T h e A e t h e r C h r o n i c l eT h e I m a g i n a r y A l t e r n a t e H i s t o r y o f t h e St e a m p u n k E m p i r e Fr o m S u n d a y J u l y 1 3 , 2 0 1 4 t o S u n d a y J u l y 2 7 , 2 0 1 4

The NighT CirCus Arrives iN LoNdoN!

On July 9th the Constabulary was notified that a group of “Gypsies” had crossed the Bridge of London, with covered camp wagons drawn by coal-black horses. There were further reports of a din coming from Picadilly Square, as couples emerging from the theatre or partaking in an evening stroll saw scaffolding slowly crawling towards the sky, black and white swaths of silk draping the cobblestones, and a virtual small city of torches and tents. All onlookers were turned away. When Scotland Yard appeared on the scene, a wide gate had been erected around the square, with regular signs posted: “The Night Circus — Open from Midnight to Dawn.” Well, readers, the word spread like wildfire: The Night Circus has come to London! That International phenomenon, a circus designed to rival all wonders of the world, so thrilling and shrouded in mystery that it only opens at midnight, and is completely shut down before the first light of dawn. Folks from all over the world have stumbled out of those circus tents babbling about magic, death-defying feats, and other impossibilities. Women have been led out the gates weeping at the beauty and majesty within. Children are inevitably asleep and being carried home at dawn, stuffed so full of sweets and having experienced such wonders that they remember that night forever, like some wondrous dream.

Needless to say, readers, this reporter obtained a ticket at once, and was among the first standing in line when the wrought iron gates swung inward, allowing the first visitors to enter. There were tiny lanterns twined in the branches of a large tree, which had certainly not been in the middle of Picadilly the night before. A white sign read: The Wishing Tree. Visitors to the circus from all over the world lit the tiny lanterns and made a secret wish. Many claimed they had heard that once a wish is made on The Wishing Tree, it is certain to come true.

While other circuses are a riot of bright colours, the theme of The Night Circus, or rather Le Cirque des Rêves is entirely black and white, lending the experience an Otherworldly sensation. The eerie notes of a harmonium began to tremble through the air, wonky and disjointed, but curiously melodic. Ducking into the first tent, visitors beheld a circle of chairs around a small dais. A single spotlight revealed a tiny woman of the Orient, dressed in swaths of sheer black silk held fast by a neat corset. She introduced herself as Tsukiko. She bowed deferentially to the audience, before swinging her leg up so her shoe rested on top of her head! Then she bowed in the opposite direction, so her chopsticks touched her heels, and popped both shoulders out of her joints, so the audience gasped at the horror of seeing the spinning gears that operated her arms! She was a contortionist, but one of the most unique variety: a Bionic woman, whose flexibility does not tend either forward or backwards, but both due to her mechanical spine. She had the fluidity and grace of a dancer, yet the marvellous mechanical advancements of a master Engineer! The audience gasped with awe as her head rose off her shoulders, suspended by wires and steel rods, before the tent erupted into applause. This reporter needed to recover from the strangeness of the first act, and a glass of refreshing white wine and black popcorn fortified the body enough for the next tent.

The Fire Eater was rumoured to have once been a coal man on a train, before an explosion in the Tender rendered him a human firebox, ostensibly having had his larynx replaced with boiler tubes, in an effort to control the combustible gases roiling around in his belly. The slightest cinder and the Fire Eater’s cast-iron jaw dislocated to emit a plume of white-hot fire, while steam poured out of his ears!

The Air Dancers were women with wheels and axles for hands and feet, all connected by black ribbons. Together these women manipulated a complex interconnected web that allowed them to weave and dance together, suspended hundreds of feet above a cowering audience.

