kindness

The stepsisters think she is simple and base
While they obsess over royal intrigues and their wealth

One day while sorting the grain
A letter arrives

Smudged with soot and sweat
Cinderella delivers this letter to her stepmother

Through the excitement, laughter overflows
At the idea of Cinderella attending the ball

This breaks her heart with the finest cracks
That runs quite deep

She expects little
But this small wish expands into a great desire

Overwhelmed with despair
She cries for the first time since her father died

Cinderella opens the floodgates to her heart
She slowly drowns in misery

An energy begins to collect from the corners of the room
A swelling of light concentrates into a figure

A soft voice gently speaks
Blinking through her tears

Cinderella stares amazed at a petite woman dressed in radiance
“Oh darling, there is a way for you to go.”

Magically a gown of golden luminosity whirls around her
As she walks up the stairs to the ball

She is like the sun rising in the night
All heads turn as she enters

The prince comes directly
And bows

He gently takes her hand
And the waltz begins

Some whisper the prince is bewitched
He cannot take his eyes off her

No words are spoken
But a bond forms that cannot be explained

At midnight Cinderella rushes away
As her fairy godmother instructed

On the road home her fine gown disappears
Her stepsisters come home and shake her awake

They talk about the foreign girl
Who occupied the prince all night

But tomorrow they vow to get their chance
To turn his head.

After the stepsisters go to the ball for the second night
Cinderella waits in the garden for her fairy godmother to appear

Tonight her dress is several shades of aqua
Golden fish dart in and out of the folds like sea grass

Upon arrival the prince is waiting for her
He takes her hand and they disappear through the open doors

The strain of music can barely be heard
And still they dance

At midnight Cinderella runs home
The prince tries to follow but a confusion of ladies block his way

Cinderella pretends to be asleep
As her stepsisters arrive with complaints of the ball

She tries to act interested
But her small smile gives her away

Her quick stepmother grabs her wrist and asks what’s so funny
Cinderella says something simpleminded and her stepmother smirks

A mask is required on the last night of the ball
The stepsisters fuss over their clothes and keep changing their minds

The fairy godmother waits nearby
With a swish of her wand

Cinderella is enveloped in cool shimmering light
A lace mask hides her face

All eyes dazzle to see this moonlit beauty
The Prince knows her instantly

They move onto the dance floor and begin the waltz
The prince by now has memorized her every feature

He knows her hands
And the way she moves

The prince speaks intimately
He knows in his heart she is the one

The prince begins to ask…
But the midnight bells chime, she has no choice but to run

She wants to stay in his arms
But the broken charm would show her in rags

She losses a shoe on the stairway
And cannot stop to pick it up

Confused and frustrated
She doubts he would look at her without the fairy glamour

And yet what did she expect?
She only wanted to go to the ball

What happened is more than she could ever wish for
She has fallen in love with a person she barely knows

She has fallen for the way he touches her
So gently as they dance

She has fallen for his sweet expression
When her looks into her eyes

She sighs to herself
And gives up on ever seeing him again

At dawn she tends her chores like any other day
A messenger arrives announcing a shoe fitting

The stepmother rushes about
Getting her girls ready

Cinderella does her best to help
But the exasperated stepmother shoos her away

The first daughter’s foot is too large
The second one almost fits but her little toe is too big

The stepmother whispers in her ear,
“When you are queen, you won’t need to walk.’

She cuts off the little toe of her own daughter
The stepmother announces the shoe fits!

An entourage swiftly rides to the palace
The stepsister is presented to the king and the prince

The prince knows this is not right
The girl stands with a painful expression

A pool of blood forms around the shoe
The crowd gasps

The prince lifts her onto a couch and removes the shoe
And to his horror sees her mutilated foot

The prince declares this is not the way to find a wife
He takes his horse out into the open air

If a person would cut off a toe to marry a prince
What other kinds of insanity would people do?

He knows he must find his mystery girl
But how?

The shoe fittings are not continued
Cinderella’s shoe lay hidden

The prince races into the countryside
To clear his mind and his heart

He stumbles into a forest where the trail ends
Falling asleep under a willow tree, he dreams

There he sees Cinderella working in a field
Sorting grain

He doesn’t see her face
But he knows her graceful movements

He knows her spirit
Even in a dream

The prince wakes at dusk
Following the trail to a little farm

Seeking water for his horse
He approaches the well

Covered in sweat and dirt
A young girl grasps a water bucket

She sees him and smiles
He knows her even from a distance

This is his mystery girl
But he is confused by her circumstance

In this moment she forgets how she looks
She is filled with love for him

The stepmother sees what is to happen through a window
But she cannot stop this

“It doesn’t matter to me what your status is.
If you would marry me, I would honor you for life.”

He takes her hand and kisses it
Tears streak her face

They marry in a private ceremony
Under a willow tree

As Cinderella disappears
Princess Ella emerges

The Prince and his Princess
Live and love for a long, long time

Persian splendour

2005-12-15T19:43:00.000-08:00

Some exquisite images from the book Palaces and Cardens of Persia by Yves Porter and Arthur Thevenart.

A niche in a house iun Kashan, filled with pieces of coloured mirror glass.

The Mausoleum of Aqa Baba Khan. The walls sparkle with mirror glass mosaic which has recently been restored to its full beauty.

A dovecote in the Isfahan region, like a piece of honeycomb left in the sun...

The breathtaking wonder of this journey continues...

Order of the Dance

2005-12-15T16:57:00.000-08:00

The Dance Card is, me'thinks,
an attempt to choreograph life --
human interaction by design more in tune
with Torquemada than Gene Kelly …
but I am game for anything,
or I should say everything
that the soul can envision over mind.

So I suggest a change of rules
such that everyone can participate,
and even I, who has spend some time
as wall flower to demons of the Prom.

The men, not the girls, will stand in form,
spotlit pose of rippled muscles,
before a placard printed bold
with list of vital information,
like net worth and view on abortion --
last book read and story 'bout his mother.
Each musing lady will fill in their Card
on every other line, to fill each fantasy
and desire (and prompting from others unseen).

Then the 'gentler set' will take their turn,
posing on a dais in gown or costume
of their choice and whim revealing,
before a similar scripted placard
of focused intent and passion --
such that the alternate lines on the Cards
are filled with braided fancy and illusion
coached by culture and sitcom drivel
of what the perfect dance will be.

Then comes the surprise!
Each Card is placed in a crystal bowl,
from which each dancer will select but one,
and spend the night living a dream --
not caring it is crafted by others --
and as a mating ritual it will serve
as well as any other then or now,
as you will never know if your partner
is found divine by chance or intent --
it being a costume ball, after all.

And I --
found still standing against the wall,
empty Card un-noticed on the floor?
I will find another abandoned by the rules;
and together we will dance amidst the flowers
to the symphony of laughing stars --
ever thankful that Dance Cards
are keeping others spinning -- swirling
in the fantasy of night.

Setting

2005-12-15T03:20:00.000-08:00

My evolving book "Olde Soul" details the interaction
of a young man from Milan with Eskiyali at the great
Carvanserai at Gyor in 1261 AD. It is three stories braided
together: the sayings of the Seer, Jaimic's reflections
on these ideas, and a running tale of the adventure itself --
a 'stranger in a strange land'. These extractions
(deliberately chopped up throughout) might give all here
a feeling of setting on an ancient Caravanserai --
though this famous trade gathering could be comprised
of 3000 people. Enjoy.

faucon

There had been a squabble in the market over some old debt between families. Outside of the protection of the Caravanserai I am certain this would have led to bloodshed. As it was the two young men were brought before the sage. I did not know that he performed services as a judge – but his advice may be of another kind. Each places a coin in a cup before the dais on which Eskiyalı will sit. I have never seen payment made before – or requested. I had thought that shared wisdom was its own reward. Somehow this is different. These words were made to the crowd after the judgment was issued and the men had departed...

I have received a message from the seer! There is to be an event outside of the great ring of spears that defines the Caravanserai. I may sit by Eskiyalı and take such notes as I may. I do not know if I may speak with him and may translators will not be with me. They are afraid. Outside the custom of Györ they could be victims of bandits or un-trusted merchants. I am cautioned not to attend as many would question my appearance and strangeness. Yet I must place my trust in the sage or my journey has no value. I will be allowed to take my sword.
……………………………………………………………………………………………….
I have asked Trobin to accompany me on the foray outside the caravanserai – even three or four bandits would not attack an Asi! He refuses, saying that to do so would insult Eskiyalı. But he does offer to guard my pavilion as my belongings would no longer enjoy protection when I left the camp. I do not offer him payment, trusting that what he selects or asks will be fair – and there will be a price! The Alan do not haggle over their famed services. What is the value of ‘everything I own’?

Ekrem chuckles when he learns of my arrangement with Trobin. If I do not return, perhaps dying of natural cause, then the Asi can do what he wishes with my wealth. If, however, I should come to harm or die by foul means he is bound to deliver my belongings to my heirs. For that he would extract a great price – from any who would do me harm. He has done me a tremendous honor by handling my problem in this way. Hundreds of strangers will now guard my venture less they be caught up in some intrigue. Those not obviously with me might be thought of as against me. All this is difficult to believe. I will learn more of the Alan and their power over the travelers here.

An old man dressed in green came for me bearing a standard made of crossed strips of black and white cloth. Even Trobin stood aside that we might pass on the way to the seer’s pavilion. It seems very quiet – perhaps because most of the crowd give my pavilion a wide berth. I hear murmurs of, “the day,” but no one will tell me what it means. My friends say that I am better prepared by knowing little. I walked to the left of Eskiyalı to whom I have yet to speak a word. Methinks my larger size will give better protection than my skill with sword and knife, both of which are returned as we passed the final crossed standards. Soon I will know what it all means.

That does it!

2005-12-14T20:23:00.000-08:00

That does it! One look at the Amazon Queen clinching the Sheik of Araby and I sent my costume straight back to Mad Eye Moody. (Actually he was quite relieved, seems he doesn't command as much respect in a singlet and shorts).
Back I went to the market place, where I combed through the stalls until I found this fabulous red 20s dress and peacock feather mask. Theyt are hanging in my caravanserai room while I go and soak in asses' milk and rose petals. (Well, it's dried milk and rose petals, but the woman who sold the mixture to me swears it's just as good as the real thing.)
Of course you are right, Lois, men like this are not a long term prospect, but if I'm going to dance with a tall dark manI want to look the part.
Besides - who knows who else may be hiding beneath all those masks....

"A FREE DANCE CARD "'

2005-12-14T20:04:00.000-08:00

Like the Amazon Queen in the arms of The Sheik
I rush as she did to hand back my card
But not to dance with this Bearded Man
I hurry to offer my card to those travelling
The Silk Road
My card is free,
gladly given
Perhaps one who has missed out,collect it at the door.

I do dance,I love to dance, I long to dance
But I have my pride
I made a vow some years ago
To find the partner to share my dreams
He must be clean shaven
Play no musical instruments
Be handy around the home
A carpenter,but a dreamer as well,good conversationalist
A cook,a gardener,a traveller to interesting places
Not one who climbs a mountain just to reach the top.
So on principal I decline the Sheiks dance card
as I feel it could lead no where
But I will wonder as I dream
what he might look like
if perchance I was to shave his beard off
in some tender romantic tryst
Oh as I wait I watch you all
as you swirl romantically and think
of what lies ahead with such a man
who would have all these cards
and not share one with anyone .....

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 15/12/05

Moment of truth

2005-12-14T19:54:00.000-08:00

Anxious to get going, I set off just before noon. There were four others with me. They shared my desire to learn about new things, but none wanted to travel on roads that were not sealed. I prefer unsealed roads. Roads where you can smell the earth under your feet and hear the crunch of loose stones. Passive, I walked for a while on the path that they had chosen. It was safe. And at the time this seemed important. Until we met the tall, skinny man with the trumpet-shaped nose and long forehead. Mr trumpet-nose sought to persuade the five travellers into staying with him. I went to keep walking. He grabbed at my hands and tried to pull me back. The other four didn't need to be pulled back. This moment defined the truth. And in that same moment I looked over to the green fields beyond where a band of brightly clothed gypsies were travelling easily. They were singing and playing beautiful tunes. They were not aware of me until I joined them. I had chosen to be where I wanted to be.

I am Balthazar...

2005-12-14T16:04:00.000-08:00

I wrote this poem many years ago - at this stage of our journey, it seems appropriate...

