Central Park Film Noir

I go to Central Park to get away from the electrical dangling live wires of Jörn’s family as they shout at each other and prepare for this evening’s performance

but I cannot take it. It is too much for me

There was a dream again last night that bothers me— it was one of those dreams.

I hear music — in my dream— the whole time

 I hear Jörn’s music .... there is the vision of the strange light of the sun over a frozen horizon. It is strange how sometimes it is like flying. I see from up above at times and it lays out like a map; and then I swoop down when something pulls me to attach to the land. It is the crashing sea; the sound as it hits the rocks; and it is the vision of the shoreline. It lays itself out like a painting to me. The blues and grays, the sand and foam; the rocks and driftwood.... and then the smell of the sea....Yes I dream in color and all my senses too .....and always have, actually,  as that is where most of the ideas for my paintings come from. Like Wavegirl did

and while I also can smell things I find things that turn out to prove true.... but only some things; specific things that hold relevance. Like ‘messages’

This dream last night was so disturbing but in a way that I cannot clearly pinpoint. Not based on any event that takes place in the dream

only the emotions

There is a ship. I watch it first from up above it then to the footprints in the sand as feet run. I watch a woman fall to the ground when a man chases her.... then she is left there

I watch red mix into the sea water like colors running across a canvas.... and see a pirate with a sack of swords walk to her and end her life

I know this had been the mother. The one who she did the rituals with 

and then ..... I remove from here; from this memory scene.... as time, like a spinning globe, moves fast to another scene 

this one of a beach when he watches the priestess girl in the moonlight .... this one is strange because it is like the Matrix because I fall inside her and see him through her eyes 

....and see the pirate with the vampire eyes 

from her eyes 

It is the emotions I feel in connection to these events that make the vision disturbing —a knowing that is a memory-like knowing mixed with so much feeling. So that.... upon waking there is an emptiness which is smothering and so heavy ....

it has left me so deeply troubled

I walk through the park

It is an hour later when I’ve crossed over the bridge that something hits me and I fall to the ground —my first reaction is that I think it’s a mugger but instead of taking anything something is pressed into my hand

I hear Jörn behind me shouting and the mugger takes off — I watch....

I watch Jörn chase him and throw him down to the ground....it is surreal

I look down at what was pressed into my hand. It’s a folded note which I open. It is a printout of a pasted together note that says,
“you expose me and I will finish you!”

nocturnes Electra’s dictionary; shattered glass retrospective

It is when I tip toe back to Jörn’s amidst the throes of an opera solo of his mother accompanied by Josef and Andreas —playing violin and clarinet respectively.... so, I manage to sneak by unnoticed. I hear Jörn by the recording equipment emphatically explaining something over the music with frightening exclamations —punctuated with his tossing various sheets of music everywhere with angry emphasis

I wonder what all that is about....?

Only I have been with the builders and Joanie for hours and ....

I keep thinking about my late nephew who passed away last month

because one of the workers was playing a deth metal band and it was a band Michael always listened to —and I become sad realizing again in a day for the one-thousandth time that.... it was not a nightmare; he is gone from our world....

So my head is in the deep morass of turmoil. It makes me think of all the sticky  webs that wrap around .... our family history

from my recent late 19 year old nephew and back to the life long conflict between my sister and I —which has never made sense to me

except for the fact of who her father was

.... and who my father was

obviously

We are worlds apart


it makes me think of how she always calls me “the black sheep of the family” to everyone she introduces me to.... how the soot gets all over me when I am too long around her universe

What a chaotic mess it all is. So on top of this, I speak to Chris the other day. Always a mistake. He always hurts me. He says he does not want to stop knowing me, even though we are not together he wants me in his life but— why? Is this a healthy idea? And then—when he tells me that my Electra complex is at the source of why my daughter won’t talk to me.... I think ‘oh, that’s why, he wants a whipping boy!’

he always hurts me....

And why should anything he says matter? If he never really saw me....

he says to me just the other day: he knows me better than anyone but.... he’s wrong! he never saw me! ....so why does it hurt me to hear him tell me these things....? These things he has no business telling me

He says, going on about playing his Freud theory
“you know, you write about it all the time; your whole Electra thing....” he says with that superior laugh he does and says, “well, that’s at the center of your issues with her— she told me....”   !

She told him? I realize now she talks to him. She talks to him. Why? ....and not me? when I can’t even look at a playground without crying

he is only her step father

was— or what are we? We’ve been apart so long now but once we were a family

Why does he still want me in his life?

my trail of exes seem to wrap barbed wire around my ankles and tether me thus —they don’t let me go, I don’t understand it

but Chris.... I spent the most years with and it is too bad he was always too inebriated to hear a word I said but claims he knows me better than anyone does

fuck him

So I decide to take a bath and shut Jörn’s bedroom door. Immediately inside the vacuum cocoon as the sound is sealed

I don’t want to think anymore

I think emotions play war games with my intellect and vise versa and both sides are hampered with their own bias

My mind goes back to Jörn’s reference to Barcelona

because that was right after the conversation I had with my mother that got overheard— right after the biology assignment that revealed my blood type did not fit my family. He took off on a sudden business trip and my mother started saying something about his not coming back and they might be getting divorced

—the past has a fucked up way of holding on to you.... it haunts and repeats

when you don’t know who you are —it makes everything uncertain

It makes you search for what defines you

it forces you to prove yourself to yourself over and over .... I’ve stared for hours at my reflection looking for my father who made me Electra searching for meaning in a self made dictionary— a voice? When I can hear his voice on the Internet because there he still is accessible and how strange is that? This mystery who was my father is known on the internet and in history books but not really known to me. I can stare at his famous pictures and see my smile in his.... so I stare at my reflection in search of him and wonder about DNA memory

I think more gets passed on than the genes —I think obsessions get passed down too; those unresolved dark horses hidden in the attics

I think of my discussions with Nigel about DNA memory

and my discussions with Gerald about the infinite memory of a soul

I think about

     what it is about Jörn..... what is it?

what is it about him that I am so compelled to....

it feels like some blind knowledge pulls me —it was like this from the moment I saw his eyes. Something about him. Something I see inside his eyes that I cannot look away from and seems to make everything else irrelevant

That is the real reason I went upstate

 I was trying to —I guess run away.