The Cloud Maze was an unrivalled feat, the mechanics and plausibility of which is still hotly debated. The sign before the tent simply read: Ascend to the Heavens; Have no Fear of Falling. Inside the tent viewers were met by an unknown number of platforms, ramps, ropes, and nets all stacked atop one another in a seemingly endless scaffold (it could not be called a “tower” simply because there were no walls or ceiling to speak of.) Across each dark platform a thick and hazy vapour condensed at the knee, cool but not unpleasant. The vapour continued to swirl and expand, until family members were reaching out for fear of losing one another off the edge of the platforms. Visitors begin to climb, surrounded by this enchanting mist, with nothing but the night sky flecked with stars to guide them. This alone would have been a wonder, but, dear readers, the platforms also moved. Not with lurching, terrifying

shudders, but peacefully drifting apart and then reconvening long enough for a bold soul to leap from one platform to another, then climb a rope, or a net, or perhaps grab hold of a platform that was rising gracefully to the very top! Many climbers insisted that this was merely a brilliant feat of engineering (merely!) and not “magic” or even “slight of hand.” The counterpoint to this argument was always “then when we leap off to return to the ground, how do we land on something soft!?” Several hypotheses suggested that perhaps the clouds were noxious gases, which allowed one to believe they had drifted to the ground, as light as swansdown, to land on the grass below without so much as a jolt.

The Tent of Lost Souls was full of mirrors, which always showed the viewer a loved one that had been taken by Death. The Fortune Teller was blind, insofar as she had two glittering orbs inserted in vacant sockets, held fast by a set of brass goggles, and she could read your future because her mechanical saw past the flesh and into your Soul.

Inside every tent were wonders upon wonders that the logical mind insisted could not be real, they must be tricks of some sort, costumes and craft, smoke and mirrors. But this protestation died when this reporter passed a sign that read: Feats of Illustrious Illusion. The sight of a pretty but distinctly unremarkable brunette woman with fair skin came almost as a relief to the overwrought senses. Miss Celia Bowen was garbed in a gown of bright white silk, so she shone like a flame in the dark. She operated no props, she pulled no strings, there were no cheap puffs of smoke. The illusions and transformations were fluid and continuous, as spontaneous as a passing whim. Miss Bowen’s black cloak turned into a raven, which alighted upon a young boy’s chair, cawing. With a turn of her palm sprang white doves, who then appeared in viewer’s purses, or under their top hats. Miss Bowen changed a man’s pocket watch from gold to sand, and then back again. With a gesture all of the viewers chairs rose several inches off the ground! Miss Bowen concluded her marvels with bow on a pivoting turn, included all of the seated audience. The dais on which she stood had two words engraved upon it, almost concealed by her trailing gown: In Memoriam. But to whom this reporter could not say.

As the night sky gradually paled to indigo, warning the rêveurs that dawn was not far, the iron gates sprang to life, slowly closing behind the last visitors. Dear readers, this reporter swears that all that has been written here is the truth. The Night Circus is the paramount in modern marvels, a fantasy of eerie enchantment and passing dreams, and this reporter will not rest until more is known!

The Night Circus

The following stories are based on the book “The Night Circus” by Erin Morgenstern. Certain details have been altered to avoid copyright infringement. The content of The Night Circus, up to and including direct quotes, belongs exclusively to the author.

dumbfounded that Miss Bowen could design, and much more, execute such a wonder!

Miss Bowen seemed curiously unfettered as this reporter gazed at her in wonder; she seemed eager to unburden herself, although why she should do so to a reporter was curious. “My father trained me since I was six years old to take part in an unrivalled challenge the likes of which this world has never known.” Then Miss Bowen wove a tale that was so unbelievable and yet utterly beguiling this reporter wondered if perhaps Miss Bowen had taken leave of her senses somewhere on the boat ride between Germany and England.

Apparently, sprinkled amongst the magicians and charlatans who frequent the international stages as “magic-wielders” are only tolerated due to the fact that the real practitioners of the Craft conceal themselves so neatly amongst them. Among these true Magicians, there are two rivals, both old, both uncompromising. One was once student to the other; their relationship was fractious and fatal to bystanders.