I am Balthazar: where others kneel, I stand,
And over multitudes I rule in my fair land.
`Tis not for thy Kingship that I stand in awe,
Nor to curry favour should e’er thy word be law.
For no man do I bend my knee or lower my eye,
Be he foreign King or Son of God; such am I.
A man of science, I seek truth above all things.
By night I read the omens that the stars may bring.
Of late thy life was spread before my eyes,
Writ in blood and treachery across the skies.
Poor King, I see thy death in wretchedness and pain,
By friends betrayed, to die, and die again.
It moves my heart that I, alone, should know,
The doom another King must suffer so.
Take then, this bitter myrhh: may Allah’s hand
Guide thee on thy fateful steps through David’s land.
Now I stand apart, this is as it must be.
Those I rule shall never kneel to thee.

In a far and distant land...

2005-12-13T22:39:00.000-08:00

This story was overheard while drinking Chai in an open market. Please forgive this variation from the original, somewhere in the Arabian Nights.

In a far and distant land was a Sultan who loved his wife very much. He gave her gifts of rare and exceptional beauty to show how much he loved her. And when she became with a child, he was overjoyed. With anticipation the Sultan oversaw the creation of a vast garden.

The Sultana had gathered family near her in the hopes of having this child with great support and comfort, but that was not to be. Her two sisters were so jealous of their younger sister’s beauty and good fortune that they faked kindness in order to live in the beautiful estate.

As the time came for the birth, the Sultan postponed his hunting so he may be near. He waited and waited. And waited all night, until one of the sisters finally came to the Sultan.

“Sire, the Sultana has had...ah.”

“Well, spit it out woman!” shouted the Sultan.

“Sire, the Sultana has had a kitten.” the sister said with a bowed head.

“What silliness is this?” he burst into his wife’s chamber and there she lay all red in the face with a kitten mewing nearby. The Sultan was so shocked and angry that he ran from the room.

This unexplainable event happened two more times. The Sultana was in disgrace. She is said to have had a puppy and another kitten. The sisters secretly smiled satisfied with themselves as the Sultana cried, for surely the Sultan would banish her.

The Sultan and the Sultana lived separately until the day the Sultana quietly died in her sleep. Some would say she died of a broken heart. The Sultan truly mourned her. When he saw her in death, he had forgotten how truly he had loved her. And felt ashamed of his treatment of her.

The palace lingered in gloom but the garden had flourished under the guidance of an expert gardener. The Sultan would often go and visit the gardener and enjoy conversation and good company. One day while exploring the garden where it touched near the wild forest, he saw a young girl playing in a ruin of a teahouse. She had the lovely eyes of his beloved dead wife and thought she must be a ghost. As the Sultan came near, the child offered her play food to him. The Sultan spent a delightful afternoon with this child and assumed she belonged to the gardener or a servant.

The child asked if he would play with her tomorrow and he said he would. The next day a picnic awaited the Sultan. The spread was quite lovely. Except the sandwiches were made of mashed pearls and the water, mercury.

“What manner of food is this?” asked the Sultan. The child looked up and said it’s pretend food. “Ah yes,” chimed the Sultan. Then the little girl asked, “Have you ever heard of a grown woman giving birth to a kitten?” The Sultan gave her such a look., one that warned danger. “What do you mean by this question?” he felt a little hot with anger.

“My father is suppose to believe I was a kitten,” murmured the child. “ And who is your father?” asked the Sultan. “I do not know, but the gardener cares for me like I was his own.” The Sultan replied, “Let’s go visit the gardener.”

The Sultan pounded on the door of the gardener’s house. A fine, young boy answered the door. Upon seeing the angered Sultan he asked, “Sire, what has my little sister done?” The Sultan bristled, “May I come in?”

The gardener’s house was charming but small. The young boy fetched the old gardener, who came to greet the Sultan.

“I had no idea you had so many children,” the Sultan stated. “Why did you never mention them in all of our talks?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.” Said the gardener. “I know plants. I know how to make things grow. “

“Surely, it’s a wonderful thing to say, ‘I have fine children, dear Sultan’.”

The gardener sat on a cushion and looked deeply into the Sultan’s eyes. “Sire, I would like to tell you a story…”

“My story begins when your beloved wife became with child. You hired me to create a wondrous garden. You wanted splendid places to play and hide for your child. My old wife and I had not been lucky with children. But soon after we came here, we heard crying outside; in a basket with fine blankets was a beautiful newborn boy. We gave him the best the Sultans land could offer.”

“And some time later, two more children arrived, a boy and a girl. We of course, knew something had happened. And we could not assume anything, sire. Word came down, the Sultana was in disgrace and we were not sure you were of, the right mind. My wife and I brought up these children as our own.”

The king looked at these children in their simple clothes and saw his beloved Sultana in each of them. “But how did this happen, really? “ mused the Sultan.

“I do not know, only that they appeared.” answered the gardener. The Sultan thought to himself. He took each child in his arms and apologized for his blindness.

The Sultan had allowed his wife’s sisters to stay in the palace and live a life of luxury. They had become spoiled and greedy. One night the Sultan had a trusted servant give the sisters the sweetest wine and a few key questions. In the dying candlelight, the sisters spilled the story of the Sultana’s labors were to three children. The sisters talked and laughed, belittling the Sultan’s wife. In the morning the sisters found their rooms changed to the lowest chambers of servants.

The Sultan spoke to them and asked them why they did such a thing. They just spat at him. Ungrateful for the life they lead and wept for themselves.

The Sultan came to the gardener’s house and wanted his children to love him, not because he was their father, but because they wanted to. Everyday he came to visit them and brought tutors and started to have a new house made for the Royal Gardener. Eventually the children came to live in the palace. But each day they spent in the garden with their adopted parents.

The unorthodox family unit created a strong bond of friendship and generosity. The Sultan told his children of their mother’s beauty and sweetness. He also told them what a joy they are to him and he could not imagine life without them.

Kashgar, Bactra, Samarkand...

2005-12-13T22:23:00.000-08:00

Kashgar, Bactra, Samarkand…
Oasis cities on the Silken Road,
Where the dust of the desert
Is washed away
And the spirit is refreshed.
Cities that sing the sagas
Of ancient empires.

Time moves from sunrise to sunset in the desert, the passing of it marked only by the sun. The camel bells are the only sound sometimes, even the flute player too exhausted by the heat to lift the pipe to her lips. So far from clocks, from schedules and timetables, from the daily list of things to do, the mind roams hungrily ahead to the next oasis, the next island of life in this endless sea of silence

Kashgar, Bactra, Samarkand…
Like a mantra chanted to a string
Of wooden beads, each name
Echoes in the heart,
Fills the mind with visions,
Sings the ancient ways
Into my soul.

The first sign we get that we are nearing an Oasis city is the gradual greening of irrigated pastures. The oasis cities grew up around pockets of fertile land and water. The cities are walled, but careful irrigation creates pastures where sheep and goats can graze, under the watchful eyes of their shepherds. Some of these cities have become kingdoms in their own right, and like Rome, all roads lead to them.

Kashgar, Bactra, Samarkand…
Call to us across the sands.
The stars that light our way
Have distant worlds,
On which other dreamers gaze up,
With hearts full of wonder and delight,
At all there is.

For Monica, who loves this stuff

2005-12-13T18:27:00.000-08:00

The Angels of Sidon

It might be true that man's history is of and within the Word, having no vitality except as written down and preserved. Some say that this is so. Not I! For all that is written of history is not true, and much truth was never written. That is why you have never heard of the Angels of Sidon. Were it not for a typing mistake on an internet search, you would not learn of them now. The truth is for you to judge.

In June of 2001 I was doing research on the Third Crusade -- attempting to sort out conflicts between popular myths and personal journals recently published from several Slavic counties previously under USSR domination. On one query I sent, "the lies of King Richard and King Phillip;" instead of, "The lives of …" I received numerous interesting accounts including three that mentioned the 'Angels'. It has taken three more years to sort though translation difficulties and obvious embellishments. What I now share is a composite of offerings from Rumania, Kiev, Uzbekistan, Turkey, Hungary, Germany and Poland. Two pieces of evidence are universal: the Angels came into existence in the year 1191 AD, and their stories were deliberately suppressed by the combined order of three kings -- Richard I of England, Phillip II of France and Leopold V of Germany. Officially they do not exist.

The three monarchs (Frederic Barbarossa for Germany) had each built large armies for very divers and selfish reasons, but still managed to give the appearance of a united front upon arrival in the Holy Land. This changed when they met on the way to Acre and began squabbling over spoils and captives. As an attempt to placate the kings, 15,000 prisoners were delivered. -- people rounded up for no apparent reason other than they were 'different', and had not aligned themselves with either the Muslims or the Crusaders. Many were Christians but of Eastern sects. Others were travelers caught in the conflict. Some may have been spies, or common criminals. No effort had been made to sort them out, but the Marmalukes had not killed them either. It was a quandary. Each of the three Kings handled their 5,000 differently. Phillip immediately baptized his segment and set them free to be good Christians -- to either join the Crusade or leave the lands immediately. The German faction was less trusting. Their prisoners were sent to Germany to serve as paid servants for one year, then released to be 'good citizens', but could not stay in the Holy Land. History tells us that only a third reached Germany, with the rest escaping/settling along the way. Our good King Richard the Lion Hearted had a different solution. He order all 5,000 executed as an example to Saladin of what would happen to all enemies of "God." In response to this act of terrorism the Angels were born.
A single knight stepped forth and defied the King. He stated that at least the travelers from foreign land, neither Christian nor Muslim, should be allowed to leave. Richard was having none of this, and ordered the knight seized and executed also. But then a French knight stepped forth to challenge the legitimacy of the decree. Then another -- and another. Finally eight knights stood between the King and his 'demonstration' -- three English, three French and two German. Now the other Kings were involved and caught with their own showing of compassion. Richard turned his back and said, "These traitors must leave. Those who would follow them to Kazan may, as God will serve the sentence for us. Let no man assist them, feed them or nurture them. Their lands and titles are forfeit, and their names erased from history." The other Kings concurred. The number of foreigners thus saved numbered between 80 and 100, only a small part of the total to be slaughtered. The straggly mass left with nothing, shoeless, cloakless and with no plan. By all accounts they were already dead. The city of Sidon was famous throughout history as a place of haven and tolerance. It was here that the eight knights let them.
They also left the accuracy of historic account and entered legend, as no official records were made in any of the English, French or German journals. Some of the travelers survived and took the story with them. Islamic records record the granting of free passage to the 'Angels', and later accounts of battle with the "Knights of Stone." Others stories throughout the land above the Black Sea tell of a band of outlaw knights, feared by both Crusaders and Muslims -- invincible guides to travelers and those seeking sanctuary. Sidon was captured by the Muslims in 1194 and recaptured in 1197. The Angels of Sidon continued their task and calling throughout those years, defying both sides. By legend their number was always eight at sunrise. Even though some of the knights were reported killed in fierce battles, always at tremendous odds -- the next morning eight Angels would appear to continue the fight. If the scattered accounts are believed and totaled these eight knights (or mysterious replacements) killed more than 300 opponents in single armed combat. In the last found record (Polish), in the year 1198, eight knights dressed in green and gold let a throng of hundreds of women and children East to the Caspian Sea. The hilltops were lined with thousands of Turkish soldiers who watched them pass in silence. No man dared challenge those with "the eyes of grieving peace". None ever shall again.

The Three Wise Men

2005-12-13T09:10:00.000-08:00

Frankincense Road - The Sense of Treasure

2005-12-13T05:08:00.000-08:00

This road intoxicates with its history. A grail image one of the elders mentioned this morning, fascinates. Buried treasure uplifted, brought up from its hiding place in the earth for all to see. It was a beautiful thing to behold. I wear a neutral coloured, raw cotton shawl around my head and face to avoid the sweeping sand, lifting from the dunes at the sides of our road. Shalimar makes a steady pace, bells chiming from time to time in the wind, and in time with her movements. It's a beautiful sound and my mind is full of memories of colour and mystery.

I have a thought to my own treasures, attached to my cloak in a small woven casket. I lay them out in my mind. They would mean different things at different times, ambiguous as the case may be. Circumstance. Symbols, signatures, timeless, old, yet new. So it is with treasure, dependant on the mind's eye. The sun burns like a glow, through the moving sands. An eagle circles high above, a thing of beauty and grace, casting a curious eye over our colourful caravan making its way on this special journey. Watchful, gracious...

Sidon

2005-12-13T03:26:00.000-08:00

In my idle search for Caravanserai,
I was taken back to memories of Sidon --
This most ancient city is worth study ...

http://www.middleeast.com/sidon.htm

rather than be captured the inhabitants
destroyed themselves by fire -- 40,000 died

Jesus walked there

every great conqueror the embraced Lebenon
made Sidon a seat of power and knowledge,
for example ....

