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Chapter Eight: Into The Left

Stirred from her restless sleep in the hours of late morning, Helena heard Evans cheerfully call from the bedroom door that he would be heading out. Off to gather some fresh air and pick up some supplies in Camden, the shopkeeper inquired as to whether she would like to join him. The brilliant sun had been shining for hours already, warming the city with a radiant heat. A rare occasion even in the midst of summer as soft tufts of clouds spread across a light blue sky, like gentle strokes of a hog hair paintbrush. On any other day it would have been a glorious way to spend the morning, but this was no ordinary day. The normality of a customary day had no place in her new found world.  The false pretence of gaiety to mask despondency was repellent and deceitful. If she took a walk out that door to traipse around Camden with Evans she would be only playing a charade, and Helena detested playing games.

Replying a blunt no, Helena rolled over and away from him as he awaited her response. Evans simply nodded silently and descended the stairs of the shop, the tinkle of the bell sounding as it shut the door closed behind him.

Five months had passed since the Scotswoman had been rescued by Evans from her fate at the gallows in Dysart. Five months. And ever since then she had remained alone in this strange world of London 1844. Alone in the master bedroom of Evans, graciously bestowed to her on the insistence of her host who, with a convincing smile, said he had been determined to clear out the stuffy attic for quite some time and make a bedroom out of it. Why a singular gentleman who entertained no guests would be interested in anything of the sort was highly questionable, and answered Helena's suspicion that Evans was desperately doing his best to make her feel at ease in her new situation.

Despite the amiable and kind nature of her host, Helena's spirits were disheartened beyond repair. Memories of betrayal and loss teased and taunted her, the repetitiveness of the ideas refusing to leave her mind. Flashes of recollections when she was being led to the noose where she was destined to be hung, the cheer of the crowd echoing in her mind and the look of fear in the eyes of her children. Envisaging the face of pure hatred that Tearlach held, cursing her name as she stumbled up the wooden steps of the gallows. Five months on and Helena found herself worse than ever, her hands shaking at times through no will of her own, and an overwhelming fear crawling over her. Her body barely being kept alive, she existed but did not live. And where there was flesh, she was certain the soul had died the moment she had been ripped from her world and flung into this one.

Deliberating the situation through cloudy depressed thoughts, the decision had been made with a somewhat reckless spontaneity. While imperative to look before one leapt, Helena lacked the frame of mind to perform that essential part of the decision making process. She had already decided what needed to be done and there was no going back.

Proceeding to the French dressing table adorned with a cream oval cheval mirror, the woman placed herself calmly down on the stool and began to pin up her hair neatly. The wild and unruly would be tamed, and all would be restored to how it should be. When her brown tresses were deemed perfect, she commenced powdering her face a perfect porcelain pale white, before rouging her cheeks a soft tint of rose pink. A little charcoal dabbed delicately around her eye line, she nodded in approval at the final result, the darkness of the ash emphasising her forest green eyes.

Serenely Helena dressed herself in her favourite outfit; of skirt, corset and jacket. The skirt was a multi layered, ruched black dragging skirt made of the finest lace that fitted around her waist snugly to give an hourglass silhouette. The corset was long and stiffened with boning, falling just below the waist; black with a damask pattern and adorned with silver clasps that secured at the front, and laced at the back with crimson cord. Finally, a black velveteen jacket covered her frame, with carved rose ivory buttons that fastened down the middle and elegant long sleeves adorned with black lace cuffs that frilled slightly out over her hands.

The outfit had been graciously given to her by Evans a few months back in a gentlemanly attempt to rally her spirits, and truth be told she was so taken aback by the gesture that the clothing was of little consequence as opposed to the act in itself. No one had ever gifted her clothing, let alone the exquisite trappings bestowed by Evans. Her life in Scotland had been humble, and she had worn the attire of a villager her entire life. Of thick grey woollen skirts, a plain cream corset, heavy green cotton dresses, chunky woollen socks and a moth eaten tartan shawl. Not one bit of finery was ever entertained, and indeed the woman never came in contact with it except for when dressing Lady Bayliss.

So ingrained was the idea that these fine objects were unobtainable to someone like Helena, being but a chamber maid, she never thought much of it or pined away for such items. Little did she know one day a stranger would offer her finer garments than that of even Lady Bayliss. One day a stranger would bestow more kindness than any person had ever offered her in her entire life.