Because I don’t trust normally

and I don’t want to start —I know it is a huge mistake to ever trust anyone especially if he makes you feel like this. It is a mistake .... how do I stop myself ....how do I step back and wrap Mithril armor across my heart? I should not trust him. Besides that he’s a confessed spy —his family doesn’t really like me. Because I’m feral, isn’t that it? Well, his mother doesn’t like me.... she thinks I’m a wild fox. And Josef thinks I’m a stray cat

only I like Josef. I like Andreas too. And, no—I do like his mother, she just scares me and.... doesn’t like me

I go under the water in Jörn’s bathtub and look through the waterline above me

I see Jörn come in and he walks over to me and I see from under the water

I emerge from under and blink out the water. Still, of course he’s blurry because I am blind without my glasses so I squint up at him

“Are you drowning yourself again?” he asks me

I’m not sure if he’s serious but he says,
“the little mermaid....”

 then says,
“we’re rehearsing but no one is listening to me— I had to step away for a bit.... I brought you a glass of wine,” he hands it to me after he takes a sip and then when I take it from him and sip it I feel his hands move over my shoulders; strong fingers find tension and I let out a cry, “why are you so tense?” he asks me

I tell him a little but he gets annoyed about Chris,
“why do you still talk to him? I think you want the pain,” he says

I down the rest of the wine

He gets up and steps out of the room

“Jörn?” I call him

because I think now he’s cross with me

But he comes in lighting candles and arranges them around me by the tub. He shuts off the light so just the glow of the candles light the bathroom

He says, crouching down to me,
“I’d so much rather stay in here with you — and join you in there.... but tomorrow’s the performance.”

“I know.”

“Which you are going to,” he tells me

I don’t answer

I lean drunk back against the back of the tub that is contoured stone

“Don’t worry about Mama,” he says

“She can’t stand me,” I say

“No, she’s jealous,” he says this without a doubt

So I sit up and look at him even though I can’t actually see him

But he stands now from the kneeling position and says,
“it shouldn’t be too much longer. Do you want music?” he asks me

But I am still drunk

and I forget to answer him

Soon I hear music .... and he says something and then leaves

Some time after this I add more hot water as it has grown chill

It is awhile later that I get out

He’s reading something on his laptop and sitting in bed. He wears a black Henley with his running sweats and looks up at me. I like it when he wears his glasses to read; it changes his face so much

“Did you resolve your differences for tomorrow’s performance?” I ask him and look for something to put on as I am wrapped in a towel

“Who knows....” he shrugs, “it will have to be whatever it will be—at this point I don’t care,” he tells me and watches me as I find his navy blue long sleeved T-shirt and put it on. It fits like a dress on me and the sleeves fall past my hands

“Come here,” he says

He has put his laptop on the table next to him

When I come to him he motions for me to come closer, so I climb into his lap or start to because he wraps my legs around him and runs his hands up the back of me, under his T-shirt that I wear

I say to him,
“I don’t imagine I will be allowed to wear the opera coat.”

“Please forget about Mama, min lilla duva, I think you need to be distracted.”

“She hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you— I told you what it is.... yes, you definitely need to be distracted, be quiet and open your legs.”

“I cannot do those two things at once though, Jörn.”

He laughs at me

My Vampire/the mindfuck

....and so, I wonder what life is about

   ....is it about memories we save somewhere in a soul’s database


   are they forever?


....and so I think of this later ....after the stress of facing the firing squad of a family

   

It was something in his face before ....

    I stared at him and saw an image lay

     overlay

   like his fingers the first time they lay across my hand

like the day in his kitchen with the coffee cup.... the first time I became conscious of

   the strangeness between us

it is a strangeness that is

    so familiar

I know things innately about him that I don’t know why I know— but I do. I know every crease of his face as if I put it all there myself.... I watch him at the piano, with his hair loose and mad.... he has such a wildness in him that is kept just tame beneath his surface

but his mouth on me.... it comes out in his passion.... like some monster gets unleashed when no one is around.... he is so different when it is only us.... the private den of his mind that he pulls me into. How with just his eyes he enters me; gets in my head and in my sex.... he does this

His bedroom is soundproof too. Still, he puts on his music.

It is that piece he wrote

the one we danced to.... that night....when he taught me how to waltz. It is like this with him. First he begins with the mindfuck; because he knows that is the only way into me,

the only way in


the only way inside the morass

but he is the only one who

is this way too.

He kisses me in this way.... with his mouth he fucks me,

I have never known anyone to kiss me this way. It is subtle but intense because he waits for me to.... he waits for me to....

well I should not say because.... it’s a secret between us.... but he is such a tease

so, I always get him back

I go to the penthouse later to see the disaster going on .... I sit by the window in the ruined dining room that are full length. Sit down on the soot of what’s become the floor and just watch that segmented snake outside

the long stream of lights of traffic.... how remote life sometimes is

to me

now

I don’t feel it the way I should. I see blood on my skin and don’t remember feeling any wound so.... I wonder about life as I look out the window there

The girl and the smeden ....

It seems I have always longed for him but I never could place where .... so what is the purpose we should meet now.... what purpose do we serve in each other’s lives.... something he needs from me? Something I need? Something that goes beyond life and time?

Electra’s dictionary/Nobody’s daughter*

I see Josef reach inside his sweater pocket. He takes out a pillbox and absently clutches his heart

“Are you ok?” I ask him and go over to him

He looks at me and smiles,
“I just realized I forgot to take these....” he makes a face at his pillbox and gives me an ironic smile as he moves to the counter. He reaches for a clean glass and says to me,
“don’t get old....” and chuckles

“Well, too late for that,” I say mimicking his tone and smile back at him

I realize I have forgotten about the coffee. Jörn’s instructions.... I go over to the carafe and push it down slowly


He mumbles,
“gryning.... första ljuset på dagen,” mostly to himself so I don’t answer or search for meanings....

Josef then says,
“....den lilla duvan....”


he comes over now after taking his pills and helps me with the plunger as he sees me having some trouble with it— the top part has come loose and....

He fixes it and does it for me but asks,
“do you know what Carl Jung said about names?”

I immediately say,
“how we are all destined or doomed to become our names?”

He actually laughs when I say this and searches my eyes. He pats my shoulder and nods,
“very good.... hmmm....” then looks at me with a curious smile, “you must have been a good student....”

I smile,
“top of the class and always teacher’s pet.... not in math though....”

He seems to think about this before he continues....“I would not say we are necessarily always doomed— do you know—for instance, dawn — which could be interpreted as ‘the quest for knowledge’ or.... ‘the quest for enlightenment’,” there is something of a Yoda quality to him and his veil is dropped when he looks at me now. He sighs with a kind of defeat but—no, it’s not that exactly,

“his mother worries over him,” he shakes his head in the direction of the other room. But now suddenly he shouts across when he hears something is off and criticizes a note has been played wrong and says, “again!” but then goes back to talking to me hardly missing a beat, “we’ve seen our son struggle with some—“ he stops here to look at me with a kind of agony, “demon..... inside him.... for years— sometimes I think he has a deathwish .... no, more that he is sometimes his own worst enemy. So restless.... always searching for some .... illusion.... like he is chased by some demon or .... is it more —he is ‘haunted’?”