"The Khan El Franj is one of the many khans or caravansaries built by Fakhreddine II for merchants and goods. This is a typical khan with a large rectangular courtyard and a central fountain surrounded by covered galleries.The center of economic activity for the city in the 19th century, the khan also housed the French consulate. Today it is being renovated to serve as Sidon's cultural center."

but there is more --

for the last three years I have been gathering hints and clues about a group of eight men from the time of the Third Crusade -- The Angels of Sidon. Perhaps it is time to write of them -- no one else will, and I have found that I am 'curse proof'.

Coming soon ...

faucon

a last-minute purchase

2005-12-12T20:05:00.000-08:00

I found this ancient amphora pendant at the souk.

It belonged to a fine lady, a favourite of an ancient king,

or so the merchant said,

(perhaps to drive up the price a bit.)

No matter.

It contains several drops of myrrh oil.

For protection and consecration I wear it around my neck.

It will guide me along the path.

AN UP DATE ON THAT LEMON BUTTER

2005-12-12T19:37:00.000-08:00

Now girls and Faucon.......

I am stating that I have written Lemon Juice as the title instead of Lemon Butter......You are all so nice not to notice it......(I bet that Le Enchanteur did)

Correct title for my wares is.....

'GOLDEN SEED LEMON BUTTER' Circa 1950.
**************************************
PS After grating the rind of 12 lemons
squeezing the juice(taking out the pips) of 12 lemons then beating 12 eggs
all by hand mind you, no fancy machines in the Daley household (But there should be) I was goggle eyed when I sat at the computer to send out the recipe to you all...My Apologies.

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 13/12/05

Olde Soul 6

2005-12-12T17:26:00.000-08:00

dreams drift unto action's reality -- sad
from actions spring the dream again -- joy
to embrace this dance is the highest form of living

the scrolls of Eskiyalı

Leaving the Caravanserai

2005-12-12T12:47:00.000-08:00

The day was sunny , a crisp clean morn,
No sign at all of the departed storm.

It whirled away - took all the debris,
Swept the paths and cleared the memory.

Time to gather the camels, set course for another place,
Seeking Frankinsence and myrrh, courage and grace.

What a few unexpected days had been spent at the caravanserai! But the storm had abated now leaving only a new arrangement of the sandhills in its wake. It was a new perspective that greeted us. Telling our stories in the interum had also been a somewhat cathartic experience and drawn the travellers together. Time to move on.

I gathered my children. They were reluctant to head off once more into the desert. The few days we had spent prisoned by the storm had provided new friends for them too. Some they recognised leaving with us, others they had to leave behind, tiny faces peering from the walls, reluctantly. Rachel had a spinning top, beloved of the oasis dwellers, as a memento. She clutched it in one hand, with the other in mine. As usual the men were gathering the bagatelle that accompanied us, strapping it onto the testy camels in preparation.

It was indeed a beautiful morning to set out, just after daybreak in fact to journey before the desert sun enforced another stop. We stepped out with some excitement, certainly anticipation of what we were to encounter next. The exotic caravanserai had fuelled our imagination, the storytelling had forged friendship and our hearts were clear to accept the lessons of our pilgrimage.

Where were we heading now on our route to Makkah? Rumours abounded...was it Suakhim? Alexandria? The men seemed to keep this information to themselves, gathering in groups after prayers. Although I did note one very strong and able woman, swathed from head to toe in white robes to deflect the sun, and who was riding a huge black horse. She seemed privy to the arrangements and in fact had some part in the decisions but otherwise was unknown to us. Wherever we were headed , I knew it was going to be an interesting and enriching experience. I patted the new scarf I had acquired in some intense bargaining in the souk. Its soft delicate silk was a pleasure in itself and its vibrant colours indicative of its origin far away from across the Silk Road , perhaps China. My feet took up the rhythm and my soul sank into a peaceful place.

2005-12-12T06:30:00.000-08:00

Still behind the wooden door I looked towards the pond where the terrible, piercing screeches were coming from and smiled as memories of Henry filled my mind. In Wisconsin, where my mother lived, it was ice, snow and unbearable cold and I had finally encouraged her to come visit us in sunny Floprida. Now I was in the process of making some great memories for her when she returned.

The scene is a beautiful balmy day at the Botanical gardens on Sarasota bay. We entered the gardens on a large circular path surrounding a miniature tropical scene. Palm trees were swaying near a miniature pond with a rock water fall. All types of plants were growing in what seemed like a natural setting. There was a complete array of colors spanning the whole color wheel. Mother commented that I fit in the scene completely as I was wearing a vivid violet silk blouse with different exotic colors in tonals of violet, red violet and blue violet and accents of lime green and gold. We also were surrounded by a concert of tropical birds fishing in there pond or perched in trees and bushes or just strolling the grounds staring at us. It was just as we began circling this scene on the path that I first heard the screech.

Leaving for the Frankinsence Trail

2005-12-12T03:49:00.000-08:00

le Enchanteur and members of the Caravanserai setting out for the Frankinscense Road to Makka, Medina and Petra.

The land we cross

2005-12-12T03:09:00.000-08:00

I had only the single story to tell, but can do research. We all travel through a troubled land where we do not always understand the motivations or will that drives people to act as they do. In the 12-13th centuries, western knights entered this land to attack the "sultan" who wrote this:

"To obey, Fight hard for Allah,
is my aim and my desire;
'Tis but zeal for Faith, for Islam,
that my ardor doth inspire.
Through the grace of Allah,
and th' assistance of the Band Unseen,
Is my earnest hope the Infidels
to crush with ruin dire.
On the Saints and on the Prophets
surely doth my trust repose;
Through the love of God,
to triumph and to conquest I aspire.
What if I with soul and gold
strive here to wage the Holy War?
Praise is God's! ten thousand sighs
for battle in my breast suspire.
O Mohammed!
through the chosen Ahmed Mukhtar's glorious aid,
Hope I that my might may triumph over Islam's foes acquire!" ---

Sultan Mohammed II

I have learned that ther word "infidel" is wrongly used in our history. It refers to any person who claims one spititual path and follows another. In the Crusades and now, I am asking just who are the "infidels"?

Nessie

Lemon Butter Circa 1950

2005-12-12T00:03:00.000-08:00

So many brilliant artists
Tapestry makers
Post card swappers
Sweet potions and oil gatherers
Juices squeezed from ripe fruit
Old time stews and casseroles for winter months
Soups to tantalise the pallet
Pasties and pies to delight the hungry
But what of me I thought

Arty and crafty I am not,
Have never made one garment in 70 years
A knitted scarf is my total output now
Painter (Yes of rooms and houses)
No easel or tubes of paint are in my cupboards
A spinning wheel lies idle
Knitting needles and books fill a drawer
Crochet hooks now never used

I was feeling un-creatuive,
What could I make to sell at the market place ?
A bright light dawned as I looked through the
kitchen window
Lemons on my tree
Why not make Lemon Butter said I
************************
Here is the Recipe
*********
12 lEMONS ripe of course
12 ozs of Butter
12 eggs
3 lb sugar
METHOD
1.Wipe lemons,grate rind using only the yellow part,
Squeeze out the juice
2.Beat the eggs in a pan & add the grated rind,juice,sugar & Butter
3.Cook over boiling water in pan stirring until butter dissolves ,let water simmer under the pan gently stir occasionally
4.Cook for 15 minutes after the lemon butter begins to thicken
5.Pour into prepared clean jars and seal placing a piece of
grease proof paper on when cool ,then lid (Best to use metal lids).
******************************************

Ok, now to the Label......What to put.
Port Melbourne Lemon Butter 2005
Lois's Lemon Butter 2005
Home made Lemon Butter by Lois 2005
No I thought none of these seemed suitable.

Then It came to me
With permission from Imogen (Monika)

"Golden Grove Lemon Juice 2005"

Now it tastes wonderful,friends neighbours have
declined a jar saying it is the most fattening of spreads
better to buy from the Supermarket as it is made with low fat
ingredients...artificial sugar and what they use for butter who knows

So I will have it at the Archipelago Sunday Market,
look for me there under a bright yellow umbrella.
PS. I will need to put it into very very small jars
it really does'nt make a lot even with 12 lemons and 12os butter,and 12 eggs.....

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 12/10/05.

For Caravanserai Friends....

2005-12-11T21:46:00.000-08:00

Friends walk part of the path with you,
Help "pitch your tent" and see you through.
Laugh when your days are sunny and long,
Cry when all your dreams go wrong.
Give you a hoist when the going's tough,
Boil the kettle when you've had enough.
So thank you for the hugs and cups of tea,
For being good cyber friends to me!

Istanbul covered market

2005-12-11T13:22:00.000-08:00

Istanbul's famous covered market

fabric stall

spice stall

lamp shop

ornaments to ward off the evil eye

necklaces

calligraphy as art

2005-12-11T13:19:00.000-08:00

the name of Allah as a boat

Behind the wooden door

2005-12-11T05:44:00.000-08:00

Since opening the wooden door I have been doing nothing but lounging in the courtyard and strolling the marketplaces. I was thrilled to step into a huge circular courtyard that looked like an oasis in the middle of the desert. A pond was in the center with our balcony bedrooms overlooking this oasis. After unpacking and armed with paper, pen and ice tea I settled in a lounge chair in the shade of a palm tree and contemplated the story I would share with my fellow travelers at the party tonight.

We were asked to go to the storage closet of antiquities and pick up an object from the shelves and write a story about it. I went, and searched, but could not find anything that stimulated my imagination so now I sit and wonder what I shall do. A story needs a plot; a beginning, a middle, and an end. I do not have one. A short story is even more challenging.

As I was searching my mind for some ideas I suddenly was startled by a loud piercing screech. Startled I looked towards the pond. It was in that moment I knew the tale I would tell from the bone chair. It would not have a plot, or a suitable beginning or end but it is a true story and I even have pictures. Really, our life is a series of short stories. I shall send the raven back to the Abbey to bring me my album and then tell my tale.

Here at last!

2005-12-11T05:28:00.000-08:00

Last night I awakened as if from a dream...I dreamt that I had been wandering along the Silk Road, looking for my companions, but they were no where to be found. I got up, quite disturbed, and made myself a cup of tea. As I sat sipping it in the kitchen, a raven landed upon my windowsill and tapped twice at the window. I immediately opened the sash and she came in. I noticed a small tube fixed to her leg, and as I examined it more closely, found that there was a note inside. Written on an ancient scrap of parchment, it said, simply: "Go look in the closet."

I rushed to my closet, and within it found quite an extraordinary costume--skirts, robes, scarves, golden cuffs and anklets, and a traveling bag. Next to these items was a large rolled carpet. I thought for a moment. Suddenly, the carpet rippled, causing me to step back in alarm, as it slowly shuffled itself through the closet door into the bedroom, and began to unroll. Once fully unfurled, it continued to ripple and eventually rose a few inches off the floor, hovering there. I knew now what I must do, and whom this gift was from--Enchanteur was calling me!

I quickly brushed my teeth, set the house in order, gathered a few things for travel, and dressed in the robes and jewels. I led the carpet out the back door, and looking about so no one would see, I hopped on.

Immediately, we were airborne, and passing rapidly over the earth--the view below was a blur of mountains, trees, lakes, and oceans, and it was magnificent! I lay face down on the carpet, my eyes peeping over the fringed edge, and watched my home planet pass below. After what seemed like minutes, yet also days, the carpet began to descend, and we circled slowly down to what appeared to be a port city--ancient stone buildings and a bustling marketplace. No one took notice as I lightly touched down and rolled the carpet, stashing it for the time being in a corner of a dusty abandoned stall. I looked about, getting my bearings, when a voice behind me said, "It's about time you got here!"

I turned around to see Enchanteur, who swept me into her arms for a great hug.

Archeological Treasures - Art for Trade

2005-12-11T03:22:00.000-08:00

After a long time spent in the bath-house, floating in the heavily salted water, I was at first startled to be met by a gentle, dark veiled woman in the dusty street. Vaguely on my way back to the marketplace, she pulled me aside into a small alcove where a ruby-cloaked man was telling fortunes in a makeshift tent. She bade me come with her, crooking a painted finger, and we went behind him, down a small gap with stone steps, leading underground. It was cool and quiet, and aromatic with pungent herbs. I was self-assured and felt as if I knew her. At once through the darkness there appeared a glowing array of colours. "Take them to the marketplace" she said simply, pushing her veil higher to almost cover her dark kohl eyes. Then she disappeared into the dark vault. Here is what she showed me....these are art cards for trade, and the colours are divine...

Entertaining the Crowds

2005-12-11T02:59:00.000-08:00

Le Enchanteur is proving quite an acrobat and is entertaining the crowd outside the market at Suakin. Heather is standing nearby, rolling her eyes a lot, wishing her limbs had as much flexibility.

