Mail to a Friend - Part VII [...] Hello, I paid attention because you're right, but to no avail. I had come to an equilibrium point that I thought could stand: I bought the best beef traced to Fort William and left in the bowl that was Nessie, along with a glass of whiskey. My unwelcome guest seemed to have appreciated my kindness and spent a period of forced cohabitation, if I can not define pleasant, at least it was free of turmoil. I gave him food and lodging and he clean the house, found objects lost and what was needed to deal with any matter.
Last week, the unexpected happened that brought me back to harsh reality. Maybe the meat was of poor quality, maybe I exaggerated with whiskey ... I have no idea what can be changed (and this is what scares me: I no longer have control) but he left home for a snack.
The day after the daughter of Marc Bakeley was found in his room and have struggled to piece together. Father Matthew [the Anglican clergyman] has done a sermon that brought goose bumps to the malice with which he lashed out at the murderess. I fear for my soul and I pray God to do something: I'm afraid to drive my unwelcome guest when I sleep, and dream. I'm afraid for him to decide who to kill, but it does go to a service, to be appreciated, not only grim revenge against me. I could not handle the situation.
I have often thought about throwing in the Linnhe with the medallion to bring with me my curse. Just when I planned my suicide by finding large stones from the foot and tie a boat rent from which to throw, I was reminded of the talks that we had the places he had visited the British Isles. I had heard of Stonehenge, Salisbury, the castles of Wales, dela Cornwall, and of that city, the Second Jerusalem, Glastonbury, Somerset, with its corollary of gurus, mystics and esoteric specialty stores. I did some research on Google, I found a guy named Ryan that in addition to managing a very interesting blog and a site of mystery, owned a gift shop, supernatural and religious curiosity in Glastonbury. I had an intense exchange of e-mail, we spoke on the phone and I decided to trust him and I left.
From what I remember of your travel, you may also be joined by Paul and Lorenzo: it is called The Esoteric Shop, a hole is nestled between the supermarket and the entrance to the Tourist Office. Featured was exposed to everything, but the gem was the dark statues of deities that you knew for sure, but without which we can live equally happy. Looking at the shelves for the first time I thought that people interested in the junk should be really very strange. There were books full of the Grail legends, the fairies (a book with great interest that I have trawled), recipes, about potions, magic. Not to mention the figurines of glass, plastic, clay, whatever.
There was a wooden floor boards with a bone fish, bookcases to the walls and a Persian rug with a table full of trinkets and a red chair. Hovered a faint aroma of spice that I had never heard before. Ryan
This is a guy who could be your age but is not very high, round face and sports a robust build which is very proud. E 'rolled up to me and we talked of travel and time. When we are finished among the topics most futile and a silence fell really cumbersome, he asked me if he could see the medallion. When I nodded and slipped his hand into his coat, Ryan came out, checked that there was no one on the street and turned the sign to OPEN CLOSED, locking the door glass. He turned out the lights of the shop, which is plunged into a twilight glow and magical and was illuminated only by street lamps, and lit the lamp steel bar.
I supported the medallion under the dome light, he wore latex gloves and got one of those magnifiers that use the goldsmiths, he studied the necklace for a long time without saying a word. Turned it over, passed his fingers through the grooves and examined every inch for inch with the magnifier. She put the medallion where I had put me, closed his eyes, he grabbed her face with her hands and remained motionless and silent until I began to pretend to cough. He stared at me and asked me how it was possible that there are inside the same an elf.
I nodded and explained that I was there to find out and that he would be in dovermelo say.
He explained that it was not an archaeologist but he could easily say that the locket was very old, although he did not know what. His round face and full across all expressions of doubt and despair, then brightened and Ryan took the door that opened behind the bar, pushing the red curtain embroidered with fairies, mushrooms, unicorns, elves and came back with a heavy box, rectangular appoggiatala and opened it, took out a book bound in leather and decorated with stylized animals similar to those of the medallion. Recovered the necklace and put it in my pocket.
Ryan whispered that the book contained all human knowledge about the newfangled as my trinket and began to search for things that concern him. When he opened the book, the smell of the parchment, leather and dust mingled with the incense and spices, making me sneeze, Ryan turned the pages as a cleric facing a sacred text. After minutes of silence unnerving, I lean on the counter, I reached for the book and glanced at the illuminated pages.
The parchment was written in Latin, by hand, and was full of pictures, written with the same brown ink text. On the page where Ryan was reading, there were drawings of an old man with a long beard (maybe a druid), and some jewelry (necklaces, rings and a sword) with similar decorative to those of my pendant. Some parts of the text seemed Gaelic but I could not decipher. Ryan
I told him to not read in a calm voice: apparently there were revelations about things that surround us and that we do not see much to bring to the horrific madness.
I felt a long shudder, I walked away from the bench and threw myself on scarlet leather chair was left to the right of the cabinet of submerged junk.
scratched the silence of the reading and asked him if he believed me and gave me a said he did not forget.
"I do not see why not," she said continuing to read. "There are those who believe in ghosts, miracles, and even those who believe government leaders. If a worker believes in the politics of a leader right, why should not I believe in fairies? "
The answer left me a bad taste in mouth, then sip Ryan changed the subject and information about the Little People and the legends about him. After a long search, he invited me to his side of the bar to watch what he had found.