That one day a stranger would indeed save her life.

So beautiful were the clothes Evans gave Helena that even for weeks after she had received them she feared to touch the garments as they remained perfectly wrapped in their packaging from the store, ever so precious to her. Helena knew it was silly to be so attached to a few pieces of material, however there was symbolism behind her fondness. The clothing held sentiment as much as it did thread, and she justified the adoration she bestowed upon the ensemble from that perspective. Of course she also delighted to be in the possession of lace and frills!

Once finished with the dressing ceremony, Helena headed for the stairs. To meet death, if that was the case. Hauntingly beautiful in black, perhaps a spirit soon but magnificently dressed for an eternity she would happily endure. Hands trembling against the walnut wooden rail, the woman descended the steps one by one, the creak of the floorboards groaning tiredly beneath her, her breath growing short and sharp as she approached the cabinet with fear.

The small scurry of a mouse sounded in the corner of the room, the rodent rummaging behind a narrow space of a cupboard. Even such an insignificant noise startled Helena, her nerves all a jitter, and without hesitation she wrenched the cabinet open and jumped in, closing the left door firmly behind her.

Heart pounding in her chest as she sat there in the dark, once again she could feel that sickening sensation of skin crawling as she felt something else was with her in the shadowy confines. The head spinning dance proceeded once more. Eyes clenched shut tight, her arms wrapped desperately around her knees in fear as every part of her felt like it was spiralling out of control. Helena felt a soft cold breath on her shoulder; something was so close to her it was almost consuming her. Devouring her. She felt it lean over to her ear, humming the soft tune of a lullaby. A sickening song filling her with paralytic dread as it continued, louder and louder, growing more vicious in vibrato with a hiss in its voice. Gasping for air, a stifled scream departed her lips as she desperately felt for the door in an attempt to escape. Clawing her nails against the oak, the splinters pierced her flesh. Trapped and helpless, until suddenly the doors wrenched open and something roughly pushed her out of the cabinet, onto the cold wooden floors of an empty room.

Finally, she was home…

Casting her eyes rapidly around her surroundings, Helena soon realised she was not in the Eachann Forest at the nook of trees close to the river. Instead the wardrobe stood in the centre of a small room with black painted walls and high ceilings lined with white cornices etched with patterns of entwined ropes. The wooden floors were finely polished mahogany, while a large window to the right side of the room looked out onto an evening fast approaching. A closed white door of the room stood ominously before her, leading out into the unknown.

'Where in the blazes am I?' she whispered fearfully to herself.

Clambering for the window, the woman desperately cast her eyes onto an industrious parade of a bustling street of late afternoon. Horse drawn carriages and wagons busily travelled in both directions up and down the street, the vehicles passing by men dressed in top hats, frockcoats and trousers, and women in bonnets, dresses and redingotes, meandering in and out of shops and residences that lined the way. The scene looked somewhat like London, yet the street was much larger and open, and the buildings different in style. There was more space than Helena had seen in the few parts of London she had ventured in. Rather than all cramped up with barely enough room to sneeze, this street was easily thirty-two yards in width. If it was London she had travelled to, it was a part she had yet to see. Or was it somewhere else entirely?

Where in the world was she?

Turning from the window, she drew back to the door of the room before withdrawing her hand suddenly from the handle, as if were white hot to touch. What was on the other side? The owner of the house? A terrified maidservant ready to notify the Bobbies that there was a trespasser in the house? An angry mob ready to accuse her of being a witch?

Grasping her hair in frustration, the messy strands fell as Helena took a few paces back, bumping into the door of the wardrobe that remained swung wide open.

The left side of the door.

Stumbling into the realisation of what had actually happened, Helena drew her hands to her mouth in disbelief. Instead of going into the right hand side of the wardrobe as she had done each time before, she had unwittingly entered the left side without any thought that it may change her destination. Yet here she was, in a place that was not her home, and in a time that was not her own.

Naturally she could return once again into the left side of the wardrobe and hope to arrive in London once more, but in truth she was terrified of the entity in the wardrobe she had just encountered. Nothing could have enticed her at that moment to go back. There were also questions that riddled her mind. Why had the left door sent her to this place?  

'Out the window.' she muttered, turning back.

Twisting the metal latch and lifting the heavy wooden framed glass as silently as she could, Helena managed to ungraciously struggle through bundles of black skirt to climb out the window. She toppled onto a narrow patch of bushes underneath the window of a basalt stone two story townhouse, one that was enclosed by a wrought iron black gate.