Ancient Dish

2005-12-11T02:39:00.000-08:00

Pre-12th Century Cooking (Turkish)

DISH: Tϋrkçe Pazar Salat (Turkish Sunday Salad)

Period: 2000 BC to present
- greatest family shopping use was 600 BC - 1030 AD (pre-Seljuk period)

Notes: Families went to the bazaar on the seventh day (non-work) for shopping, games and socialization. They typically took a cold mixed vegetable salad. Other items like şış kebab, şış köfte, dolma (stuffed meat pies), etc. were purchased at the bazaar. Salad was often carried in a gourd wrapped in an evaporative cooling cloth.

Ingredients: rice, cici peas, grass seeds, tomatoes (seeded)^, squash, green pepper, onion, nuts*, dill weed, ripe olives, green olives.

*the common nut was a type of long, skinny pine-nut (yeni fıştıc) that died out during the dark famines of 1335-1343 AD. I have substituted slivered almonds.

^tomatoes as we know them are claimed to have entered Europe in the 15th century from South America, yet four strains of tomatoes exist in Turkey that do not exist there. Possibly, some other similar fruit/vegitable use used in ancient times and replaced with the more versitile tomatoe of today.

Dressing: scant olive oil, marinated vinegar
(hot peppers, garlic, rosemary)

Eating: spoon, or gathered in a grape leaf (yaprak)

Taken from the bowl with a phrase - ellınez Saĝlık (may your hands be blessed)
(Ell-en-ez saw-aw-lick)

This recipe was prepared and given to me in 1968 by a Turkish Language Professor, together with much verbal history. I have documented several parts of the story of origin, use and ingredients. The Turkish saying "Never mind what you ate and drank, tell me where you have been and what you have seen", shows it was considered bad manners to talk about food and this is why there is little culinary literature in Turkish, though it is considered one of three great cuisines of the world. Poems which contained recipes were passed down verbatim for thousands of years.

Items about eating habits and picnic practices are found in Divanu Lugat-i Turk, a dictionary compiled by Kasgarli Mahmut in 1072-1073 to teach Turkish to the Arabs.

The use of cold rice dishes with tomatoes(sic), and the use of all the listed ingredients, is documented in the literary works of Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi, a philosopher who lived in the 13th century.

The idea of taking part of a meal to a bazaar and purchasing the rest on-site is referenced in stories in Dede Korkut Hikayeleri (The Tales of Dede Korkut) compiled towards the end of the 14th century.

The mysterious nut called Yeni Fıştıc (new nut) is used in many recipes in Kutadgu Bilig (The Book of Knowledge), by Yusuf Has Hacip in the 11th century. The dark famine has now been attributed to a volcanic eruption (Krakatoa?) in 1334 that blanketed the earth with ash and destroyed hundreds of plant types.

faucon

The Journey

2005-12-10T23:33:00.000-08:00

Time is on the wing, so I am popping into the market to leave my wares and shall be back later to browse.

I have made 5 ATC's as a reflection of our journeys. They are 2 and a half by 3 and a half inches, and are machine embroidered on fabric.

If anyone is interested in trading, I would send a print of the 5 cards.

Reflections at the Caravanserai.

2005-12-10T21:10:00.000-08:00

Just when you think you've lost it,
The hurt, the rejection, the pain.
It surfaces and confronts you.
Again and again and again.

Each time it matters a little less.
Some comfort:but just the same
It's adept at playing the waiting game...
Again and again and again.

So I remove myself to a gentler place
Of starlight and refreshing rain.
To try and forget, to step away.
Again and again and again.

If I greet it with incredulity
Will it sense my inner hostility?
Or focus on my fragility
As I struggle with elusive impunity.

All I can do is step out again
Rejoin the pilgrim train.
Hoping the presence of strangers and friends
will halt this bitter refrain.

Art cards for trade

2005-12-10T20:00:00.000-08:00

As I wander through the market, enjoying the calls of the barkers, the scents of aromatic teas and lush fruits, and pausing here and there to enjoy a fine weaving or a richly detailed oriental carpet. I'm also looking for a quiet shady place to trade my wares.

Under a wide archway, I find a spot between a sweet maker and a shy young girl selling beautiful earthenware pots. The sweet maker has trays piled with halvah and baclava, and boils sugar in a huge drum, pulling and spinning it into fine shining strands that she fashions into minarets, spider webs and stars. The potter softly tells me the story behind the decorations on her pots, the meaning of each beautifully executed symbol.

Music floats over the scene and a group of dancers pass by, veils swirling, dark eyes flashing, gold coins tinkloing on their colourful costumes.

I drink in every moment - how brilliant it is to be in this place seething with life, colour and music.

And the halvah's not half bad either.

Australis

Oceania

Among my wares are these two art cards about 5 inches by 8 inches - Australis features rainbow coloured fibres with a white bead and circular collage, Oceania has seaweed coloured fibres and silver beads with collage. They are available for art trade.

inspiration from the ancients

2005-12-10T05:05:00.000-08:00

Olde Soul 5

2005-12-10T04:14:00.000-08:00

leaders never seem to embrace a simple concept of learning.
There is a difference between knowing
'What to do' and 'how to do'.
there may be cause for leaders to be involved in the first.
only those actually doing the work should engage in the second.

the scrolls of Eskiyalı

Carvings of the Great White Owls

2005-12-10T03:11:00.000-08:00

Carvings of the Great White Owls
Originally uploaded by FranSb.

The Secretary will provide a card with your donkey and whatever you would like to have printed on it in exchange for a poem, a paragraph or tiny painting, email if it suits you. The Donkeys' secretary

Market of the Senses at Suakin

2005-12-10T00:24:00.000-08:00

Sights, sounds, the cavernous space,

echoes with market wails and cries,

"Try my wares!" in many different tongues...

This is the excitement of the crossroads

of cultures, the mixing of art and secrets

and spice. Travellers wind and weave

choosing, tempted, by what they see,

forever transformed by the colour

and senses are alive. The incense smoke

streams like a floating spirit up into

the air, the hush of silk, a blaze

of jewel colours, golden threads,

exotic spices, how can we ever remain

the same again...?

The Main Hall

2005-12-09T20:58:00.000-08:00

Heather sat sketching the main hall of the busy Market Place and took in the sounds, sights, perfume as traders from all over the world sold rugs, silks, woven goods, frankincense and myrrh, prayer beads and other precious items.

At the Marketplace

2005-12-09T20:41:00.000-08:00

Le Enchanteur has arrived at the Market Place and is preparing to perform one of her illusionist acts for the locals.

Under the Sycamore

2005-12-09T13:50:00.000-08:00

I have partaken of a bath
Potions and oils to delight
even the wrinkliest of skins
Why is that one feels half
their age when these magic waters
leave our bodies like they were
in our youth...and not a word said ?

I am sitting in my white terry towelling bath robe
on a chair, not of bone
but reeds and bamboo from the river
I think of friends I spent a holiday with
The stimulation of political conversation
Solving the problems of the world
Bemoning the changes in society

But then a wine or two on the front porch
Looking down on the river in moonlight
One became more at ease
Thanking the land we live on
And realising how fortunate we are
Our hard labour is bringing benefits to us
Why is is not so for all ?

I am looking foward to visiting the Market
meeting up with travellers and friends
Sharing stories of wonderful adventures
Isn't it grand to travel without leaving the village
Its all there in our imaginations
of what to buy ,for whom will we bring gifts to,
paintings,dolls,perfumes,books,healing medicines
and listening to Faucon........King of Poets
as he reads wonderful stories of homelands unfamiliar to me

I wake , I have slept for an hour or two under
the Sycamore Tree on my hand made chair
It is time to dress in my gypsy skirt and leather sandals,a white soft cotton frilly blouse will compliment the look.
My purple back-pack and assorted gathered memories tucked safely away when the drawstring is pulled tight
Au revoir for now ,till we meet once more fellow wanderers.

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 10-12-05

By lantern light, the dancers

2005-12-07T03:56:00.000-08:00

By lantern light, the dancers
Originally uploaded by FranSb.

Spirits free
and the joy of travel

Storybook Cruise - Birthday Camel Called Rose

2005-12-06T20:50:00.000-08:00

When I was eleven I got a huge book of Eastern Fairy Tales from Mum and Dad for Christmas. I still have it and treasure it. This journey makes me pick it up again, flowers pressed in it's pages, carnations and rose petals and leaves. The first page introduces "The Caravan" that leads onto the other stories, all exciting in their own way, and oddly whimsical in the light of where I find myself now. Seems timely now to add something of the introduction here, being a special day and all:

On a Story Book Ride - Camel Rose

{The Caravan}

"Once upon a time, a mighty caravan was making its way across the desert.

The sound of camel bells and the chink of the horses' harness could be

heard from afar over the vast plain, where nothing was to be

seen but sand and sky. A thick cloud of dust rose before the caravan

and, when a breath of wind parted this, a watcher might have been dazzled

by the sight of glittering weapons and gorgeous clothing.

This was how the caravan appeared to the man who came riding up on a

magnificent Arab horse. Small silver bells hung from its crimson harness,

and a plume of heron's feathers waved on the horse's head. The rider

himself was a fine figure. On his head he had a white turban,

richly embroidered with gold, his coat and his wide trousers

were of scarlet, and he wore a curved sword by his side, its

hilt encrusted with jewels. His turban was set well down over his forehead.

This, together with his gleaming black eyes and bushy brows, and the

long beard flowing from under his hooked nose, gave him a wild

and adventurous look...."

(from Hauff's Fairy Tales, printed by Abbey Library London)

I loved these stories; they always appealed to the mind

traveller in me, and sent me off to places far

and wide, all from my imagination in my

room...

Olde Soul 4

2005-12-06T17:18:00.000-08:00

a man's worth might be measured in shadows …

his girth and strength in dawning
his age and wisdom at sunset
his soul when he protects a child
his courage found in silence

the scrolls of Eskiyalı

Ticket to Ride - Ship of the Desert

2005-12-06T13:25:00.000-08:00

That bell you heard last night Monika was my Rose arriving. She is here to give you a an unforgettable birthday cruise. I thought that since you are such a great mate I would give you a ticket to cruise on a Ship of the Desert. More luxury 'liners' are waiting for Caravanserai guests who want to share in the birthday celebrations.

Within the Heart of the Rose

2005-12-06T07:22:00.000-08:00

In a small cell inside the Abbey walls, meditating deep within the heart of the rose, I hear the piper call and know I must follow. But not now. Although others may leave before me, I feel no need to hurry. "Linger awhile," a voice whispers, "then begin where you are, you are not behind."

I breath deeply and inhale the scent of one of the heirloom roses grown in a corner of the Abbey's herb garden, a rose, the Abbess says, was once nurtured by Marie Antoinette in Malmaison. I hold the blossom cupped in both hands and with my eyes closed picture the pure, white petals, and feel the satiny softness of the bud as it cocoons my body. Here I find no joyful or sorrowful memories, no dreams or fears for the future, only the pleasure and comfort of the living moment. I rest.

Soon--is it a minute, an hour, or a day? I can't say, but far in the distance the music plays again and I know it's time to leave the rose behind. Oreo, who was curled at my feet when I began the meditation now twines about my legs, tail held high, alert and ready for adventure. Tookey, my Amazon parrot paces the window ledge, then glides down to my shoulder. The notes of the piper fill the room and we walk through the keyhole arch to begin our new adventure.

2005-12-06T05:25:00.000-08:00

Banyon trees, Oil on canvas by Jane

2005-12-06T05:15:00.000-08:00

There is a low murmuring and grumbling on the caravan as riders awake and try to stretch their weary muscles. It amazes me that any one could sleep at all as I certainly did not. Dawn is a gorgeous stream of warm colors stretched for miles across the horizon and the walls of an ancient fortress in the distance reflect the colors back off the white walls. The camels slowly meander into a side path that slightly slopes downward towards a small pond surrounded by palm tree, a welcome sight after miles and miles of sand and nothingness. I have to remind myself that there are rivers flowing on both sides of this area. I t seems we are getting a chance to stretch our legs before entering the city. As I dismount and search my now numb body I see the most beautiful Banyon tree a short distance away. I center my mind and take a mental snapshot to carry back to my studio with me; a perfect aubject for a future oil painting.

Dawn Glow - Caravanserai Inn

2005-12-06T04:48:00.000-08:00

Dawn seems to come bright and clear

in this part of the world,

dry and light.

A candle extinguished from

the night before

still glows at the

window.

I hear the sound of camel bells...

Close enough?