I looked on the pages of parchment, and Ryan told me that it was a "family", and in the case of a brownie. The design was repellent in its explanatory minimalism. The monster was sixty centimeters tall, had dark complexion, dark skin and wrinkled, a long nose and bandy legs. Ryan loved to read that a brownie to finish the work of men in exchange for a bit 'of milk, honey and biscuits; did not like being criticized and when tensions with the master, became touchy and dabbled in nasty pranks. Cruel jokes. Lassie disembowel and eat my neighbors does not fall into that concept.
remained to understand what he was doing the monster inside a medallion but I explained the theory that Ryan had prepared: in his view, Brown was tied to the medallion because of a punishment inflicted by his master, which forced him to grant wishes of his masters. After what
gutted by Ryan, the facts began to take a turn if not scientific, at least due to relationships of cause and effect. The master of my unwelcome guest had punished him by turning in a medallion that acted as a slave who came into possession of the necklace. I took a walk around the shop full of junk, and after turning around the mobile and the chair, I formulated the question that I wanted more. I was able to free the monster from his punishment or make your lord?
Ryan grinned, scratched his head and gave me a name. Gwyn ap
Nuud. A
feel the engravings on the necklace he was the lord of the brownie. Gwyn ap Nuud, the Lord of the Fairies and the sovereign dell'Annwn, the kingdom of the dead. It was not a pretty prospect.
When I asked Ryan how to return the necklace, I gaze with covetous eyes were small and, as if they yearn for the medallion, he said it was a gamble and that the object that I found was invaluable. He tried in a thousand ways but could not convince me, that the medallion was related to me did give up and convinced him to help me return to the Lord of Fate. Bundled up the big book, put it back in its box and took him under his arm, he invited me to follow him and left the shop like an excited child.
When we left it started raining, the sky lit up and the thunder growled in the distance. Ryan brisk walk, enthusiastic, and the matter concerned me. We talked about what needed to be done. We were on the hill of the Tor, although did now dark and the rain had begun to beat the city. Ryan was raised by Tor Gwyn ap Nuud with an ancient ritual to get over the necklace. Bristle at the idea that there are people and events that defy rational understanding of events. Ryan told me it was the first time he tried to do such a thing and did not even know if there Gwyn ap Nuud. But there were instructions, there were words, phrases, a ritual to perform, a place to do it. We were in the right place and we had the right words. We were also hoped that the right people.
Ryan patted the box that had slipped under her coat and proceeded rapidly towards the hill of the Tor, on the northern outskirts of Glastonbury. It was raining that God sent her. Or maybe it was the Christian God but the Celtic god of rain. Or maybe it was God Gaelic, or the Angles. Well, I do not know whom to send the light rain, stinging, cold and bad, but I know it was mid-June and a rain like this was bound to orchestrate someone because there was nothing natural. Weeks ago I would not give any weight to the words of madmen like Ryan, and I would not give any credit to a certain type of publications. Now that book scared me and I looked around every alley, and back, flayed by the fear of encountering things that do not believe exist.
start climbing the hill of the Tor that the sky looked like a broken slab of black granite and white forked lightning. The thunder burst like the muskets of the English at Culloden and the darkness was such that the bell tower of St. Patrick, on top of the hill, not even in sight. We went stumbling o'er the path and I realized they reached the top only because of the gradient diminished. I walked like a blind man clinging all'impermeabile Ryan and I had a sinking heart Ryan came in and finally out of the rain, lit a lamp. The
insulted, shocked by the discovery, had crossed campaign damp and dark and he had not used. He shrugged and not taken seriously my anger knew the way by heart and would not eat batteries. He asked me to hold the lamp, drew the book making sure that was not reached by the rain and began to read a formula taken from the page with designs similar to the necklace celtic Knoth.
Ryan spoke a language that seemed to Gaelic but that gave me the chills because I recognized the words but my soul will be felt much older than any dialect that still survives in remote corners of Albion, much more ancient language spoken by our ancestors when they fought the Fomorians , a language that had its roots in the days when women were to rule our world and pass on the offspring. Do not ask me why I do not know how else to explain it, it was a thrill, was the revelation of something ancestral. I do not know how tradurti what was said by Ryan, I could not even bring the guttural sounds terrible and he uttered. Only name that stood out over everything. Gwyn ap Nuud. Gwyn ap Nuud. Gwyn ap Nuud.
When he finished reciting the prayer went out from the bell tower. The starry sky opened above the Tor and the clouds whirled, as if we were in the eye of a hurricane. The noise, a roar like a waterfall and a putrid smell became unbearable and old came from the countryside, take my breath away. Around us, the green fields separated by fences vanished in a sea of \u200b\u200bmist that captures the luminescent glow of the stars and the moon. I found myself immersed in a sea of \u200b\u200blight, on the island of glass is called Avalon.
After minutes of silence that hit like a blacksmith, the smell of rotting disappeared, the sky closed again and the dark, cold and rain of Glastonbury returned to creep under our clothes.
I asked Ryan if he thought it worked but he put his big book in the lining and into the box. He told me to see if I still had the medal with me and rummaged in his pocket.
The medallion was still with me.
I dropped my arms but my disappointment is not infected Ryan, who assured me that sooner or later something would happen. He rushed down the hill whistling, I followed him without saying a word. The sky had cleared and the moon shone in the fields and the path back to the city. We reached the road running towards the center and from there in the blink of an eye passed well and the Abbey of the Holy Grail where King Arthur was buried. I seemed to run to keep up Ryan but when we arrived at the b & b where I was staying not out of breath and I did not feel tired.
Ryan smiled and shook hands on the threshold of the garden leading to the rooms. I could go back to Fort William and trust that something would happen soon.
"Be authentic," he said, "something always happens, sooner or later."
I wanted to insult him and give him a charlatan, but he had not wanted a pound for their help and so, sadly, I agreed with him that it would be better to return to home. Ryan went off the road drowning in a pool of dark indefinable but when it came under a streetlight, for a moment, only a subtle and terrifying moment, I had the impression of seeing a bet queue moving under his raincoat.