He shrugs and looks seriously at me and for the first time I see something in his eyes that is like Jörn. Up till now I only saw his resemblance to his mother but now.... as Josef looks hard into me, the cold ice blows a Nordic chill, “he can be so reckless....” he shakes his head still looking at me. “You know that I don’t just mean about the intelligence work— pftt!” he throws his hand like one disgusted, “he thinks he’s James Bond —he’s an artist; a musician, what is he doing dealing with the scum of the earth playing their war games.... that is a worry.... but more than just that. Other things he’s done that —well.... are worse for their consequences.... I mean, you know, the women.... he has a trail of shattered women—he’s —well— it is like the devil has been on his back..... as a father it’s painful to watch his son unable to find peace; the family and home.... as I see what it’s done to his life; his family.... We always hoped he would get back together with his wife.... his mother worries because—time is going by and the good years .... but I don’t know if you are able to understand—for you it is different, your apocalypse has already, hit you hasn’t it?“ he looks at me oddly 

and stops —what is that? 

He seems to change his mind. 

Instead he says, 

“I hope you won’t be offended if I tell you that Jörn has confided to me about you. As I got curious about the music because —there is something there in it I have never heard from him.... A parent knows their child—he’s a grown man, of course, but he’s the same as he was as a child. So.... he always liked the stray cats, you know— the ones that had seen some trouble....” he studies me, “you have been married twice and you have a daughter.... but estranged....?”

It does not take a genius to figure out the dichotomy at work here .... only I am too emotionally worn out to find the emotional-intellectual ability to empathize to the extent he speaks of

I just cannot.... do it

anymore

Still I nod but the stab goes deep inside me. I feel it at my core. I fight the dizzy sensation and hide the feeling I am about to faint; instead I grip the counter behind me and just nod

I know how to wear the armor. It covers my face like a veil

My eyes blur,

“perhaps you think I am a demon.... And maybe I am. I had no resources for having a family; I was emotionally bankrupt and I think now looking back that I should have never become a mother. I did not have a good role model and .... I think I was too damaged to be any good at it....” my eyes stream anyway, they run down my face but my voice stays steady, “but I wanted her and loved her and did my best.... “ I hold it together inside. Forge onward; steady the course because somehow it seems necessary to define for the sake of my defense; my only shred of honor left, 

“my second husband and I are not together anymore but are too lazy to get divorced,” the bravado I fake rings like brass in my ears. I go on with that sense of jumping off a cliff, 

“in our last conversation do you know what he said to me? He said ‘you are a deeply damaged person, banged up and damaged goods....’ “ 

now I laugh and try to continue .... but I suddenly realize that I cannot continue what I meant to say.  I feel my throat tighten and —far worse.... I hear it exposed in my voice so I know ....he can hear it too. I don’t say what I had started to

“What is going on here?” Jörn walks over and looks at us

But Josef stares at me for a long moment; the cold fjord blue gaze searches me ....but then I see he is moved by what I had told him. Neither of us notice Jörn there for a moment because I am finding myself stunned for ever revealing so much to him. 

What made me do that? I don’t know, 

but it shakes me; it rattles my necessary armor with dangerous bells of alarm

but he takes hold of my shoulder and bends over me to say into my ear....

he says,
“do you know how a pearl forms? Jörn has always had the uncanny ability ....to find a hidden pearl....”

(*Courtney Love song)

A touch of family Royal Drama

“Feral....? Hfffmm....” this part of conversation trickles through the air and out of context it seems to hang there frozen.... the next comes out in staccatos “....en vild räv.... vansinnig.... crazy like a fox....” it is Elsa’s voice

But the words are chevron patterns in my mind;

it is instead, something like electric shock

that strikes through the air waves that seem able to tackle me

We step out of Jörn’s bedroom together and he says from behind me,
“Mama!”

Should I follow any of this?

I look in the direction of Elsa who is by the coat closet brushing off the opera coat with a valet brush. She sniffs it,
“har någon använt det här?”

Now I hear Jörn make angry sounds I’ve never heard before—a kind of spit but it’s more like from his throat and he then shouts something.... but I don’t have any idea how to spell it....

I get a chill that goes all through me.

I am stopped with a dreaded feeling in my center— like as if frozen on the spot

and look up at Jörn..., then

instinctively I back up and look around

Why is everyone looking at me?

I want to sink through the floor.

I hear a sound come from my vocal cords that belies my courage but thankfully no one else hears this; it sounds like a strangled mouse

Andreas looks uncomfortable I notice— his face visibly flushed and I hear him mumble something at her but only for her ears. He stands near her

Only Josef looks at me now.

His white-gray brows tightly woven as they stare at me with one eyebrow raised at me to tell me...? What... ? what is that?

I see his hand sort of wave at me conspiringly but I don’t understand the context. Then he does a gesture with his head to Jörn behind me as his eyes look at him

I look back at Elsa

She holds the opera coat and looks at me. She forces a funny smile and sniffs it again. She looks at me now thoughtfully

Jörn says,
“Mama,” again but this time his tone is softly appealing; entreating

After a tense moment she says, looking at me,

“What scent do you wear?”

I look at the opera coat and start to realize what she is talking about

“Yes, I borrowed it,” I say

“She borrowed it, Mama,” Jörn says even though it’s obvious by now

I say,
“Caylyx.”

She makes a face that is hard to translate, she arches a brow and sniffs thoughtfully,
“and patchouli?”

it feels like all the pores of my skin are burning with her sting and I don’t know why

but .... I get that inadequate feeling

I half want to turn and run back to Jörn’s room because of the sting in her eyes. I feel stung and I feel my eyes burn

“It’s— lovely....” she sighs

“Hanna outgrew it years ago,” Jörn concedes —he means the coat because he’s trying to change the subject

“Ja, ja.... yes, of course she did....”

She says, looking at me,
“your father has a street named after him?”

I don’t know if that’s a challenge

Oh God....

I look up at Jörn and he takes hold of my hand and yanks me along towards the kitchen,
“I’m making coffee,” he says and then looks at me

I start to realize I am in a drama. Is this what he meant?

Shit. I’m not good at this

Then we are in the kitchen. Jörn starts barking orders at me. He points to the kettle to fill as he starts searching his cupboards

Andreas starts playing something ominous on the piano and Elsa walks over to me. She smiles,

“you have very lovely skin....”

“Oh....!” I find I stammer, “you do too....” ?

Well she does.....

I look for Josef hoping to get a possible hint or cue and when I spot him he is looking at me. He walks over and makes a secret hand gesture to me that I am clueless over. I lack social cues anyway but it seems worse without my Swedish app

His cheery eyes dance mercurially as he suggests,
“shouldn’t you and Jörn do some more practice? I’d like to hear the new ending the way I suggested...?”