2005-12-06T03:45:00.000-08:00

This is not a story. I am not sure it is about a caravanserai.
But perhaps it is close enough. My father was killed in 1976 in a mysterious plane crash while on a diplomatic mission to Iran. There was a letter to my mother in his personal belongings that included these pages from a "journal" which has never been found. Some words are faint and others in a language I do not know, but I have transcribed it "bestly" as I can.

Nessie

IN SILENCE

Journal entry: Sept 7, 1961

We are to journey by night to a place in the mountains. I have been given old robes and hood and cautioned not to talk at all. I am to stay close to Rizan at all time (cousin to the Shah). I am in some danger as I will carry no identification. We arrive before dawn and must sleep half sitting up in a pile of rock above the ancient caravan trail. The site of the encampment is marked by a large circle of stones and a couple of rough tents are already up. By nightfall there are supposed to be hundreds. We will go down then and mix in and watch.

Journal entry: Sept 8, 1961.

Most of the trading stalls were closed when we walked in carrying baskets of figs and small, bitter oranges. These were set out near the great fire pit with me in the middle with the task of keeping flies away. I would be able to see everything. Understanding was a different matter as I speak only two of the many dialects used by the travelers. I picked up an occasional word of French or Russian mixed in with unknown phrases. Rizan had told me some travelers were from thousands of miles away to come here every two years. This was not a normal "travel camp" at a crossroads of old caravan trails. Somehow the purpose is to tell stories. These started at sundown and continued through the night. It was interesting to watch the reaction of the crowd to some of the stories. Perhaps it is better that I did not understand the words and could observe the gestures and ways in which the story tellers captivated the listeners. One story had no words at all.

The man was small and not dressed like others here. His caftan robe was of raw silk with brocade ends on the sleeves. The color was a strange greenish grey like the ocean. His sash and hood-wrap were of orange and brown, but not of any tribe markings I recognized. His features were Mongolian but with light hair mixed with white. His eyes were blue. He walked about alone but always had a couple of young men standing close by. When he rose to tell a story everyone became silent and dozens of people settled at the fringes. There were no women about that I could see. He was not introduced as many had been earlier. Then he did things with his hands.

Maybe what he did had some ancient meaning of some ritual or was illustrating a story already known by everybody. I don't know, and Rizan would not speak of it. As the man waved his arms his fingertips seemed to glow. He approached dozens of listeners and touched their foreheads and appeared to take a spark of light in his fingers -- like a lightning bug. These he placed over his heart and the light disappeared. It was just a trick, I know but it gave the appearance of gathering ideas or thoughts from the crowd. Finally, he reached up to his face and I swear he pulled two large globes of light from his eyes. These he juggled a bit so that everyone could see them. They were soft and not connected to anything and changed color some from gold to red and purple. Then he smashed them together and a flash of light swept over everyone. I had a feeling of happiness, but also was dizzy and empty. Several people in the crowd moaned. When I looked around the old man was gone. We left shortly after and I still do not know what this was all about.

camels

2005-12-05T12:34:00.000-08:00

first experiment with watercolour pencils

Faucon Paces

2005-12-05T02:23:00.000-08:00

I stand by the Golden Chair -
to begin ... then to pace and wander
about the snuggled guests around the fire,
the ink still damp on the parchment,
as a story oozes out from somewhere.

Read these words aloud -- as I speak.

faucon
........................................................................

EARTH BOW

He would have escaped notice,
had he stayed by the fire -- or had I,
but I chose to lie in the field and wait
for a passing drift of shimmer wake
and hear again the chimes of starfrost --
but I surely digress…

He stood boldly amongst the crowd,
slight form entranced by story and dance,
face hidden by dark cowl -- as were others.
Yet 'twas not so and but a ploy and ruse,
for the folds of cloth parted in the back
and keen eyes peered out and on.

While companions drew from fire warmth
full face with cheer and welcome song,
he scanned the horizon with secret gaze,
and then stayed behind to tend the coals --
as was his task as servant to the camel master,
or so I believed 'till now.

He was not as he seemed -- but neither am I,
and I sensed no evil in his quiet deception,
but ripple waves of joyful, silent laughter,
as one might know in children finding berries
'midst the dry thorns and desert bracken
of mischievous escape in play.

Throughout the day of dust and trudging toil
he collected dung from earlier caravans,
dried in the gifting sun in a most treeless land
that the story fires might burn brightly
and mask his searching of the shadow rocks
and crevasses of the night.

As he was everywhere and of common sight,
he was invisible by day as well by right,
and no one save I saw his plan unfold
with the collections of items one by one,
that made no sense taken all alone,
nor together by my memory.

A broken pole of planned tent support
was readily discarded to his quick eyed glee,
to be shaved and honed in midnight stealth,
betrayed only by shavings and sliver dust
caught in the teeth of jagged boulders
far from the morning preparations.

A broken cart was salvaged save a single plank,
gather up with scraps to add to the hungry fire,
but never seen by man or flame or master.
He must have carried it strapped to his back,
while his limping gait justified the longish staff
that no one questioned of.

I was waiting when he crept out at last,
leaving serai and friends and known peace
to seal his fate by design or special need;
and followed as a desert fox most grey
to observe the most wondrous event
of which I will soon relate.

He dug a shallow hole in the hardened ground,
and dance a bit to shape and form a bowl
across which he laid the stalwart board
to anchor with both feet spread wide and sure
and span the dimple in Mother Earth
to await the stroke of man.

The staff impaled deep the soil and stones
to bend in homage by tethered will and bond
of hemp and hair and silk threads of gold
to the center of the hole and arching board
yearning for an ancient note and song
entwined with Covenant.

This bow of Earth and tree and human soul
could produce a rich symphony of tone
as bending branch fought with string alone
to thunder through the sounding board
into the bowels of the bedded stone
to echo in my secret heart.

Never have I heard a sound as this before,
though each cell of pulsing life remembered
and cried for the Mother I had never known,
save that we all know the kiss of creation
and breath of the Father on our furrowed brow
and of the EverSong.

I did not know my soul could hear so clearly,
nor my heart change rhythm beyond reason
to a strum and pulsing mantra of foundation,
that drove me to my knees in comprehension
that the Earth knows me simply as a brother
and a dancer in the rain.

Others whisper -speak of a sudden desert storm
and thunder from a cloudless glimpse of heaven,
but I was there to see the Messengers come
and take the boy away on a silver steed --
called through witless time and encircled space
to take the Watcher home.

Rebekkah

2005-12-05T02:02:00.000-08:00

After taking a peep at Day 4 of the Advent calendar, and reflecting on letting one's emotions come out of their bottles, this story came to mind.

Rebekkah lived

with a fierce desire

to overcome those issues

that dulled her spirit.

She worked so hard,

she cared so much,

and yet, from time to time

those demons came.

They crippled her inside.

It was many years

before those demons

could be given a name.

'Twas Fear and Guilt.

Now when the demons come,

they can be named

and sent off on their way.

Rebekkah,

she has changed.

She still works hard

and cares so much,

and she is free,

free from the binds

of the damage done to her.

Her spirit is free,

she is dancing through her days,

no longer responsible

for other's ills.

The Singing Stars

2005-12-04T23:54:00.000-08:00

I listened and heard the stars sing, a different piper calling to me. I listened, and he beckoned "Come.." So I signed on. I quickly packed a small suitcase, my Grandmother's old brown one, with the stripes. It would be perfect for this journey. Not too big, but filled with memories, and ready for more memories to be made. I packed lightly. Just a few clothes, one bottle of liquid soap which could double as shampoo, toothpaste and a toothbrush, a small towel of many uses. Other things could be purchased along the way, or done without. The most important things were a journal, a pen, and a pack of coloured pencils. I would make time to write and draw along the way.

This was to be a journey of the heart, a journey of my most secret heart's desires. What would I discover? I didn't know, but I was ready to begin.

Cynaemon

Rachel.Her story

2005-12-04T14:22:00.000-08:00

After the exhaustion of the first days's journey, I slept all night, but tossed with dreams of wind and sand. It was no suprise to wake to an impenetrable world of flying sand whipped to a frenzy by a fierce desert wind. The sand was entering every crack and piling up in crevices. I was not alarmed as I was used to sudden sandstorms. In fact our first day had been accompanied by dancing swirls of sand on the hillsides, common in Syria. We considered it an omen of good luck for our trip.

So I was prepared to stay put at the caravanserai for a few days until the storm passed. The camels were hunched down, their backs to the prevailing wind direction with sand settling on their long eyelashes. After their chores were done, the children wandered off to find some amusement with the others of their own age.

To pass the time we older people each took turns to tell a story dear to us, to amuse and entertain. When it was my tiurn, I took the seat proffered and started my narration.

" My daughter's name is Rachel," I commanced hesitantly. But the eyes of my companions were kind and encouraging , although querying this unexpected admission, so I took heart and continued.
"She is named after my grandmother, whose memory is very dear to me.When I was little I remember the way she held me on her knee and brushed my hair while telling me the stories of our family and village. Especially she talked about the women, all brave and strong in adversity be it famine or attack by desert pirates or even armies. For Syria is a land where over time many armies have rode and plundered and raped. That is why some of the young children look so different with a scattering of freckles on a fair complexion with red hair and blue eyes. The Crusaders came this way too!"

"Well, one day I was playing at the well ( We lived in a village out of Damascus called Ma'loula)
while my mother fetched water.Suddenly there was a sound in the distance as of a swarm of insects ( we had had these occasionally and they devastated any crops we managed to grow in the sandy soil). The sound became louder and in the distance we could see a row of flags fluttering and as we watched, a row of standard bearers appeared bresting the hill and we could see that they were soldiers on horseback and the sound was drums preceding them. Janissarie's drums! Their drawn sabres were glinting in the sunlight even at a distance!

We all panicked and scattered with no idea what to do. Out of nowhere my grandmother appeared, snatched my hand and dragged my scrambling along a little goat track. Higher we climbed with the drums slowly and mercilessly coming closer. We came to a ladder leading up to a cave which I had not noticed before. But then the whole area had been riddled with caves from a bygone era when our ancestors had lived in them.
" climb Up" she said. " Then kick the ladder away as hard as you can, and keep very very quiet. I will look for your mother and your father.Remember, no sound" And she disappeared.

I crouched terrified, shaking, but quiet in my little cave.

Much later, when all the shouting and screaming and noise of drums had faded away, and I could no longer stand the thirst, I crept to the cave entrance. Somehow, although I sustained many cuts and scrapes and indeed broke an arm, I managed to slip and slide to another ledge and make my way down and back to a new world, one bereft of love and security. My beloved grandmother had died protecting me along with everyone else unable to reach a hiding place in time. The only family left to me was my father.

After burying the dead and mourning them, he decided to leave Ma'loula, once so happy, now only reminiscent of all he had lost. A passing caravan took us to Damascus where in his grief and seeking solace, he became a follower of The Prophet and married Fatima, my stepmother. But although we are now of The Prophet's faith, my daughter is named Rachel, in honour of my grandmother. Who is now always with me."

I stepped down from the chair. My story was told. I looked to the far wall and my grandmother Rachel smiled at me.

WOW!

2005-12-04T12:31:00.000-08:00

I joined here just to be a "looky-lou", as my grandmother would say. Oh my gosh! I have never seen such imaginitive writing. My father spent time in Iran when the Shaw was still in power. He had some stories to tell, but I never believed all of them. He did drink a bit too. I'll look through some old letters and maybe can find something to contibute here.

Meantime, I am hiding out from all those who are trying to
"fix me up", now that I am no longer with the girls.

Nessie

arrival at the caravanserai

2005-12-04T11:48:00.000-08:00

I'm packing again for another journey. This time it is to be a sort of safari but very unlike today's safaris where you are driven in jeeps from place to place. This one is to be a safari in a different time and a different place. The common element will be the animals as we will be travelling by camel. This safari will be taking place in a very different world and I must pack accordingly.

This time I will take with me long flowing clothes to protect me from the heat of the sun and the cold of the night. I will probably also need a cloak which can double as something a bit more comfortable to sleep on than the ground. I will need a notebook and some sort of writing implement which I have put into a small saddle bag. I also have a water skin. I have decided to take a musical instrument with me, it's small and similar to a lute and may help pass the time. Most important though will be my eyes and my senses for this will be a journey for, of and to the senses......

It was a hot day in late Haziran (June) and the caravan of travellers wound, snake like in the dust, over a long distance with stragglers far behind the main body of the party.

It had been another long day. Each day the distance between the caravanserais seemed to increase although they were, in fact, situtated at fairly regular intervals along the route.

The scenery had almost become monotonous, fields of blue flax as far as the eye could see, punctuated by the brilliant red of the field poppies. The trees were scarce, a few stunted olive trees or cork oaks which gave little shade. Women toiled in the fields in their voluminous multi-coloured trousers and long sleeved blouses that left little skin exposed to the glare of the sun. Goatherds with their flocks hung around the well heads waiting for water to be drawn. Such activity had changed little over hundreds of years.

