CHAPTER 30

FAILURE AND SUCCESS

The Mother Superior was furious.  The assembled sisters had experienced her wrath in the past, and they were familiar with the signs and symptoms of her fury.  Outwardly Adel was calm, very calm, almost comatose.  Inwardly she seethed and writhed with white hot rage.  Sister Formidilosus who stood on Adel’s immediate left as the Left Hand of Circe, saw the veins in Adel’s neck pulsating in sharp contrast to the peaceful dull glaze of her eyes. 

The Mother Superior had assembled the squad of Holy Orders and Retribution.  Sister Persequor-Persequi Adel’s Chief of the security and enforcement stood rigidly at attention before Adel in a skin tight leather cat suit. Sweat streamed down the sisters exposed face, even though the secret underground chapel was unheated and frightfully cold. Sister Letum, the former Iris Denmont, stood next to her.  Sister Letum’s trim wiry body was dressed in the flat black latex scapula of the Ancient Hand of Death of the Order.  Letum trembled before Adel’s wrath.  28 Sisters, the cream of the enforcement division of the Order of the Bloody Stain of Saint Hymenos the Benighted -  Mothers of Earth Druids, were arrayed in four tight ranks before Adel.  On a table between the ranks and the Mother Superior lay the Jewels and Crown of the Monforte Dynasty.  The jewels gleamed and sparkled in the yellow candle light of the secret chapel of The Order. 

Adel spoke slowly and with careful articulation.  “Why was His Highness injured?”  She took a deep breath.  She was barely in control.   

No sister dared to speak. 

Adel continued.  “Why was the Blazer girl damaged? 

No one spoke. 

Above the secret chapel, in the public chapel above the lower girls school choir was practicing the hymns. 

The angelic voices sang: 

“O mother how can we comprehend.  

We have seen thy forest in your dream.
Refugees without end in terror,

and danger of  New Rome.”

“Sister Persequor-Persequi, speak.  Explain this disaster?” said Adel in a voice edged razors.

 “I cannot explain, Mother.” said Sister Persequor-Persequi.

 An angelic solitary child’s voice soared high above the rising glorious song.

 “We seek safety for the oppressed,

 hoping for a Mothers hand.

We know the pain you bear.

Help us, Mother, to wreak vengeance!”

“I asked you a question.  I want an answer.  Be afraid Sister Persequor-Persequi, be very afraid,” Adel spoke in a seemingly calm voice which completely failed to mask her growing fury.

 The chorus swelled into a mighty sound as the base section of the older girls joined in the hymn.

“You put music in our souls;

our sisters struggle to survive.
You gave to each thy blood;

and thy sword of retribution.
Mother of the outcasts guide

and shield us with thy veil”

“I cannot explain, Mother.” Sister Persequor-Persequi a second time.  She swallowed hard, and silently began the prayer of redemption.  ‘From thy womb O Circe I came into this sinful world.  And into thy hands, O Circe, I commend my spirit as I return to you. O Circe, receive my soul. May the Tiger’s tooth, and claw of justice and retribution, slay those who have offended you.  O Circe Mother of vengeance and blood, do thou protect me from the unrighteous, and receive me at the edge of the forest of everlasting light.”

The organ sounded out a mighty chord in G.

“Landless slaves of New Rome, We are your daughters.”

Adel turned her gaze to Sister Letum.  “What happened,” she said.  “I want an explanation, and I want it now!”

Sister Letum silently said the oath of Saint Golphus, and then spoke.  “I cannot explain what happened,” she paused and continued, “However the sanctified action plan worked exactly as planned.  The entire collection of the crown and jewels of the Monforte’s has been rescued from the dead hand of New Rome.  Not a Sister has been lost.  No evidence remains of our efforts.  Circe has cast her cloak of dark protection before us and we are successful in her name.”

"Mother your vengeance knows no bounds;

 you have conquered death for all."

“Stop,” screamed Adel as she began to loose control.  “I don’t care about these bloody and cursed jewels.  How was his Highness injured?  Who is responsible? Tell me now!”  Adel struggled to regain outward control.  She deliberately lowered her voice to a soft and soothing tone, but she fooled no one.  The assembled sisters stood in fear.

The voices swelled in the passion of the hymn.

"May we hear beyond New Rome to our distant forests’ call."

Sister Formidilosus spoke with a sense of superiority and contempt in her voice,  “My Sisters, our sanctified plan succeeded, but you have failed Circe. His Highness has been hurt and an agent of our retribution has been damaged by your error.  We must know who failed?”  Sister Fromidilosus was enjoying the failures and discomfort of her rivals in the order.

Silence.  No sister spoke.  To Sister Formidilosus it was clear that no one could explain the bizarre and unusual events surrounding the perfectly executed liberation of the crown and jewels.

"Mother, may your love enfold; may you slay the sinful,"

 

Adel turned and signaled Sister Letum.  Sister Letum reached for Circe’s sword of retribution. 