Closing the window once more, she ensured the slightest gap was left open so she could return once more. With a few strange looks thrown towards her by the occasional passer-by, Helena thankfully managed to escape with little attention or concern from the travelling strangers on the street as she hurriedly departed through the gate and stepped out onto the cobblestoned street.

Ambling along she soon felt the eyes of every stranger upon her, with narrowed beaded glares, curious to down-right judgemental, running up and down her attire. Perhaps it was just her fear and paranoia, perhaps no one cared one jot about the woman. It mattered not, she needed to escape.

Finding the first place to surrender to, Helena turned hastily from the active street into a quiescent narrow lane, one that resided between two large grey stone buildings that towered up at least four stories high on either side. An ashen slender cobblestone alley; dark, dingy and somewhat isolated apart from a few chairs and tables scattered outside, and a few lit lanterns swung from posts. Further down the lane there was an open wooden door leading into the right side of the building, with a red wooden sign swinging overhead; Squire Lane Coffee House.

Spotting a discarded newspaper lying on one of the tables nearby, Helena desperately lunged for it.

The Argus, Melbourne Edition.

Friday, February 12th 1869.

Cocking her head in confusion as she beheld the date, Helena finally prised her eyes off the paper to look around the lane and back to the busy street. Was this indeed 1869?

'Twenty-five years in the future.' she muttered under her breath 'By the devil, where or what is Melbourne?'

'I would not waste your time in reading that.' called out a male voice from a table further down, one that was leaning against the left side of the narrow alleyway, partially concealed in the shadows. 'Always the same stories, just different days. Oh naturally the riffraff pour over it with unbridled enthusiasm, kindled by the coffee that they misconstrue as some newfound ability to make them philosophers of the world. They all gather round and have the audacity to debate political affairs as if they were well educated on matters. When in truth their intellect would never be able to comprehend anything more complex than the purchase and sell column on page eight. Yet there they are, fists pounding on tables and beads of sweat pouring down their red faces as they make passionate speeches to a herd of nods and here here's, adamant in the declaration of their beliefs. All of them blissfully unware of the actual truth. That their views of the world; from politics, economics, legislation, finance, science, and religion, are merely fed to them through the biased opinions of the men who actually write that garb.'

Startled, Helena spun around to meet a pair of smiling dark eyes looking at her from a distance. A man of forty or maybe less, of medium build and stately dressed in an unbuttoned black waistcoat, revealing a crisp white cotton long sleeved shirt covered by a black button up vest. A fine black silken cravat wrapped around his graceful neck; it was apparent he was a gentleman of some distinction. He wore black woollen trousers and perfectly polished black shoes, and held an elegant demeanour that was just as striking. His black hair fell long and pulled back, neatly drawn into a ponytail to reveal his handsome face, of skin deathly white, contrasting his dark elegant eyebrows and pair of almond shaped eyes that were blacker than midnight itself. With a well-defined jaw and an intense stare, the austere attributes of his features were outweighed by the constant smirk on his lips, ever playful in nature.

Resting back in his chair at ease, glass of wine casually held in one hand and a pipe in the other, the man threw a silent nod to Helena. He looked upon her with a small curl on his lips as he continued to enjoy his pipe, the scent of sweet tobacco lingering across in a plume of smoke.

'Why are all the stories the same?' she asked breathlessly, heart pounding as she shakily sat down at the table, trying to comprehend her recent arrival into the future.

The man shrugged 'Apparently life never changes much. Inebriation and violence flood Collins Street both night and day, a bout of typhoid has spread in the east end of Melbourne, a man got bitten by a pig in Bourke Street, and whispers of gold. Always the same story. Some pair apparently found a grand old nugget in Moliagul this time. The Welcome Stranger.'. The man flashed a smile towards Helena, friendly but also mischievous, as if he was privy to something she was not. 'Surely you must have heard of it?'

'Begging your pardon, I have only recently come to these parts.' replied Helena hastily, revealing a nervous titter as she looked around the alley with a frown. 'Where exactly is…Moliagul?'