The landscape lay flat ahead of him but he could now just make out the towering shape of the next caravanserai. It reminded him of a huge ship sailing across the plains.. He urged his beasts forward and, as if they sensed that food and water were near, with a jingling of harness they picked up speed and the wagons rolled forwards with a satisfying crunch over the stony track.

They could soon see other travellers ahead of them making their way towards shelter.
At length they reached the intricately carved archway over the double doors that would reveal their sanctuary for the night, doors that were high and wide enough to allow passage to the bulkiest of wagons and the most heavily laden camel..
Selim gave his name and the number of people travelling with him together with other means of identification from his merchant's guild, to the master of the caravanserai and they were shown to their quarters.

Selim had agreed to take me as far as this first caravanserai and now here I was – in a place I had often visited in my dreams for I had long wanted to travel the silk road.

The entrance gate towers high above me. Intricate patterns have been carved into the stone, patterns unlike any I have ever seen before. Islamic art forbids the depiction of the human face or animals as they would be viewed as idols so the patterns are invariable calligraphic, geometric, or based on plants. I walk through the archway and am temporarily blinded by the light as I emerge from the relative darkness of the entrance portal.

The caravanserai is a huge, rectangular construction with high walls all around it, built for protection as much against the elements as against potentially dangerous raiders. Staircases have been built at intervals along the walls so that a watch can be kept from the top of the walls. There is room inside this particular caravanserai for several hundred people. All around the edges of the courtyard rooms have been constructed which serve as the separate bathing areas for men and women, the kitchens and the stables for the animals. Selim’s people attend to their animals first and then settle down to look after each other. His group numbers several families and they have come from the east bringing loads of spices and sea sponges as well as richly woven carpets and pottery which will fetch good prices in the west.Before me is a scene of chaos. The noise is deafening, the stench is gut-wrenching and there are people and animals everywhere. How am I supposed to find the rest of my group?

In the far corner of the courtyard there is a well with a rose bush growing close to it. There is a woman sitting on the edge of the well, deep in contemplation. She, too, looks out of place here. I will go and converse with her ......

Song to Scheherazade

2005-12-04T10:34:00.000-08:00

My Mother is not the most open or affectionate person in the world but when she compliments you, when she shows admiration she means it. That's why I'm sharing this here. It's not a marked stop on the Silk Road but it's one I've taken and I'd like to share it with you

I showed my Mother the Caravanserai pages because she has a deep love and affection for the stories Scheherazade told in her 1001 Nights.

My Mother's history as I've said before is tied to the Silk Road and her taste for stories and sense of adventure was born of that Road.

But isn't it a shame, I told my Mom a few nights ago when I was visiting, that Scheherazade wasn't real. That there wasn't really a woman who once upon a time told tale after tale night after night of wonderful, clever magical stories?

My Mother looked offended by my words..."It’s very obvious Anita you don't know what you're talking about” that look said to me.

Then my Mom told me about a girl who use to sit under a Cherry Tree and spin her own tales about ghosts and witches and talking wolves for her brother and sister and cousins and friends. Mom said she enjoyed those stories so much she use to keep the kitchen window open so she could listen to the little girl tell them as she drank her coffee in the morning and that sometimes her friends would join her and listen in as well.

Then my Mom reached down to a red notebook on her desk and flipped it open. It was full of stories she had collected over the years from school notebooks, school newspapers, some are written in pencil, hand written in faded blue and black ink others are typed and the most recent have come from her computer.

As she turned the pages for me she slammed her small brown hand on each title page bearing the name:

Anita Marie Godfrey
others read
Anita Marie Moscoso

"That is my Scheherazade and she is real" my Mother insisted.

I felt very small when she said that, very small.

Your شهرزاد

Prelude

2005-12-04T04:00:00.000-08:00

So, we are to tell a story at the night-fire --
I will write one in the next couple of hours for you'all,
to be read aloud to all and dear ...

mean while, a prelude

faucon
...................................................................

'tis said there are four lives
"en caravan de vie,"
or maybe more unknown to me;
but of these I have 'oft engaged,
or they know of somewhat of me in truth.

There is 'fire-close' to guard
'gainst the creeping frost of night;
to learn of simple pleasures passing,
and hear bold stories of else and been,
and you are there tonight, my friends.

Be safe in close companionship …

This night I sit in 'fringe-delight',
to observe the sharing of heart and hand,
and learn of souls and wit and mystery;
and to see the stars shiver with the ice wind
that ever passes from mountain to sea.

Ah, to listen to the space between the notes …

There are three who sit in 'out-watch';
backs against the giggling fire and warmth
soas to sustain night vision and frozen attention,
though there is no fear of stranger approach
with Alani shadows close upon the moonless ridge.

I am drawn to learn of them! …

The there are those of the 'fire-within',
isolated by choice or whimsy -- or love,
who need neither fire nor stars nor mystery
to cloak them in else but their reverie,
or feather touch upon their blushing heart.

There was a time in my youth …

Yet beyond these 'views of the night'
there is someone watching me --
patience …

Bottling

2005-12-03T20:23:00.000-08:00

If I cork my pain and rage into a bottle
And throw it into the ocean
Who will pick it up?

Some poor soul walking the beach
Enjoying the day finds my bottle
And unleashes a scream that shatters the peace.

No. I will hang my pain and rage
On the washing line, let the rain
Wash it clean and the sun
Dry it up and shrivel it to nothing.

That’s the way to deal with pain and rage,
Hang it out there so the elements
Can play with it.

Instead I should bottle my sunshine,
There’s enough to spare; the laughter of a child,
One of my boys’ big bear hugs, a daughter’s kiss,
A few miles’ journey on the Silk Road,
A hour or two crafting, a shared joke,
And throw that to the tide.

Maybe it will be found by someone
Who needs it.

Dr MacFadden's Tale

2005-12-03T19:52:00.000-08:00

(With a gallant attempt at the good Doctor’s posh Edinburgh accent)

I am Dr Phineas MacFadden. I have a small practice in Edinburgh, where I have lived most of my life. Recently, with the acquisition of a very fine locum, I was able to indulge a long held dream, and travel the Silk Road.
But do not think, because I have lived a simple life, that it has been without incident. Dear me no, I have had some very strange experiences, but none stranger than what befell me as a young man, travelling by train to my first hospital at Stranraer.
I was dozing when suddenly the train came to a grinding halt. As I scrambled back to my feet I heard a voice call out - ``Is there a doctor on board?”
The guard was in a panic. ``Sir, there has been a terrible incident – a young woman has thrown herself from the train.”
I followed the guard and the driver along the track to where the young woman’s body lay in a thick clump of heather. Her white neck lay exposed but her face was obscured by an abundance of curls, soft red tinged with gold.
``Shall we help you carry her onto the train, Dr MacFadden?” The driver said.
I shook my head. ``No, she may have internal injuries – if we move her it could kill her. You must take the train on to Stranraer and send back an ambulance. I will stay here and do what I can,” I said.
``I’ll fetch you a blanket, and a flask of hot tea,” the guard said. He and the driver were clearly disturbed at having to leave me there, but they could see there was nothing else to do.
It was late afternoon when the train left. I put the blanket over the young woman and tended to her scratches and bruises. As far as I could tell there was no real damage and the heather had broken her fall. But she was still unconscious.
Night fell and so did the temperature. I shivered in my thin jacket, but the hot tea was a comfort.
I must have dozed because suddenly I found myself in broad daylight – I was standing on a shore, watching a boat pull away with four people in it. Three young men had their faces turned toward the sea, but the fourth occupant suddenly turned and threw back her blue cloak. I recognised the bright hair at once – it was the girl who had thrown herself from the train. She gazed at the shore, not at me, with passion and longing blazing in her eyes. Her voice, rising in a song of praise for the land she was leaving behind, pierced me to my heart.
I awoke with a start, still on the hillside, and immediately looked to my patient – she was sitting up, her hair thrown back, the beautiful face of my dream now before me.
``Are you all right?” I stammered. ``You had a terrible fall – but there will be an ambulance coming soon.”
The girl shook her head – she was clearly still groggy. I offered her some tea and she sipped at it gratefully.
``I am Dr Phineas MacFadden,” I said. ``Do you remember your name?”
``Finola,” she said.
I could tell by her accent that she was Irish. I encouraged her to drink more tea, for she was trembling, more from shock than cold.
``What happened?” she asked.
``You – fell from the train,” I said carefully. ``Do you not remember?”
``I remember standing at the window – I remember my heart breaking to see the last of Scotland – “ she sighed and shook her head. ``Then no more.”
``You are leaving Scotland?” I said. ``But why?”
``I am joining my husband Liam at Stranraer – we are returning to Ireland,” she said sadly. ``We had to leave because my father wanted me to marry a rich old man. Now he has sent word that he has forgiven us, and Liam misses Ireland so much – but I love this place, and I don’t believe we can trust my father. He still means us harm, I’m sure.”
My head was spinning, as you can imagine – in my dream I had seen Deirdre of the Sorrows returning to Ireland, where King Conchobar waited to kill her husband and force her to marry him, and here, lying in the heather beside me, was this young woman who was also returning to Ireland against her will.
Had not Deirdre of the Sorrows thrown herself from the King’s chariot as he was carrying her back to his castle?
``You must not return,” I said. ``You must persuade your husband to remain here in Scotland.”
We both looked up at the roar of an approaching engine. The ambulance was making its way along the winding road toward us. As the headlights swept across the hillside I stood up and waved.
The ambulance attendants lifted Finola gently onto a stretcher and carried her down to the road. I followed with the blanket over my arm.
At the Garrick Hospital we were able to ascertain that Finola had come to no harm. But when her frantic husband arrived I caught him alone for a few moments and told him that the trip back to Ireland would have to be cancelled.
``We want to keep an eye on her,” I said, ``Your wife is expecting a baby – luckily the fall did no harm. But a rough sea journey might be ill advised.” He readily agreed and confessed that he himself had no wish to return – he had thought his wife longed for her homeland.
So there is my tale – on that night, did I prevent an ancient tragedy from repeating itself, or was I swayed by the beauty of a young woman who had thrown herself from a train rather than leave Scotland?
I suppose I shall never know – but what I do know is that seven months later I never saw two happier people, when I brought their first child into the world.

Destiny Calls

2005-12-03T14:53:00.001-08:00

The tea service has been laid out with special care. She chose the sterling silver set rather than the porcelain and the linen napkins instead of the rough hewn cotton. All of her father’s favorites rest on a matching set of serving trays with scrolled handles and the family crest etched on their surfaces. The scents of warm lemon water for hand washing and strong Orange spiced tea fill the air along with curried lamb and warm couscous. She adds the final touches of warm flat bread, hummus and parsley. After pouring her self a cup of water she drifts over to the room’s single window and watch for her father’s arrival from the port.

A short time later, she sees him, a short man with a solid build and an air of confidence, striding up the street. She immediately sweeps away from the window and assumes her seat across from the one her father will take when he enters the study.

She checks her reflection to make sure that her appearance will be as expected despite her being flustered. She had a great proposition to make and she had to get it absolutely right.

When Yusef, enters the room she rises to take his cloak, sword, and headdress, then kisses him on either cheek.

“Greetings, Father”

“Greetings, Daughther.”

As they broke their embrace, he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“Ah, this is a grand meal that you’ve prepared daughter. Let us say grace.”
After their prayer, he reached for a piece of bread and ladled some of the lamb onto his plate.
“So, Aliyaah--I see the good service, all of my favorites, you at your prettiest, and not in the yard training with Kahlil or in the stable—most lady like. If I didn’t feel so well, I’d fear that death is near, so many of my wishes have been met this hour.”

“Can a daughter not simply wish to please her father.”

Yusef laughed heartily causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle and his cheeks to round merrily. He took a breath and responded, “Don’t do that again. You’ll make me choke. Please, pour the tea.”

Aliyaah obeyed and said, “You could at least let me get to it in my own time Father, and not mock me in the process.

Yusef nodded graciously and waited.

Aliyaah prepared a plate and placed it in front of her, then poured a cup of tea for her father and herself. After cutting her meal to bits and pushing it around on her plate she took a breath and began, “Father, I know that all of the decisions that you make are based on sound reason. I am going to ask you to reconsider a decision that you made long ago.”

She finally met her fathers eyes above the rim of his tea cup, “I want to go with you the next time you leave port. I want to see something of the world before I must marry and take care of a husband and a household. Don’t you think mother would have wanted that for me?”
“No, it’s too dangerous, and don’t invoke your mother’s name to get your willful way. Show some respect.”