The Student proposed a game: something to entertain them in this boring world of charlatans. Prime among their quarrels was the only proper way to train a student. How to hone a living creature into a vessel of pure magic, as vicious and merciless as a particle blade. The Teacher had always trained students by totally isolating them aboard an air ship that toured the globe, coupled with limitless access to arcane tomes of power. A consistent, tireless study tempered and empowered a certain type of mind. The Student, who had long ago begun to be a teacher, claimed natural aptitude coupled with constant, brutal physical training turned instinct into unparalleled power. Ultimately, this was what turned the game into a matter of sheer survival.

The two rivals chose their students. The “chess pieces” as you would, and the Teacher was given the honour of the first move. No direct interference was the only rule. The game was limitless and was held to no particular schedule. A ruling would be made; and only one student would survive. “My father was the Student to the Master; and I his student, before he passed.” Miss Bowen cradled her teacup in her hands. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” “Oh, he’s not lost.” A note of ire crept into her voice. “He did not die, as the newspapers reported. One of his tricks did not go entirely as planned. He visits me occasionally, most often to berate me for my performance here.”“You don’t mean in The Circus, do you?” She shook her head bemusedly. “You are one of the chess pieces!!??” “Yes. The Circus is the forum for our contest. With each new act the stake is set higher.” Dear readers, this reporter was appalled! Her story was something out of myth, a malicious, conniving game between Gods! Surely it had no place in a modern world of science! “Do you have any idea who your opponent is?” Miss Bowen shook her head. “That’s just rubbish! How can such a game be scored? How can a circus serve as an arena for such an event?” Miss Bowen set her teacup down thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should show you.” She led the way down the darkened pathways where circus vendors sold refreshments and oddities. The tent she entered was entitled Ice Garden. Readers, this reporter was unprepared for what came next.

exposé: Miss CeLiA BoweN, The iLLusioNisT

Of all the miraculous tents at The Night Circus, this reporter found the Illusionist’s tent the most compelling. Returning a second night, and then a third, finally attracted the attention of the esteemed conjurer Miss Celia Bowen herself! This reporter could not decline the lady’s polite invitation to her private tent, in between her midnight and two o’clock a.m. performances. Well, dear readers, whatever preconceptions this reporter might have had with regards to “behind the stage” of The Night Circus were neatly and entirely overturned!

No quiet camp-bedrooms these, Miss Bowen opened a tent-flap to her private quarters to reveal a fire burning merrily upon nothing at all! The flames were suspended in midair, so this reporter investigated by waving a hand beneath the crackling coals. Miss Bowen laughed at such incredulity, considering all The Night Circus had to offer. The room itself was draped in costly velvets in dark crimson and evergreen. The furniture was old, slightly battered, but eminently comfortable. A tea service sat at the ready on a side table. But the real marvel were the books. So many books! All tucked neatly into their respective shelves—which were levitated up to the ceiling! This reporter stood agog, while survival instincts clamoured in the back of one’s mind, insisting that gravity would assert itself at any moment, bringing the furniture crashing down upon one’s head! The books were within arm’s reach, so this reporter selected one. It loosed itself easily and fell obligingly into the hand, without seeming to be damaged from a suspension of The Laws of Physics as we understand them.