'Oh I dare say some insignificant place north of Melbourne, in Victoria somewhere.' replied the man nonchalantly 'It is always up north in some small shanty town that no one would ever care frequent lest there be a chance of prospect. Always the same topic and it tires my mind. A conversation that never stops, in endless chatter of the glittering promise of fortune. In their exuberance, the people leave in spades only to return, forlorn, a few months later. The never-ending desperate stampede of false hope; of stumbling across one’s fortune knee deep in a muddy creek. Getting your hands dirty seems the only way to entail great riches these days.'. The man laughed, tapping his wine glass so it sounded a clear ting into the evening. 'I suppose some things never change.'

Helena remained quite as a mouse. Apparently she was in some strange place called Melbourne, in the county of Victoria? But where was that? Ireland? Wales? A new part of England she had yet heard of? The man sounded British, so surely she had not strayed into a complete foreign part of the world. The place looked unlike what Evans had described of countries such as India, Japan and Egypt. There were no monkeys or elephants walking the streets, or the smell of spices in the air, nor mountainous terrain that continued as far as the eye could see.

'Would you allow me the pleasure of buying you a refreshment?' inquired the man pleasantly.

Helena nodded without looking up, half distracted as she scoured the paper 'Thank you, a tea.'

With a sharp click of his fingers, the stranger drew the attention of a waiter standing by the door of the coffee house. Muttering the order to him under his breath, the waiter quickly descended back through the door in the alleyway.

Turning page over page, Helena's eyes searched frantically up and down each column to find some clue as to where she was. Finally, she turned over to the Amusements Section, and there it was:

THEATRE ROYAL

To-Night, at 7:45

FIRST TIME IN AUSTRALIA

F.L. Robertson's

Royal Comic Opera Theatre

Is a Musical Play with a Plot

"The Lucky Piper"

For some unexplained reason, Helena had been transported to 1869 in Melbourne, Australia.

Several minutes passed as Helena stared blankly at the paper, her eyes looking at the words rather than actually reading them, a blur of advertisements and columns that muddled together into an inky storm as she tried to fathom the situation. Yet how could anyone make sense of something that was unfathomable to begin with?

The hairs of her neck prickled and Helena could feel the eyes of the stranger watching her intensely, his black eyes inquisitively examining her before being interrupted as the waiter returned with a small cup of coffee.

Placing the steaming brew before Helena, the waiter turned to leave once more.

'The lady ordered a tea, not a coffee.' observed the stranger, throwing an unimpressed look at the waiter 'Working in a coffee house, I would have thought one would have known the subtle difference.'

Fearfully the waiter looked towards the man. 'I-I-am am so sorry.' the young man stammered. The waiter looked almost terrified of the stranger as he shifted uneasily back towards the coffee.

'No really, 'tis fine. Thank you.' replied Helena quickly, throwing a reassuring smile at the waiter.

She nodded again at the worried waiter, who threw a somewhat panicked look at the man sitting at the table before scurrying back into the Squire Lane Coffee House.

The alley was dark where Helena sat that evening, black coffee in hand and a warm wind scattering dust and leaf into the void of shadows. It was a balmy summers eve in Old Melbourne Town, and never had she felt such a warm temperature in all her life. As if the coldness of her former days melted with the heat, she wanted to fade blissfully away into the night. To forget about her life in this one small experience. If she was not in Fife, then she would remain here in Melbourne. Evans would be fearful of her disappearance, and she felt more than a little guilty, not wanting to worry the man. However all Helena wanted was some time away from London. A place far from the gloomy shop Le Cabinet des Curiosities, filled with the musty scent of books, wooden furniture and collected dust. Nothing mattered to her anymore and all she wanted to do was to escape into the hidden laneways of respite.

‘Your coffee is going cold.’ the man observed politely, looking towards the cup sitting on her table.

The blue breeze of twilight wrapped around Helena's shoulders, caressing her, and she revelled in the tranquillity as her eyes closed, embracing the moment.

'Cold, warm, it all tastes bitterly the same to me.' murmured Helena, adding somewhat bitterly to herself 'As does life, at times.'

The man chuckled, running his fingers around the brim of his wine glass, round and round. Black lashe and eyes, he gazed deeply into the crimson depths of his cup, only to flash his dignified face once more towards her, this time catching her eye.

Although Helena dared not question this stranger, she could not help wondering who he was. Then again, who was she? Something told her they both entertained dark souls, hiding in the shadows of sombre secret pasts they both wanted to confess but neither would dare. If Helena's head warned her to run, she did not listen to it. For her thoughts were fleeting and she wanted to forget.