“You met Mother while she was studying at the University.”

“Your mother was an exceptional woman, and that is not helping your case. You are already betrothed.”

“I’ve never even met him!”

“Yes, you have and your mother approved.”

“I was three years old, that hardly counts!”

“Are you saying that you do not trust my judgement!?,” her father thundered.

“No, Father, that’s not what I’m saying at all. I just want to know something without have to have that knowledge relayed to me by another either through storytellers, or your crews, or books. Father, I want—need to experience something important and different before I give what little freedom I have away,” her voice breaking on the last word.

Taking her hand and placing his finger beneath her chin to draw her gaze to his, Yusef said firmly and finally, “No, I will not allow it. You will spend this next year preparing for your marriage. Nothing that the world has to offer can provide you more than you already have—at least not without exacting a price. Be patient, dear, be patient. I have to get back to the docks. Thank you for a lovely mid-day meal.” He put on his cloak and headdress and headed out the doorway for a moment he paused as if he might relent, then squared his shoulders and continued on his way.

He didn’t realize as he left that it would be the last time he’d see his daughter for a very long time.

Aliyaah had booked passage on another boat a few weeks prior just in case her father had remained unmoved by her plea. She had hoped to travel with him to the lands that lay west of their home, but that would not be. That night she and her father shared supper and she cleared the area with the help of Crystal their maid servant.

In the early morning hours, she picked up the bag she had packed many months earlier and set off to board the ship called Destiny she’d thought it a fitting name for the ship that would take her on the first leg of her adventure.

Pilgrims Well

2005-12-03T14:53:00.000-08:00

Pilgrims Well is far from deserted as some travellers linger longer to enjoy the market and gather their provisions. Safe passage will be provided for those wishing to join us at the first Caravanserai where le Enchanteur is hosting a Scheherzerade style story telling evening.

2005-12-03T09:32:00.000-08:00

A lone sunflower beside the trail reflects the light from the swinging lanterns of our handlers.

The camels moved out, slowly following one another. Perched high above the ground I felt very insecure even though I was in a leather chair seat strapped tightly to his back.. As we moved into position the motion of the camel was far from smooth. The motion could only be described as like riding down a country road full of deep, unavoidable ruts. I was constantly bumping up and down, landing fully on my tail bone each step forward. I hung on to the horn so tightly that my knuckles were already becoming cramped. I have no idea how I will be able to ride for days on this uncomfortable beast. We moved Easterly as the sun slowly set behind us and miles and miles of nothingness in front of us. To late now, I am on my way.

Sharing

2005-12-03T04:01:00.000-08:00

Ancient Dish

The dish is Turkic in origin and enjoyed all along the Silk Road from Mongolia to the Danuba River. It is documented in stories, verbal history and a number of books written in the 11th-15th centuries. It is still eaten today in modern Turkey. Though years were recorded differently then, stories linked to events place the recipe at about 4012 BCE.

It is a 'spread', normally placed on a slice of raw vegetable like turnip, squash or tomato, but available chunk of bread is OK. Traditionally, it was never eaten directly, but prepared and handed to another. This produced a bonding between strangers in a Caravansarai or trail camp.

When it was gifted to another they would say, (un-dotted vowel (i) are soft as in "itch" the special 'g' is semi-silent - a glottal catch as a quick 'ah-ah'

"ellınız sağalık" - 'may your hands be blessed'

You would reply,

"Affayet ölsϋn" - 'may it be conducive to your health'

The dish has many names, one of which is "Terıyalı gϋz" - 'olive oil eyes'

One reason for the dishes popularity is that the ingredients could be carried great distances without spoiling, the quickly prepared.

ITEMS:
Hard cooked eggs
Olives sliced into four pieces (don't use canned sliced)
Onions - I use scallions but tradition not specified
Olive Oil - but mayo is probably OK today
Dill Weed

METHOD: adjust relative quantities for amount needed

1) Peel and slice 6 eggs into large chunks - don't chop. A wire cutter cut twice at opposite directions works.

2) Slice black olives (three small to each egg) into large chunks as above.

3) Mince 4 scallions including some green, or equivalent amount of other onion (about 1/4 cup)

4) Combine ingredients loosely

5) Bond - either:
a) drizzle in olive oil and stir until ingredients stick together
b) add mayo one Tbs at a time and stir until a dry meshing is achieved - not smooth like modern egg salad.

6) add one tsp of Dill Weed and lightly stir

8) you can refrigerate for up to a week and safely leave out for many hours.

9) If you use raw veggies, keep them in water with a little lemon juice, then pat dry before use.

Enjoy

Arrivals

2005-12-03T00:56:00.000-08:00

Missing the meeting at Pilgrim's Well, I called to my donkey, Destiny. What a warm reunion we had, not having had the opportunity to use her services for many moons. I was sure Destiny would know the way to the inn and she didn't disappoint. My previous travels with Destiny have always been by traditional methods -- trotting. Today she surprised me by showing me her flying talents.

The view from my seat on Destiny's back was astounding. I imagined the patchwork quilt of the landscape below having been sewn together ages ago by the nibble hands of the gods. Rich patches of gold butted up against dark mahogany followed by fields of red and bordered by a ribbon of blue. Each vista more amazing than the previous, I never wanted the ride to end. I found myself thinking, as Destiny began her decent, how different things look from above. The rich textures turning into dusty roads and falling buildings with speckles of bright tents budding like flowers in the desert. The bird's-eye-view gave me more respect for the world Destiny landed in. While everything might not have an apparent, up-close beauty, I knew if I could step back a bit, the beauty would be made clear.

Winded and thirsty, I crossed the threshold to our lovely inn and savored the water obviously fetched from a well earlier in the day. Still cool and rich in flavor, I felt its living energy rejuvinate me. After settling into my room, I knew I'd be ready to take a walking tour of the area. There was a curious site I saw from Destiny's back that cannot be far from here.

Sufi Rhythms - The Golden Bone Chair

2005-12-03T00:37:00.000-08:00

On the golden bone chair I sit, the crowd hushed, crickets chirping in the courtyards outside. Lights from the inn show the colours of the people, travellers all. I play a short Sufi tune on my lute and then proceed to recite these rhythmic words.

"A cup of salt,

A maiden's ring,

The sign of the cross,

A lady in frost,

A child freed from damp,

A knight in the sun,

A cave in spring,

The olive branch,

A lady's silken web,

A healed armour,

And a green-veined precious stone."

My journey, I realised, is my own. Even though I am surrounded by my friends and fellow travellers, I, like them, have my own story. I have worn a black robe with my hair tied back from my face, austere, but only to draw attention to the words. I wear ancient gold jewellery at my ears and wrists. A man with a dark complexion and a soulful gift, plays a reed, swathed in his fine garments, cross legged in the shadows, now that he is young again.

Suddenly he speaks of Rumi, the Sufi mystic, and recites excerpts of his words in the silence:

"Borrow the Beloved's Eyes"

Borrow the Beloved's eyes.

Look through them and you will see the Beloved's face

everywhere. No tiredness, no jaded boredom.

"I shall be your eye and your hand and your loving."

Let that happen, and things

you have hated will become helpers.

(Rumi - mystic poet)

Then he becomes silent and the room begins to fill with talk again and intoxicating music like wine, comes from the players out in the courtyard. I move off the chair and merge into the crowd. There is merriment and colours, candlelight and clinking glasses, moonlight on the stones.

A toast for the travelers!

2005-12-02T22:12:00.000-08:00

May the road rise with you
and the wind be ever at your back.

-Irish Toast

Chai with camels

2005-12-02T21:54:00.000-08:00

Meeting up with the caravan, the gentle laughter of women embraces me. Tents of rest luxuriate in the open air with cups of Chai on little trays. Exuberant smiles and excitement of the pending journey make us all giddy. Silhouettes of exotic people pass over the tent as we wait for our attendants. The ladies settle into comfortable, portable chairs laden with pillows and watch the crowd. Small children run about bartering goods. The clinks of coins are exchanged.

Each of us walks about the camels to choose one to ride. The camels wear colorful tassels and bells. Protection from the evil eye, I think. I choose a young camel with long lashes. She calmly licks her heifer. I watched amazed at her white fluffy baby camel.

The hilarious drama of getting on the camels, keeps us giggling for some time. And we don’t quiet down until the road gets squeezed into a narrow passage. I vaguely think about bandits.

My thoughts drift inwardly. I have read it’s important to have a plan when starting a journey. To ask yourself why you travel. I usually do, but not this time.

The day I left my mother’s home to seek the world, the December sky melted into the hazy band of blue ocean. I was leaving for good, never to be part of San Diego in quite the same way. The familiar winding drive caught me and shook me unexpectedly as tears coursed down my face like a child. I thought I so brave to go, to find my own way. And here I was a churning mess under the surface. That journey cut to my heartstrings and resonated in my bones.

Heart Of The Gravamina

2005-12-02T20:05:00.000-08:00

Gravamina: The part of a charge or an accusation that weighs most substantially against the accused.

I’m sailing to the End of The World on a ship called Gravamina, and she’s perfect for this Journey because she knows Death.

She is herself as dead as the Black Waters I sail across, as dead as the Crew that still haunt her decks and tend to her needs. She is as Dead as the Corpses that lie in the Catacombs I stole her compass from a week ago.

“ Finding the Gravamina won’t be as hard for you as it is for others. You’ll need the Heart of The Gravamina to find the Caravanserai,” the Hanged Man’s Skull whispered to me from his shelf in my library. “ But tell me, why do you want to go to the Caravanserai?”

I walked to the shelf and turned the sectioned skull towards me and looked into his empty eyes and said, “ Because I’m tired of you, I’m tired of this house and I’m very tired of pretending to be something I’m not.”

“ You trail Death behind as if it were a train on a woman’s gown Azi Dahaka. When the Caravanserai become wise to you…they’ll destroy you and then you’ll join me here on this shelf and we’ll have nothing for company except each other’s Sins.

I took the Hanged Man’s Skull from the shelf and wrapped it carefully in linen decorated with a language no living person has ever spoken. “ You wish,” I told it. Then with the Skull, and nothing else in my possession I went into the world to find the Heart of The Gravamina.

The Hanged Man’s Skull told me on our long journey to the Catacombs about the Heart of The Gravamina and why it entombed and the rest of the Gravamina rots in a Grotto below the City.

Then he told me to listen because the Heart of The Gravamina doesn’t beat like a drum.

The Heart of the Gravamina screams.

“All Ships are alive, you know that Azi Dahaka and the Gravamina was alive too…maybe more so then any of her Sisters

Once long ago something dark and wicked boarded The Gravamina and killed her crew.

Now, it was assumed it was the Plague, but of course it wasn’t…it was a Demon and it drained the blood and life from every living thing on board the Gravamina and with no crew the Gravamina drifted and dreamed.

And then she went mad.

Like most Insane things the Gravamina was very good at pretending to be normal and after she was repaired and sold and even re-named she sailed and reacted to her world, as any Ship should

But then she started killing things.

She took the lives of her crew, the fish that swam around her as she sailed the Seas and when she was bored she made the food and water and wine go bad that had been stored below her decks.

Then one day a young sailor whose mother was a Witch and whose father was a Demon from the Mountains boarded the Gravamina and she tried to kill him to…for sport.

But he knew what to do and he tore her Compass from her chest and he took it to the Catacombs and he buried it.

He buried it alive.

The fool.

So the Heart of the Gravamina Screams in anger and rage and the rest of her dreams and rots and then one day a woman named Azi Dahaka went down into those tombs and brought it back out.

Azi Dahaka put the Compass back into her chest and the Gravamina’ s Sails captured a long dead gust of wind and her Crew came from the darkness and now they are all sailing to a port where this is dancing and music and art and poetry.

And Souls.

Lots of them.

And Azi Dahaka is very, very hungry.”

On the Road

2005-12-02T19:39:00.000-08:00

I have been silent , and I am on my way.
I have listened to others' stories of their departures and was wondered if I would be able to ride my camel at all. My blue angel heron was looking after me, as the camel who was ready for me to ride - Ammal - has been very gentle. She has known exactly what to do without me leading her.

This is another world out here. It is so stark, I have never known anything like it. I am used to much greenery around me - I love the trees. Here, there are no trees, and very rarely any green. I am surprised, there is such a beauty and stillness in the desert. I am at peace and absorb the stillness in my heart. At night it is dark and the night sky so brilliant.

Tonight we meet at the Caravanserai to listen to Le Enchanteur telling stories. I am hiding away for a short time to rest after 3 days of riding. I know that I will come back refreshed and renwed.