Adel turned and slowly looked into the eyes of each and every Sister in the room.  All averted eye contact except Sister Formidilosus.

The chorus and the organ thundered in the glorious coda.

"Till your whole world lives in your name;"

“Circe tolerates no failure,” Adel  screamed. 

Sister Letum swung the sword of retribution.  Sister Formidilosu’s head fell to the floor and her body remained standing spasmodically jerking and then her empty shell crumpled to the floor.

"And New Rome is cleansed in blood to purify the world."

Adel kicked the bloody head of the dead sister into the ranks of the Order.  It rolled across the marble floor, eyes staring at each sister, mouth open in reproach, and blood still flowing.

“Circe has spoken!” Mother Superior said in an ice cold voice barely discernable above the choir.  “I will not tolerate failure again, nor shall Circe’s swift sword.”

The hymns stopped.

Mother superior turned and left the room. 

Jimmy Whahisname found happiness in the obedience and the abuse of the Muse of Journalism.  The Muse established a schedule which Jimmy was very careful to maintain.  At about 8:30 he brought hot coffee, bagel-egg-bacon squirts, and either a manicotti filled muffin or a bear claw.  Then at noon a sandwich, often pastrami, sometimes turkey and Swiss no mustard, and in the evening he was sent on important secret restaurant reviews in which he would order for two, take careful notes, and ask for a doggie bag.  Jimmy was thrilled.  At each meeting the muse would teach him an important secret of journalism and then assign Jimmy an important task such as reviewing various hot mustards or hot cuisine from the Capitols three spangle restaurants.  He brought samples back so that the muse could judge the accuracy of his journalistic endeavors.  He went to Seville Road and purchased expensive clothes, such as silk PJ’s and slippers.  Then he returned with a written journalistic review, analysis, or op ed piece, and the goods.  Then the muse would grade his performance.  He was getting lots of ‘C’s’ and he felt really proud at his unprecedented success. 

Today the lesson was spelling of funny foreign words.  The muse had assigned Jimmy the task of buying a case of Appellation Mâcon Villages Controlée, Chateau du Pimp ‘95 and a wheel of Reblochon.  The muse had Jimmy write the names down on a paper slip ten times.  And then asked Jimmy to spell the names out loud without referring to his notes.  They started at about 8:30 and Jimmy proudly had it down by about 11.  Just in time to go review the lunch counter at Khrons in the Dowdily Building across the street from The Times.   

He left The Times building repeating his mantra, “Pastrami on Rye, Pastrami on Rye, Pastrami on Rye, not Pastrami on White.” Over and over he repeated the mantra in his head confident in the knowledge that he was possessed of a Muse.  He had looked up that word in the Big Book of Words and it made him happy.   There were lots of definitions and his head hurt until the muse bonked him on the head with a flashlight and using a ruler pointed to the correct definition. 

“Pastrami on Rye, Pastrami on Rye, Pastrami on Rye, not Pastrami on White,” intoned Jimmy in an almost trance like state.  Suddenly a car hit the breaks and the tires squealed and a little old lady screamed at Jimmy in a foreign tongue.  Something about his head and his rear, but he could not pay any attention.  He was on a mission.  “Now let see.  Yes.  Pastrami on White, Pastrami on White, Pastrami on White, not Pastrami on Rye.”

The muse was always bonking Jimmy’s head with a flashlight. 

The muse Jimmy learned was a god, a spirit who knew all about everything including the arts, and writing, and thinking of stuff that was important, and that others would pay money for it you wrote it down real good and put it in a paper like The Times.  And the muse of journalism was really a god.  Jimmy learned this.  How else would the muse know the magic number to give to Mr. Kranoslytz at Khrones that would magically produce lunch without money.  Or another secret number at Seville Road that could instantly produce argyle socks or silk undies in the muse’s size without even telling Mr. Snithers the tailor what size he wanted.  This muse really knew his stuff. 

But the muse had a dark side thought Jimmy.  The muse of journalism often asked Jimmy to go to that awful Mr. Murdstone’s office and steal stuff, like files, a cell phone, and coffee creamer.  It was a small price to pay thought Jimmy for the assistance of his muse.

The muse always demonstrated his journalism skills by editing Jimmy’s notes, lists, and proposed menu items.  He used a red pencil and used lots of mysterious squiggly marks.  It was the mystery of the Muse, the squiggly marks.  Jimmy was certain he would eventually understand what the red squiggles meant, but for now he knew they were really important and were known only as a secret rite of the journalistic society.

The muse rapidly promoted Jimmy to cub-reporter, then to sub-reporter, then junior journalist, and finally journalist first class.  Why in no time at all he would make editor and then executive editor, and then Ms. Sindy and Ms. Talbot would come rushing to him and reward him with girlie stuff and explain to him the mystery of life.