Elsa throws him an arched look and walks past us to the piano. She calls,

“Jörn!” through her nose in that way that sharply reminds me of Jörn’s text tone for her

Jörn speaks into my ear softly—but it’s actually another order he’s barking at me. He says,

“when the water boils— pour it into the carafe,” but sharply adds “ —but don’t push down the plunger!”

The vampire’s Opera

“I always wanted to meet someone as strong as me,” I tell Jörn when he finds me alone later.

I began to to hyperventilate and came to be away. It was the family all around. Suddenly I had the feeling I could not breath. It was an anxiety attack and I recognized it.

He finds me hiding

I am not ashamed. But I am. I feel a sense of horror that he sees me now as I am

....but where was there to go? But I don’t think he should see me like this.

I am in the deep corner of his bedroom, by the window where the corner meets. I am low by the shadow and turned away, within but

I don’t want him to see me

I say,
“I think you should go see your family,” but I whisper urgently

“No, what are you doing?” he asks me and walks over

“Nothing but....” I turn away, “please, I’m sorry....” I say with a terrible sense of awkward shame

But he bends down , he kneels beside me,
“tell me what is wrong. Did someone offend you?”

I shake my head,
“no. It’s me.... it is no one. It is just me.... but I don’t want you to look at me,” and I keep my face away

He does not go. He stays just there. Does not come near nor push.

After I forget to wonder I start to breath again.

“I think I am starting to crumble....” I say it almost like one handing over before the plunge into the depths because I suppose if he can’t stand that then it shouldn’t matter .... because then everything has only been lip service

I start to stand up and I move awkwardly past him and go to his bathroom to wash my face. I keep my hair over it as I go past him. I wash my face and can’t look at myself

I hear him come in. He stands in the doorway watching me and I get dizzy from the stress and sit down on the tile floor. Bend over to breath.

“I saw you come in here before,” his voice is low and he bends down beside me, “I ‘m sorry, my family can be a bit much.... they were anxious to meet you, min lilla duva, they knew I was going up there.... because of you.”

This makes me look at him. It is something I’ve never heard anyone ever say to me before. Not ever like a proclamation but he does not diminish himself when he says this, it is the opposite when I hear something within that

I stare at him now. I stare into his eyes, their fierce beauty that is as sharp as a double edged sword

“My ....mother asked about the music I have been writing....” he stares back into my eyes. For just a moment he drops his gaze as he thinks. I watch his brow furrow as he frowns, watch the expressions move across his Nordic features like a tug of war between something deep within him,
“there is more to me than just my music and the intelligence work that I do— i was always going to write this great symphony..... my parents were expecting me to because it was what I always had talked about for years before.... well.... life? I have always had a recklessness driving at me that I never understood but as if I had to find the dragon to slay—something inexplicable. Especially about love.... I could never find something...it got in the way of everything. Every relationship and every work choice I made. Just could never .... find something that I could never explain. It seemed to cast a dark shadow over my life because it got in the way of —well, eventually, everything. No woman ever was enough and no place I lived filled the void. I think the danger of doing the government work was appealing as a means of self destructive behavior that is somehow acceptable—does that make sense?”

I think, but I’m not sure but still I nod looking at him

“My music lately has been inspired by these dreams that .... the dreams we share. I’ve never written this kind of music before and I am aware it comes from something else. They hear it,” he shrugs towards the other room where his family is

He says,
“I came in here to show you those photos I told you about of your legal father. No, it can wait because I’d rather show you later. The dreams .... they only began when I started reading your words. And I started to write an opera.... this is what we are working on now in there because my mother loved it when she heard it and now a part of it is going to be performed. It’s named after you —I hope you will come see it, min lilla duva.”

Meeting the parents

....so how would I describe Jörn’s family? Definitely the word “Dramatic” suits them, as Jörn aptly characterized

I find I melt into the corner here to write this into my phone completely lost in the sea of their rapid fire Swedish conversation. I cannot follow any of it. Here and there a word but then their words mean other things and instead I fall into a daze

He is right how he has explained them to me in earlier conversation. His father, Josef— I’m not sure I spelled that right.... he has a loud voice and he commands a lot of attention. Do I like him? It is a funny thing because I have not had a ‘father figure” in my life for at least twenty years—nor mother so..... that it feels .... so weird

Do I like his father....? Yes. Which is a foreign concept to me. Perhaps his foreignness too allows me to want to feel I can trust him. Without saying a word to me, Josef looked at me as I came into the apartment in this way that reminded me of how my grandfather used to look at me right before he pinched my cheek. I think it was this that made me instantly like his father. He said something to Jörn in Swedish looking at me and then Jörn replied something as he also then looked at me too.

I wonder what they said....?

But I sit here writing as they loudly discuss some performance they are preparing to do with such bravado that I swear, I feel like I am watching a Bergman film. I don’t really need the subtitles, their faces are so expressive and their inflection on words.... well, it makes me wonder why anyone even needs words.

What do I think of his mother? Elsa. I think I am a bit frightened of her even as she fascinates me, somehow. But I do like her even though she terrifies me.

They are both characters I would put in one of my stories so it helps to write about them here as I can use this for later ....Elsa has good taste in color and I notice this first as an artist; she knows how to dress so that you hardly think of her age; she’s quite beautiful; so as an opera singer she seems aware of what impact her presence can create along with her physical self. She walks into every room like she’s walking on stage. Her hand gestures amuse me. I can see this is where Jörn gets it from. Have I mentioned this about Jörn? I don’t remember but— they all do alot of hand gestures

and they walk as they speak as if in soliloquy

Not to be such a flaneur but they truly set the stage for quite a lot of material for writing so I hide in the corner well amused as I write analyzing them provided with such material

Andreas has told them all about who my real father is but I wish he would not because I still feel like it is a holy secret I kept for my mother.

I think Josef sensed this about me and.... it was something he did right after Andreas went to get his phone to show his pictures he took of the statue of him.

It was so subtle but he stood up from the chair and walked over to me; Jörn’s mother was busy beside Jörn at the piano looking over sheet music so.... as he played and she sang; her voice bouncing off the walls....

well, he put his hand on my shoulder very lightly in this tender way. Josef has much more gentle eyes than his son; they are eyes that have known deep sorrow too, I see this in their bright blueness so.... he looked at me with some kind of knowing —but I don’t really know what .... only that he seemed to say with just his eyes that he would keep my secret. But more than that. He seemed to be saying something else too.

When he found me later in the kitchen sipping coffee in the corner by the window he says,

“you have been without parents a long time.”