Rose Spirit

2005-12-02T19:28:00.000-08:00

I am swimming in a pool of rose otto
Intoxicated by the aroma
Body soothed and free
The walls around me
Delight my eyes
Fresh pink and cream
Colour divine
Emotions of such ecstasy
Sheer bliss
The Rose Spirit whispers
"You have a glimpse
Of your soul"

At The Inn...

2005-12-02T19:25:00.000-08:00

Outside the inn, we climb off our camels with varying degrees of skill – Le Enchanteur dismounts with dignity and strides toward the Inn door as is she had ridden in a golden carriage all the way from Pilgrim’s Well.

My legs feel permanently welded into a wishbone shape – now I understand why they call the camel `the ship of the desert’ – not only does it feel like you are swaying along over a sea of sand in the crow’s nest of a tall ship, you have considerable trouble regaining your land legs once you get off again.

But Layla has been very sweet and well behaved through the whole trip and I am happy to give her a loving pat before she is led away for a well deserved rest.

The Inn is a white two storey building with date palms peeking over the roof. We all follow Le Enchanteur through the white door with its vivid blue motifs, into a deliciously cool dining room. The Inn is simple, but not rustic - ceiling fans sweep overhead, and the far wall is lined with arched doorways leading out into a shaded courtyard.

A few curious faces watch our party as we are led to our tables – I see many races here, and hear many languages spoken, from lilting musical French to silvery chiming Chinese.
Our table is spread with clean white Egyptian cotton and we make ourselves thankfully comfortable in the rattan chairs. I look around me at the fascinating faces and notice I am not the only one of our party of pilgrims that has surreptitiously taken out my sketchpad.

Breakfast was a delicious spread of fresh fruits, goat cheese and flat bread. My legs are coming back to life and I look forward to exploring the Inn after I have been shown to my room. This proves to be small but airy place just off the balcony on the second floor, overlooking the courtyard. It holds a simple wooden bed covered with a white chenille bedspread and mosquito net, with a washstand and cupboard. I rinse out my travel clothes and hang them over the end of the bed – they will dry quickly in this heat. Then, in fresh white tunic and pants, I make my way down to the courtyard.

It is a perfect square, surrounded on all sides by the Inn. An arched gateway leads out to the camel stables where I can see Layla being groomed. In the centre of the courtyard is a marble fountain filled with sparkling water. I sit on a bench and get out my sketchpad, enjoying the scenes around me.

I see many of the people from the dining room and fall to wondering about them as I try to think up a story for Le Enchanteur. Nearby I see a tall, striking looking man in a white suit, speaking in a soft Edinburgh burr. His companions are hanging on every word – I can tell he is a great story teller, so I edge closer. His tale captures me and I make a few notes – there is so much happening here, so much to look at and here. Nearby a group of children are playing jacks by the fountain, while their mothers gossip over tiny cups of strong, bitter coffee.

I have to work on my story for Le Enchanteur so I go to the writing room for a while. It is cool in here, with the ceiling fans slowing whirring overhead. I sit at one of the writing desks and write for a while, pausing every now and then to greet a fellow pilgrim.

After Lunch le Enchanteur holds court in the drawing room. Like the rest of the Inn this is very simply furnished with rattan chairs and ceiling fans, and she looks divine in a crisp white blouse and travelling skirt. She has already gathered a coterie of admiring men, among them my Scottish storyteller, who introduces himself as Dr Phineas MacFadden. I ask him if I can use his wonderful train story and he graciously consents, because it is for Madame Le Enchanteur, with whom he is plainly smitten.

Tonight, we all dress for dinner – I didn’t bring anything formal, but I did buy a selection of gauzy scarves and bangles from the market at Pilgrim’s Well, which gave my simple outfit some flair. We are to gather in the drawing room later with Le Enchanteur and entertain her with stories. I wonder how Dr MacFadden will react to the sight of Madame in her Scheherezade outfit. It may be hard for him to retain his customary composure.

Dinner is a pleasant surprise – I had been filled with notions of having to confront strange comestibles like sheep’s eyes and goat’s bladders, but I actually enjoyed a simple but flavourful dish of lamb stew and lentils and not an eyeball in sight (if you’ll pardon the pun.) The wine served is dark red, rich and mysterious with the faintest hint of rose petals.

Tomorrow I will go out and explore the town, and take my sketch pad with me. Who knows what I will find out there.

A Pilgrim's Wish

2005-12-02T16:56:00.000-08:00

As I listen to the music and the tales, I remember how I came to be here surrounded by the scents of campfire cooked meals, camels, incense, and children. I made a promise not so long ago, less than a month actually to a dear friend. She had been ill, I didn't know how ill at the time.

"Jasmine, Will you make a promise to me?"
I looked up from my writing to where Sophie sat before the fire, resting.
"Depends on the promise."
"Promise me that you will travel far from here--you will travel to places you've never seen and greet those you would never have thought to know."
"And who will cover the expense of this grand expedition."
"I have some money saved. Do you remember where we hid our treasure box under the date tree out back. It is still there and it is full,"she'd said the last in a whisper.
"How?....."
"How is irrelevant,"she exclaimed leaving her chair and walking toward me "You must promise!"
She began to have one of her coughing fits, and I met her where she stood. As I guided, her back to her seat she pressed me for an answer.
"I promise. I'll do whatever you wish if it will get you to rest."
"You must do what I will not Jasmine. See what I cannot."
"Nonsense. You will come with me,"I replied resting my head in her lap.
"I will--in you heart."
Then she'd drifted to sleep as I'd watched the fire.

That day was long past and the braids that she had stroked to comfort me and herself were gone as well. I wore the travelling gear of a young man. A hooded cloak, boots, pants, my chest wrapped and flattened under a dark shirt. My satchel carries the few things I believed necessary, my writing pens, ink, a journal, drawing pencils, the treasure box, a change of clothes, and my book of Scripture. I also have a dagger and a camp tin--a small lided pot which holds a metal plate and eating implements. I'd dined with the friendly family seated next to me and scrubbed out my plate with sand. I hope that I will fulfill the dream that my spirit sister had for me, God rest her soul and grant us a peaceful journey.

Note To My Companions

2005-12-02T08:46:00.000-08:00

Reality is stranger then Fiction because Fiction has to make sense....

Once Upon A Time in the world outside of the Cyber one we meet in, My Great - Great Grandmother left Persia and made her way to China and the Path she traveled was indeed the Silk Road.

Her name was Olympia Saramento de Manzoor and she was infamous in our family for her temper, her physical strength and ability to fight by hand and with weapons, and for her obvious love of story telling about the demons and witches, ghosts, murderers and corpses she saw on her journey.

She took many, many, many journeys in her life, by the way.

So it's no surprise that after spending time in China she once again she took to The Road.

This time, however, it was a Watery one and left for the Philippines where later my Grandmother and her Sisters where born.

So I hope I do her proud here on this Silk Road.... and whatever you do don't assume everything I tell here is just a story.

Olympia Saramento de Manzoor was very, very real and her shadows are in these stories.

Your Silk Road Companion and Storyteller
Anita Marie

Departure

2005-12-02T08:21:00.000-08:00

On my way to the Ship I would sail to the Lumurian Caravanserai I traveled a dark road and as I walked it I was very much alone.

The silence on this road was deafening and I started to panic because I knew at that exact moment what it must feel like to be buried alive. To reach up and only touch darkness to be wrapped tight by shadows and to feel my own heart ready to explode in my chest.

I'm not ashamed to say I almost turned back and ran to the safety of the road that led me to this one.

Just as I made up my mind to go back I saw to my left I saw a blue fire burning under a tree.

The seemed fire seemed warm, it looked inviting and I left the road and broke my own path to the flame and the shelter of the tree it was under.

The tree was large and black and its branches reached upwards to the sky. Two women sat there under that tree next to the fire and at first I almost ran because they had no faces.

" Hungry? " one asked.

" Care to join us." the other said.

I should make that clear she did not ask me to join them.

She told me too.

"No thank you. " I told them.

" Such grand manners Saramento de Manzoor " one said, calling me by my Great Grandmother's family name.

" Who are you? " I wanted to know.

" A warning Saramento de Manzoor, we are a warning that this will not be a good journey for you. In fact, it’s going to be dangerous. "

" Why? "

One flew at me and grabbed me by neck and she screeched in my face " because we WANT it that way...so turn back now! "

The other was behind me and her voice made my ears ring, " Curses, Hexes, Plague Ships, Despair, Treachery and Death will be the only stories you will find on this Journey Saramento de Manzoor!"

I unpicked her cold bony fingers from my shoulders and pushed the Demon in back of me away.

I grabbed the other by the top of her head and hissed down into her face...she had one after all only it was wrapped in a thin black shroud that melted her appearance away " I wouldn't want it any other way"

I stepped back from the fire and ignored their meal.

It had been a traveler too, I could see her head and the blue dress she was wearing when she met these two and now that was all that was left of that traveler.

I ignored it and made my way back to the Dark Road that was the beginning of my new adventures.

2005-12-02T05:22:00.000-08:00

Dark night
I cannot find the way
or open the door
I must rest for a time
and find you later
as the caravan winds its way
across the desert
Meanwhile I read you
and care.

On The Pilgrim Trail

2005-12-02T04:27:00.000-08:00

At the Pilgrim Well.
This is going to be a long and arduous trip, this pilgrimage we have set out on. But we are all packed, hopefully not overlooking any essentials. Never mind, we trust there are people travelling with us who will help out and provide any necessities we may have missed packing. We will do the same of course for them, that is the essence of our culture. Whether it is shelter if there are storms, herbs if there is illness or comfort if there is loss. We will share our evening meals and walk beside each other until we reach our destination, that fabled city Makkah. Our strength to resist evil is in our togetherness.

People are milling, filling water containers, checking loads and straps, the camels and donkeys bearing the loads. Checking shoes for much of the journey will be on foot.

I scan the groups for my family, already investigating and joining the melee. They are safely accounted for. I note with joy those of my dear friends able to join this journey, and glance quizzically at the faces of strangers who will travel with us. Hoping for friendship, fearing betrayal. I shrug that last thought away, preferring to make a stance in optimism and confident that protection is assured by the holiness and justice of my purpose.

We are starting from the outskirts of Damascus, that marvellous city with its bustling souks and tall minarets. We have already said our prayers at the Omayed mosque with its glorious golden mosaics. We washed in an old, so old, marble basin. Once used for animal sacrifice in the age of Abraham, then baptism for the Christians, now it is our ablutions that it caters for. In spite of the red stains on the marble that recall its provenance.
Dust and desert now await us.

At the Caravanserai.
What a welcome sight the old walls are as they become visible and discernable from the sands in the gathering twilight. The heat and dust of the long day have played havoc with our initial enthusiasm. We had heard cautions around the well but the reality was still hard. It is a feat just to keep track of the children forever darting back and forward. I have learnt to let go and trust the larger group to be alert to their care. Someone riding by will often say that he has seen my son Ibrahim helping with the herd of goats which accompany us or perhaps begging a lift on a camel. Rachel generally keeps close by me. My husband stays with the men.

The caravanserai is constructed of mud bricks and is by an oasis. We tether the animals within reach of the water. We know we are safe inside these walls from the bandits who roam the desert hoping to ransack the riches coming to Damascus from China. The desert is even more bleak than I expected with no water apart from the very rare and welcome oases.

We light our fires and cook our meal of grain. Our children stare at the black=robed bedouin who are our hosts, and we all note the long train of heavily laden camels coming in from the East surmising that rich silks and exotic spices are hidden beneath the covers. They are heavily guarded by fierce-looking tribesmen. Rolling out our beds we all fall into an exhausted sleep precluding any camaderie. I dream of rushing winds whipping the sands.

Fear Not

2005-12-02T04:07:00.000-08:00

When I spoke to Kiyan of this journey,
he was concerned over single women traveling alone
on a carvan of this enchantment -- not for the
stallwart persons, but as this was not much done,
other travelers met may make assumptions,
and act in a 'possessive' manner. Within a Caravanserai
there is always protection of body and spirit,
but between these havens is danger --
as noted before.

So Kiyan has engaged the Alani as mercenary escorts.
They cannot enter the encampments as they will not
surrender their weapons, but you may draw comfort from riders
on the hills. Normally they only offer this 'service' to those
on the road between Kazan and Mongolia above the Caspian Sea.
There will be no bandits or unexpected visiters, though some
may view this Alani protection as a kind of extrortion ...

but they apparently owe Kiyan some great debt,
and all will be well. Remember, even Ghengis Khan
would not fight the Alan, but hired them as escorts.
If you meet one, cross your arms across your chest
and do not bow or stand aside, nor offer gift; but if their
horse should approach you, it is OK to give it fruit
on the back of your hand.

faucon