‘What is your name, sir?’ Helena inquired, taking a sip of the coffee.

Simply, he responded ‘Craven De’Montmoray.’

His voice ran richly deep with the tongue of a well-educated man, eloquent and well mannered, yet with an underhanded civility that one would find pleasant amongst strangers.

‘Dare I ask your name?’ he asked with a small grin ‘A lady that sits here under a blanket of stars with no escort in sight?’

‘Helena Rose.' she replied bemusedly 'Now what do you suppose of me then? What does idle gossip dictate at this late hour? Surely drinking coffee in the haze of twilight does not suggest I have scarlet intentions?’

‘I hazard a guess that you are eager to while away the hours, under the darkness of this hour and nothing more. Such as myself.’ he observed serenely, looking up to the blue black sky above them ‘When all is quiet in the halls of our mind and the gloomy umbrage of our former years come out to play. To torment us when we would wish it not to be so. The soft tune of the violin will not cease this maddening waltz. But perhaps, just perhaps, on this eve we can foolishly hope to forget.'. Turning his attention back to Helena, he revealed a warm smile 'It is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Mistress Rose.’

Helena shook her head in confusion. This gentleman spoke in riddles and yet something inside her understood with a painfully sharp clarity of what he spoke.

‘Likewise, a pleasure. However, I know not of what you speak.’ Helena replied, producing a curl on the lips of her new acquaintance.

‘Do you not?’ he mused ‘I think that you do.’

‘You know nothing of me, Sir.’ she retorted indignantly. ‘Not any more than I know you, I am certain.’

’Lord.’ he replied sharply ‘Lord Craven De’Montmoray, but between acquaintances I am simply Craven. I tire of titles. I loathe them in fact.’

'A matter of great hardship to be sure, Craven.' remarked Helena sarcastically.

Craven chuckled as he took another sip of wine, never allowing his eyes to leave Helena for a second. 'None of us choose the life we are born into.' he observed 'Should the commoner be pitied more than the noble merely because one holds a title and the other does not? All positions in life are binding in some respect, for better or for worse.'

She felt him studying her, examining her, as if taking every part of her in and waiting for any reaction he could procure. As if eagerly anticipating any word to fall from her lips, whether good or bad.

'One holds a great deal more than just a title.' she scoffed, sweeping back her dishevelled brown hair. 'While the commoner may struggle with money, I am guessing the lord does not.'

'And does money equate to happiness now?' queried Craven with an amused smile 'Should we pity those with a light purse for they will never obtain true felicity?'. Adding with jest 'Those poor doomed sad people. Forget love, friendship, health and the mind's inner peace. Such trifle nonsense is incomparable to the material trappings of a truly ecstatic existence.'

Helena rolled her eyes 'I am guessing you have never spent a day in your life without a meal in yer belly. Never had enough coal for the fire. Gone without candles some nights and made to sit in the dark because there was no money to be spared for more?'. With a raised brow, she held the lord's attention seriously 'Perhaps that is not the true meaning of happiness, aye, but not having those small comforts will render you a great deal less I assure you.'

The lord nodded, pondering the words. 'Indeed you may be right there.'. Turning his black eyes to hers, he smiled. ‘Tell me, Helena, what is your story?’ he inquired curiously ‘A Scottish woman that sits in the shadows of this humble lane, trying to forget the echoes of former days.’

A tittering laugh escaped Helena's lips, released into the air of night. All of the fear within her was fading away as she spoke to Craven and she could not fathom why.

‘Oh my story is long, and much too humdrum.’ she quickly dismissed. ‘We all march the same tedious road of life together, what more can be said?’

‘Is that so?' remarked Craven with a raised brow 'Do you really believe that? As inevitable as we are born alone and die alone, so too do we travel life's journey…alone. Surely you must know only one person can travel each path. That is why we stumble across each other when we do. Our paths crossed this eve, here in this laneway.’

‘'Tis but chance.’ Helena scoffed ‘Believe me, I am well acquainted with the blasted concept of fate. It is merely an excuse to entertain meaning behind ordinary occurrences. I know a man who thinks like you. That a path led him to where he needed to be, for some higher purpose.’

'Did he not find himself where he needed to be?' asked Craven inquisitively.

'Oh aye, he found it well enough.' sighed Helena 'He was adamant it was fate, destiny or other such nonsense. Whatever you wish to call it, 'tis nothing but a name for good luck and bad luck. Or meddlesome third parties.'