It was not a question. But he searches inside me and I find I cannot hold his stare. I could not even answer him. It affected me because I was not prepared for it. I try to say instead,

“they were not happy people....” I try to construct my face void of pain and keep the mask smooth now as I slowly raise my eyes up to him. I successfully manage a sincere smile because he makes a sudden comical face at me almost like an exaggerated clownish expression

He says,
“people expect too much from happiness,” and still looks at me

I want to ask him about his life in Sweden; what their lives are like and how he grew up but I seem unable to step out of my own shadows. I think I have forgotten the vocabulary to speak to parents in so instead I am awkward because I am most afraid of being disrespectful by mistake. So I say,

“I can’t imagine being so fearless to stand in front of so many people and perform like you do. Like all of you do.”

But he doesn’t answer right away. What I say makes him think and in a quiet tone he tells me,
“I find the shyest people to have the most to say and find them to be the kindest and most generous,” then adds, “not everyone has to command a standing ovation. The world needs the gentle creatures too.”

Eye Spy Noir; driving back to NY

“I can understand why Nigel referred to you as ‘feral’,” we are on our way back to Manhattan

“How do you know about that?” I ask after a pause of bemusement

“How do I know? Because I read it in your blog,” he says glancing at me for a moment away from the road

I shake my head,
“well then that would mean....” I shake my head.... “no—wait.... I wrote that in my Nigel entry ....” I look at him; he has his profile turned to me, his aquiline nose in perfect silhouette against the dimming sunlight. I see his nostrils flare —that is all that gives him away

Is he testing me?

“Then you must have been reading my blog....” I stop speaking. I have to breath. I take a moment to configure the chronological time frame

“Before we actually met—“ he turns his head and lets the steel blue of his eyes pierce right through me, almost like supernatural beams of kryptonite. “Is that what you mean?”

“Because I took down all my Nigel posts....” I glance away feeling strange; dizzy.... overcome with a lightheadedness.

“Yes, I know, you removed over a year of posts, I noticed when you did that,” but he doesn’t give me time to allow the impact to settle in and continues with a different line of thought. He asks,

“Tell me, why do you say it is ‘too late’ to get any justice about the man who sexually assaulted and attempted to murder you? Retnuh Nivek,” he says

My mouth goes dry and I can’t breath,
“what are you talking about....? How did you find his name?”

“I went through the graduating class at Bard— didn’t he go onto being a practicing psychologist?”

“How do you know this?”

“He lives in Maryland and has a family— at least one daughter. I wonder how they would feel about this....”

“You are a spy, admit it!” I say this in s half insane kind of muffled scream

“I wouldn’t call myself a spy but I do research useful characters that come up on the radar....”

I wait staring at his profile and notice his nostrils have relaxed. He says calmly now,

“I mean, what happened is a felony—is that the word? There is no statute of limitation for murder, are you aware of that?”

I don’t answer right away. It is almost five minutes of quiet, tense driving with my mind spinning before I structure a sentence that framed some semblance to a complete thought and say very low and hoping almost that he won’t hear

“He said he would finish the job if I ever told.”

I think that he does not hear this

He does not respond

But after another five minutes he give me a chilling look and then says,
“I have no doubt I could do quite a job on him myself—by now I believe he’s turned into a blubbery fat mother fucker and I would love to be in the front row when you kick his ass.”

He is calm but I see his nostrils flare again

Much to my own shock I actually laugh,
“you think I can kick his ass?”

“You hiked from that estate to the Hudson —which is roughly about 19 kilometers—actually a bit more ....your legs are lethal weapons, min lilla duva,” he says and then reaches to switch on some music. As he does this he says, “to answer your question, yes, I still work for the government; it is not exactly a vocation you shrug out of, you might say. Especially once you have the instincts for it. It helps to be a symphony musician for them but also it keeps me sharp for the music and well.... you may not be aware of things about your assailant. We’ve been watching him for some time ....he’s been connected with international terrorism going back—oh—quite a number of years and when his name came up in connection with your school I started to put things together and it also revealed things about the man who raised you— there is a lot of evidence that he sabotaged the real man who was your father—Ethan— he was behind the downfall of his political career and likely turned double agent in the process.”

“Double agent....? You mean....” I look at him, “that’s crazy ....”

“I can show you when we get back. I have photographs of him at a meeting in Barcelona among a very interesting gathering.”

I don’t know how much time passed before I realized we were starting to see expressway signs for New York but I must have become lost in thought

I hear a text come through from Ilya and have to check

“Oh no....”

“What’s wrong?”

“The penthouse roof is coming down, she says there’s a flood now that they have emergency workers there now,” I try to find out more and call her

She tells me,
“they’re patching it up now, don’t worry but.... there’s a lot of damage. Especially the bedrooms.”

After I hang up I tell Jörn

He says,
“you seem to be having a lot of that lately—perhaps we should recruit your mason workers to come back with us.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” I ask him

“I’m sorry— you should stay with me tonight,” he tells me casually, “although I forgot to mention I have a full house right now, besides my son, my parents are visiting.”

“Your parents!?”

He says,
“they’re here in business. In a way—they are appearing at an opera commemorative for the birthday of a late well known friend and are special guests. They also have enlisted me to be involved, as usual, they’re using a piece of mine and I have to perform with them so, be prepared for a lot of drama.”

Back at the estate

“I have decided I want to be one of those mad old women,” I tell Jörn as we pull up to the estate

He throws a look at me that says, whilst holding back a rage, that he has no time for nonsense

— his eyes say that

I realize he’s angry at me

We both stand outside the crumbling mansion and look at at it. To me I see the new work done by the masons who have been hard at work; in fact I notice a  few new completed ionic columns where the top parts had been all broken away. They have fixed it like new! You can’t even tell the difference. So I stare at it awhile. For a moment I am breathless with the happy wonder of it

Only Jörn makes a disgusted sound as he gestures with his shoulder,
“why are you staying here?”

He looks at me in that challenging way he has that is almost antagonistic. But it’s not that, it’s something else; it’s a sublimation of his frustration with me— or what is that really? Passive aggressive?

I suppose I find it amusing in a way which is what makes me smile inappropriately just then. He sees this and seems to look even more enraged

“It’s a favor to Joanie,” I shrug to gloss over the moment

I start to head for the entrance over the broken stone walkway which was once a grand neo-classic entranceway and as we head inside over the old marble floor inside, covered in the soot of time and the regular traffic of the workmen, we hear something in the rafters

He looks at me pointedly,
“What was that?”

He stares with those eyes

I hide a smile,
“I don’t think you want to know, Jörn,” and I start towards through the main part of the interior that leads down a long hallway past the wide, elaborate, staircase ....that is also quite in a state of disrepair

My shoes echo down the checkerboard corridor —and squish too as they are still rather wet

There is a large ballroom that we pass where there sits an old broken piano

this makes me look at him because I see his eyes light

“Is that a Steinway?” he asks me

But I keep going then because I sense he is now intrigued. We pass the main dining hall and here I cut through the doorway that leads to the kitchens

It is huge

It took some doing but I figured out the trick of the old range positioned at the center of the main wall.... also huge. And somewhat intimidating. I couldn’t attempt it at first. It was so formidable to just stand in front of it at first. But then I remembered from Nigel how they work. And this kind was built to last ....never mind the state of the rest of the place.

I don’t think the kitchens, as they stand, would ever pass any public safety regulations. The floors are far from hygienic, for one thing, and the counters make my skin crawl

still, with some skill of ingenuity, I convinced a worker to lay a slab of marble by the old farm sink and this served as a good spot to chop an apple or make a sandwich and pull up the tall servant’s stool

There is a long old wood table at the center of the room that I imagine must have been where the cook and his assistants did most of their work. It is a fascinating piece with its battered dents and worn corners

These had been the servants kitchens and it is quite overwhelmingly huge to spend any time in

....by the time Ethan owned it he had a installed some “modern” equipment —so the refrigerator, that still works, was at that time state-of-the-art, of course but now to our eyes seems like it is something straight out of Donna Reed’s kitchen. And yet, thankfully, when I first found it, remarkably clean inside considering. It only took a few hours to scrub it down

I walk through to the narrow hallway that leads down to the servants quarters

“Where are you going?” he asks as he follows me

“To change out of these wet clothes. Did you bring clothes?” I ask him

I just hear an annoyed sound that comes from the depths of his throat as a reply

“Well, I’d offer to share mine but,” I laugh because his legs are much longer than mine

“I came to bring you back with me, min lilla duva,” he says now. “I didn’t count on a dip in the Hudson,” then adds, “we’re not staying the night here, in this bat infested haunted house— and uh—I have a concert tomorrow.”

The Pirate with the vampire eyes and his dove/Vampyren och hans duva; the story and backstory

It could have been that her strange and exotic colors and features could make him forget the family, the sons, the daughters and woman from before. The family that had been his, along with the mother and sister who were caught in a blood vengeance and began a conflict with another warrior leader who eventually conceded to his skills of warfare. After burning down his huts and women he was let to stay with the blood enemy when he had taken that leader’s right leg and arm and thus became the war leader by the victory of a battle that Raoul fought only to avenge his heart without the lust of power nor had it been for gain. For long after he felt a stone had replaced his heart and all will for life beyond except for anger. This was where the bitter coldness began within those vampire eyes. The breeding emptiness of life. Sometimes too much loss is more than one human life can take before turning into an empty living corpse

The first time he saw her that day at the market village, her strangeness was so otherworldly so as to make him believe she was an angel to distract him from the emptiness of living.....

——————————————————————

The first time I dreamed of the pirate with the vampire eyes, I have said, was when I had been very ill with mononucleosis

..... and it was one of those times when I had fallen into a deep sleep. 

It is now many years ago since that first dream and over the years little by little more of the ‘story‘ has been filled in. Sometimes upon waking I recall more of that story, sometimes more of the dream gets remembered throughout a day when I don’t know that I dreamed that night

But what stands out the most are his eyes, the boat and the cold and icy land....

and too, the hut where he took me (that ‘her’, because I saw everything through her eyes)— to where most other memories are mixed; good and bad

Those ....have such a bittersweet....happy and very sad connection of emotions with inexplicable parts of my subconscious .... and how I mean this has to do with things I feel drawn to; places; cravings; longings.... and things that haunt me and interfere in my life in such strange and disturbing ways

When I first talked to Gerald about this; soon after the illness it was....

we were then working together at the bookstore outside of Hempstead in New York

but.... you know 

I learned to chalk it up to part of life’s mysteries; like so many déjà vu’s

Sometimes years went by and I forgot all about them as well as the tall, blond warrior that haunted those scenes from dreams that lay indelibly in my deep subconsciousness

And then when I saw him that day....

Those memories flooded back —and it was the night before I saw Jörn in the penthouse lobby that I had the dream again after many years of dormancy; a foretelling it would seem.....

You see, as I have said, it was years ago, when I had been very ill with mononucleosis for six weeks at the time and I lost my job and so, had to give up my apartment on Long Island; forced to swallow pride and endure the humility of asking ‘my father’ for his allowing me to recover there where my parents lived; an unwanted guest and an unwanted situation

yet those first weeks were so submerged in the illness and the dreams that I did not at first notice much about my surroundings; submerged in fever dreams that flooded me for weeks

After my recovery I didn’t have time to think much about those dreams. My ‘father’ wanted me out of his home and I was tossed back into the turbulent sea of trying not to drown in the overpriced cost of living of New York.

“I walk alone I walk alone,” as Billy Joe Armstrong sings and me, like as a modern day Kerouac dharma, was paved on that broken road and as before and thereafter and evermore it seems

I don’t really care for the material world that my father represented; all his material values had long ago disgusted me; I embraced the life of a nineties grunge queen

But those broken wings don’t get you far, nor carry you forever; the broken bones from my attack took their toll

and maybe I forgot how to dream for awhile

Their first time together was on the beach enclosed in a rock cliff beneath where the water lapped up against the rocks and when she looked into his eyes and saw the soul within she did not fear the force of his passion

He was not what she had once imagined as a maiden growing up; that maiden dreaming of a man that may one day claim her

but she was no longer that maiden who had once held such dreams

She had witnessed her mother’s violent death and knowing that he was capable of knowing loss but also capable of fierce violence seemed to draw her.... compel her as something almost primal and with almost the same force of violence she had witnessed in him when he saved her twice; first from her father and then by the warrior from his ship

He was a strange man.... both twisted with anger but capable of a tenderness she had never imagined could exist from anyone

The weeks that followed the voyage on his boat with the other men altered her and perhaps both of them 

as he would watch her constantly when they were at sea, she would turn to see him as the wind whipped back his hair from his face and the sea crashed around him; a new idea of a life formed in her mind and he was at the center of it 

so that when the day did come where his boat pulled up to that frozen land, she wasn’t afraid to follow him to the hut, reached by a passage behind a kind of shrub or skeletal grove; a group of dense bushes and ....by then they knew that a child had begun to grow within

The pirate and the dove

Elan chewed on a type of tree bark mixed with the seaweed she had gathered and dried when she had been searching for moonstones. She chewed the bark and seaweed every night after twilight until she blead from her sex by the third week. She washed herself in beach water

At first full moon she would whisper the incants and stare into the night sky reading the stars

It was something they both knew much about. Elan, because her mother taught her the strange characters of the sky and how they moved across the horizon of the sky all the days through the seasons. Her mother taught her the secrets of the stars. She learned to memorize the characters

Raoul asked her about her strange sounding incants with his questing gestures and some words they both knew

He patiently smiled with an indulgence that suggested he found the chants useless

She smiled and drew a picture in the sand

They were by the shore and watching the full moon

She drew a picture of a baby in her mother’s arms. He was impressed with her ability to draw and praised her with his words but his gestures filled in enough to express his genuine praise