‘Of destiny.' murmured the lord, taking in a deep breath 'Preordained fate from a power far greater than anything you or I could comprehend. There is truth behind it, your friend is correct. However, you will think what you will. Do not question it, if it gives you comfort.'

‘Do you imply I am blissfully ignorant?’ the Scotswoman asked in surprise 'I ken the concept of destiny but I think it is more of a romanticism rather than a reality. The meat of poets and bards, who take delight in their melodic illusions and vainly attempt to transform their fantasies into reality.'

Craven looked up suddenly, concern on his face 'No Helena, I only meant I would not wish you pain in trying to convince you otherwise. I would not take away the contentment of your convictions.’. A small tone of sadness came through as he added ‘I would not cause you any more sorrow.’

‘Sorrow? What do you know of my sorrow?’. Helena's brow furrowed as she turned her attention fast on the man, more than a little intrigued by the odd statement.

Craven ran his hand wearily through his black tresses, loosening his tie so his hair fell free and spilt down past his shoulders. Rubbing his shoulders achingly, he sighed heavily.

‘In truth, I can see it in your eyes, for they are like mine.' Craven confessed, rather morbidly 'I know that haunted look all too well. Traumatised by a memory of a time when all was lost. You cannot escape the sorrow that has befallen, that jaded mark is branded on you forever. It changes us, as you well know, constantly plaguing us. When hope is scattered to the wind and the carrack of our heart burns with desire, only for it’s beautiful and terrifying flames to be extinguished in life’s cruel sea of loss.’

His eyelashes fluttered away from Helena's gaze that held fast, distracted by his own painful recollections, only to return stronger in its intensity. ‘I saw the face of death once and it was the most horrific and beautiful vision I ever beheld.’ he confessed ‘It was at that moment that I discovered a most foul and unpleasant reality. To stumble upon the horrific fact that to live is to reside in both heaven and hell, where the pieces of both crumble upon us like decaying shards of stone. Our bodies are our prisons, as are our lives. For both keep us shackled. We fear death, but in all honesty we should fear life. That is where the lessons are learnt, and that is where God and the Devil do reside. Not in the afterlife as many foolishly believe, oh no…we are sorely mistaken on that note. Alone in the crepuscule of this knowledge, I now dwell. Hiding from what I cannot forget and, for all I know, do not want to forget.'

'If you find a way to forget you must let me know.' murmured Helena. Looking up towards Craven, she added sadly 'I…I lost my family a while ago. I understand the concept of feeling like we are living in hell.'

The lord nodded reverently, as if he understood all too well. 'I too lost my wife and my daughter, once upon a time. It has been many years now since we departed but their memory never fades. While the clock can fade many things, time does not seem to diminish that unfortunately.'

'I lost my two children and every day it hurts more.' confessed Helena miserably 'My husband is dead too, but that is no concern of mine.'

'I am sorry for your loss.' remarked Craven softly 'For all that happens in life, I confess I search for a reason. To understand what the greatest of kings to the merest of peasants have been alluded to since the dawn of time. As the ticking of the clock never stops, I should draw closer to my inevitable death yet I will it away. I will not leave here until I am at the zenith of my knowledge of every last secret. When life’s final breath leaves my lips, perhaps then I will have learnt it all, only for it to be all for none. Then perhaps the fates will have their final laugh and let me have my peace. My flesh will decay into the fertile soil, and I will be no more. It matters not, my soul will be more the wiser for it.’

With a cold and almost ruthless stare that haunted Helena Rose forever, the lord remained silent as he looked at her. Many years could have well gone by as they held each other’s gaze, for time and reality ceased to exist while Craven's words echoed in their minds.

Suddenly Craven smiled, his left eyebrow raised ‘I think you know of what I speak.’

Helena sighed, shaking her head 'You claim to seek knowledge, but I ken you are only seeking power like every other man on this earth.'

'Yes and no.' remarked Craven 'Power in the physical sense of the mere mortal, of wealth and position, can be taken away and therefore can be of no genuine value. Knowledge, now that is something that cannot be stolen, taken, squandered or lost. It is the key to all power. The very throne of the gods.'

'Gods?' remarked Helena 'Did you not just say you believed in God and the Devil.'

'I said they remain here in this life, immortal but bound to the mortal life.' muttered Craven 'There is more beyond the veil that you cannot possibly fathom.'