For a moment she looked away. She lowered her eyes. Then she smiled looking back up at him

Her eyes looked at him like, it seemed to him,a child basking in the first compliment ever said and with the same unabashed modesty of not knowing how to feel

Then she pointed to the baby and then at herself

She pointed to the mother and made a gesture to her eyes to express tears falling for the mother and touched her heart. It was then when she repeated the incant and gesture and she expressed to him this way that it was not for faith she did the ritual and drew two females in the sand to tell him it was a way to remember her mother because it was something they did together

In this way he asked her about her herbs and he made a frank gesture to her sex and pointed to the baby in her drawing

She realized he must have seen the evidence

It had been seven days since

But she became upset and stomped on the baby she had drawn and obliterated the image in the sand

He saw her eyes become angry but then fill with tears before she started to run into waves

When he caught her going under the water she was sobbing into the waves what sounded like “ma-ma”

She would always wonder if he had only waited for her monthly flow before he decided to claim her with his sex

or....

if he had only been waiting for her consent

It was soon after this that it happened

He had built a fire in the sand and dried her hair with a hide in front of the fire. He began to talk to her with words of his own language, interspersed with hers and gestures as he ran his fingers through the red tangles as they dried and he then he pointed up to the night sky

She had begun to know his words from his repitition but with only a dullness of interest, at first, she found herself listening to his story of the stars. And other things he began to babble on about 

His story was about his voyages. He told her how the sky watched over everyone and how they determined when it was time to leave home for a journey but also he told her how they guided them to their journey and helped them know how to go back home

In this way they had began to build their own private language between them; sometimes using their eyes to say what they could not find words for. Sometimes they used voice and tones of sound, sometimes expressions or her pictures

Elan did not realize that in this way she had begun to respond to him with a sense of trust towards him nor notice that she had begun to relax with him

Those visits with the village women had happened less and, in parallel, inadvertently, her trust of him also had started

The last time he went to a village woman had happened the day before this conversation

Which had been, in part, behind some of her anger

....because it happened then before that it was the first time he put his hand on her in such a way to tell her he meant to have her

But it was because she had pulled away from him that ....made him angry

But she had pulled away out of fear and out of habit 

.... and they went to the stall by the market place where those women “traded”

and made her sit outside the doorway where she could hear .... forcing her to listen

But now.... when he used her pictures to tell her another story.... it was a sad story

and it was about his own family.... and it was a very sad tale

It was the surprising sadness of his eyes that changed her towards him and so she reached for his hand

and then she placed it where he had

he would never know if it was the picture story he told her or the woman’s sounds from the night before that changed her mind

The men on the boat immediately noticed the change between them

And their resentment of him grew

History is written on lies; what archeology reveals gets tainted in the politics of the backers of the expeditions

There had been a written language

no history research can tell you this because the language had been outlawed and any writing too

Everything written had been destroyed by the Romans but the pride of the people remembered anyway and told each of their children the true story.

Hid secrets in knots

Secret codes.... wrapped in a maze of design and woven into the memories

What is in the DNA?

what does get passed down? Darwin suspected the secrets and is it not all about survival?

But if we forget the knowledge learned how much loss for the knowing that it first took? How many seas were crossed? How many mountains .... how much was sacrificed along the way

The pirate with the vampire eyes

Yet he does not demand anything

Elan sees him go to other women. She sees him do this each stop they make. It is at villages they stop by to trade at. He never touches her, he only protects her from the others. Yet Raoul keeps her nearby and makes sure to keep  one eye always on her; he keeps watch of her and as he goes behind the doorway with the kind who give their bodies for something he sells 

he says,

“stanna här,” and points for her to sit at the bench of the proprietor’s stall

she hears them through the doorway as she waits.... hears the sounds the women make and sees the way they look at him after 

She always averts her eyes when he steps out

It is one of many times that he sees her washing by some fresh water and stays concealed behind trees

The perplexity of his face as he watches the girl. The way his eyes stare

The early days they kept a respectful distance of each other as they traveled or when side by side having a meal that sometimes she asks if she can prepare because it is something she would always do for her father. The first time she asked this he gave her something that had been hers from her father’s trunk. A leather bag of herbs

When she looked up at him for this he smiled

and then very slowly.... she smiled back

That was the first time

Something kept her in his stare and she stared back. It was a look she had never known before but it was mixed with a look she had known all too well

But she did not pull back

After that, each time she waited outside a proprietor of that kind she felt a feeling that she did not fully understand

It made her angry at him and she didn’t understand why

He noticed it though the first time when he motioned and told her to put on the cloak which she did with a cold look ....and it made him smile

She was angry all the way back to the boat and all through the voyage to their next stop and each time it happened hence 

intrigue Film Noir

“How did you get involved in spying?” I ask him shivering in the car as he drives. I don’t ask him about the car which is an SUV but I do notice it is a Volvo

Jörn grimaces, and shakes his head,
“....spying....”

“You’re trying to deny it?”

He sends me an icy look that is meant to scare me but I don’t feel scared. No. I suppose in a way I am intrigued

“Well....” he shrugs now and says, “it was during my rebellious stage— you like research, you’re always digging things up on Google.”

“I like archaeology. I liked it even before Google.”

“Yes, archeology.... I was more interested in the science angle,” he glances at me, “how biology tells its own story.”

“Pathology?”

“Yes—but even more than that. So.... at first I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a musician because everyone in my family is and I was always interested in things like what can be learned of a person’s life through their diet or biology or their .... remains.”

“I see. Gruesome.”

I see his smile even as he keeps his head straight and his eyes on the road

“It’s interesting, min lilla duva.... anyway, I studied at university for awhile and a friend of mine invited me to one holiday at his family’s summer house. His father happened to be an investigator.... is still actually....”

“What kind of investigator?”

“For the government.”

he says this simply with a shrug

I turn to look at him but still his head remains straight and his eyes stay focused on the road

“And?”

Only now does he glance at me. He draws his brow,
“and?”

“There is more to that,” I say to him

He looks back at the road,
“Hmmm.... you think so I’m sure.”

“Obviously.”

He shrugs again,
“well.... obviously I am a musician so I did end up following the family path.”

“I’m not sure if you’re really insulting my intelligence or if you think I can’t see through this.”

“No, I just don’t feel like talking about it because I just dragged you out of the Hudson ....so why don’t you tell me about that instead of trying to think you can distract me?”

“I don’t think that.... “ I say but then I add, “I just don’t feel like talking about it,” I say

Jörn, the drowning sea & the loss of reason; A mermaid’s drowning voice

“Our conversation earlier has disturbed me greatly,” he tells me

My mind is blank and fights through the morass, I stare into the Hudson; it goes to several of many conversations but I still

....well I don’t know

Jörn stands there in front of me and I have to look way up at him

“You told me about your dream, min lilla duva....” he squints into my eyes from up there because the sun is in his eyes; the way the sun glitters into them has me caught in the memory of something else

That he has come here makes me rethink what I may have....

I cover my face

“What were you planning to do?” he pulls my shoulder to look at him; he is now knelt down next to me where we are now by the rock ....it is nearly submerged now slick with water like I am and so is he

“Look at me!” he shouts this

I don’t look

Instead I realize what dream he is referring to. The one about the angel of death that has kept me up every night since

It has been almost a week

“You have been avoiding me all week staying up here....you say you are disappointed in humanity?” only this he whispers

“How did you know I was here?” I whisper back at him

“You posted on IG....” then he says, still with the intimacy of a whisper,

“don’t disappoint me....”

but why do I almost hate him now.... for saying that and finding me

“Plus, you haven’t finished your story,” he says in a gentle chide

I remember he is a father. And I remember he has a daughter

.... it makes me angry

before I find a retort he throws me over his shoulder like a bag of swords

first edit; JM chronicles of the Vampire Pirate; the early memories of the vampire and the priestess

Raoul knew some words from other languages from his trading in different places; enough for some crude and basic communication and this way they learned each other’s names and began the basis of some initial conversations

at first she only stared into the water and barely noticed nor responded when Raoul tossed a hide to cover her against the winds from the sea

It did not occur to her to be afraid. Not at first. She only stared into the water

It was only when the other men on the boat started to notice her. When they would reach to steal touches of her body; when the raiding leader wasn’t looking and then, she became resentfully aware of another kind of danger when she kept hearing them refer to her as “Slav” and choosing not to show fear, from which she would raise her head up higher and look at them with disdain because she knew what that meant and knew her people were not of those parts

Sometimes when they said that she would spit with a sneer at them and reply with another word to clarify that she was, instead, from the other lands and spat,

“Keltoi!” at them because she remembered hearing about the lands of the Pyrenees from the ancient stories her mother told where the people were marked by the red of their hair like Elan and what her mother had too. And how her father had first come by her mother on his travels as a bard. Her mother had traveled with her Druid husband. He was come from the distant isles to the west from Tintagel; he was of the Cymry people with the dark eyes which Elan also had. Her face was a hybrid of cultures which caused men to stare because it gave her an exotic look

and so from place to place they had traveled often by mule with bags on their backs and sometimes by sea when her father had found passage with the peoples they traded with.

She knew of the Slavs from their travels and had seen how their people were often smuggled; kidnapped as slaves 

But many times her father devised a way to help some escape the clutches of the Rus by putting them in the trunks they traveled with. Being a magic man he threatened curses as the means of protecting his property during those fearsome encounters with the Rus

....and she would slip potions in their ale 

during the hours of the bard’s story-telling by the fire 

when she had been required to sing and dance 

and dangled like a toy by her father; the old Druid who told his news of the world through stories told sung through his song

her father would take out his harp and oblige her to dance and sing the chorus 

as the warriors watched her; as her father dangled her

Those warriors who expected more than just her voice nor just to watch 

She had little faith in the Druid spells of incantations but she had learned a lot about the plants —which aided to confuse during necessary times. She knew the healing plants too and the plants that could both give and take life

Once the shock wore off that the warrior had killed her father she began to be aware that her life was to be drastically altered. She had never imagined a life free of her Druid father beyond those childish dreams of youth that long vanished ....those dreams of rescue and of finding a good man that she had had glimpses of during those stops at towns where they traded. But those dreams were destroyed when her mother died and her father turned to his daughter for his lustful needs in his drunken and twisted grief. She had learned shame. And her dreams died with that shame. She had learned to feel a loathing for that kind of act

Freed of her father’s dirty intrusion of her body but replaced by the threat of a ship of savage warriors, even as she was not the only female on board, she was the one most prized and favored

Raoul was the leader and respected by the others but there were some who resented him, she quickly found and then.... it began to dawn on her ....that pirate who claimed her would expect more of that kind of shame.... that act of what she had learned to despise

Yet he would guard her during that voyage that continued to other trading villages 

but he could not always be there

It was on such an event of being dragged by one at such a village .... it was on the event that she began to associate Raoul with safety 

when he stopped a brutal encounter —one of his shipmates who stripped her of her dark blue robes; when she nearly lost her life as she fought the hands that invaded her body

Raoul had saved her

After Raoul killed him it began a kind of tension among the others from the ship and they all watched her with sidelong leers and called her the spawn of Loki.

JM chronicles; memories of Raoul

Raoul


He watches her from the market when she goes to the water to watch the waves and searches for moonstones

Jörn sits at his piano and plays as the memory plays back, thrown back from dreams in his mind

He creates

Recalls from dreams

He plays. The music where he is conductor. Conductor of all. In control

He’s in control

Always in control

Of all his emotions....

She goes to the water to wash. To wash the blood from her clothes.

He stayed to watch her because earlier he had heard her screams. The father’s shadows on the stall wall behind the curtain he watched....

The Druid with the silver and gold; the crystal ball.... they were going to sack the market but he convinced the men otherwise. To trade instead his hides.... to sell his swords he spent all winter at his craft

They were going to sack the market

Instead he watched her red hair escape from the hood of her dark blue woad dyed robes

But as he watched her the men back at the market were drinking.

There was blood on his blade.... things turned when he heard her scream in the shadows and his blade found the reason for her screams and .....

He saw relief in her face as he dragged the Druid from her

 And as he watched her wash still stunned she searched the shore for moonstones, washing the blood from her clothes

the screams from the market reached them. The look on her face reminded him of his dead sister and he ran and hauled her over his shoulder like his sack of swords. Her robes wrapped around and falling in drapes down his back as he ran to the long boat with her

His music on the piano goes mad as his fingers slam down on the keys

JM Muse Chronicles Film noir Jörn scene continues

Jörn: I did not know who you were when I first saw you in the lobby

Beth does not reply. She waits watching him. Her face obscured and just the set of her shoulders expresses the sense of something like a bird waiting to take flight

Jörn: I found out from the doormen who you were

Beth: the doormen?

Jörn (shrugs and inclines his head downstairs): so I read your blog.... going back a few months and....

Here he stops to reflect as if only just recalling an observation

Jörn: I started to dig around. I half suspect that is how they figured out .... yes, min lilla duva, I do have some connections with.... secret intelligence

Beth: some connection?

Jörn (does not reply but rather stares st her and shrugs)

Beth: I see.... you mean you are a spy?

Jörn: I wouldn’t say that

Beth looks at him and they trade looks

Jörn (with a reluctant sigh): not.... exactly

He is caught by her look

Jörn (Again a shrug): not .... per se.... so to speak