“My father was Prospero the Enchanter.” Miss Bowen began without preamble. The name Prospero the Enchanter still elicited gasps from awaiting crowds. This reporter sat (rather, knees gave way) as a small model carousel sitting on the sideboard suddenly flared to life. The model was made according to The Night Circus’s theme of black and white, the animals guiding around the circle by black ribbons. But such animals! This reporter beheld griffins, wyverns, unicorns and harpies. But something was amiss, because the animals did not seem anchored to one spot aboard the carousel: they jostled one another, weaving in and out around their competitors. This reporter gave a start when a gryphon turned its head and winked! “That is something I am working on,” Miss Bowen explained, when she saw my attention was distracted. “When it is complete it will be much larger of course, and it will not simply go round and round.” This reporter was

Stepping into the garden, there were no visible walls; the striped tent had vanished. Everything, from the glimmering blades of grass, to the delicately veined leaves on the trembling trees, to the roses carefully tended along the garden paths, was created entirely out of ice! The air was something out of a dream from childhood: crisp and sharp and holding the promise of sledding and snow ball fights. Snow flakes gently twisted in the air. This reporter selected a rose blossom from a nearby bush, perfectly sculpted as if from glass, and plucked it from its stem. The blossom shattered, the ice crystals falling down into the ivory blades of grass below. A new blossom had already taken its place on the stem.“This was my opponent’s most recent move. It is a Masterpiece.” Miss Bowen looked enraptured, her cheeks flushed pink at this genius. “I cannot imagine the power and skill it would take to construct, much less maintain, such a wonder.” Remembering the inevitable outcome of this little “game”, this reporter inquired,“Can you counter such a move?” She sighed, a wealth of emotions in that single exhalation. Her breath plumed before her, the ice crystals catching the light.“Yes, I can. Ultimately, this is a test of endurance, not of skill. If you had ever met my father, you would understand.” Reaching over, she twisted her wrist right around, so that her bionic hand popped out of its socket. “One of my first lessons from the famed Enchanter was when he stabbed my hand right through into the table below. I couldn’t repair the injury, so he had my hand lopped off and replaced. Many of my joints are not my own, after a lifetime of his training. He despised weakness.” This reporter felt slightly nauseated at this matter-of-fact explanation. This reporter considered her comment that the game was all about endurance, and not a test of skill. “But you said this was a Masterpiece?” “Oh, it is. My opponent is not of my father’s mind.”“Do you know who it is? A fellow performer perhaps?” For the first time, Miss Bowen appeared doubtful. “I don’t believe so. Someone connected with The Circus, but not here. I would sense him if he was here.” “Him?” “Oh, we are slowly coming to know one another. So much of our souls go into these enchantments, it would be impossible not to sense a little of the creator’s personality. What began as a simple showcase has become—more. Each manoeuvre is more startlingly beautiful, and with each move we both bring ourselves a little closer to revealing our identities. I believe one day soon we will meet; this can’t continue forever.”“But what will become of The Night Circus once the Game is ended?” Miss Bowen had no answer.

The content of this edition’s featured stories is based on the book “The Night Circus” by Erin Morgenstern. Certain

details have been altered to avoid copyright infringement.

The content of The Night Circus, up to and including direct quotes, belongs exclusively

to the author, and the above stories have been co-opted as an homage to a truly magical

and engaging book, #1 National Best Seller, which the editor

Leslie Orton recommends to all Steampunk readers!

According to Miss Celia Bowen, Illusionist, The Night Circus arrives

without warning...

The Aether ReviewOf Books

hapter 2

Lady Evelyn, a tall, slender woman with rich, dark hair, hurried down the grand hallway of Weatherby Manor. Her long, blue dress flew

behind her like a sparrow’s tail as she ran. As her butler opened the enormous door, in stepped Dudley Foxe—a handsome chap, tallish, with neatly combed chestnut hair, thick-lensed spectacles, and a well-groomed moustache. His dress was simple; a brown suit and smart blue ascot. He carried a simple lion’s-head cane, and a collection of brilliantly colored flowers. Dudley bowed low before handing his love bouquet. “Beautiful flowers for an even more beautiful woman,” he remarked, “How are you this morning, my dear?” Evie took the flowers and breathed deeply, trying to ignore the dirty stems from where the bouquet had been torn from her garden. “Divine, darling,” She glanced about surreptitiously for a place to drop the flowers, but no such place presenting itself, she smiled sickly at him. He proffered an arm, she took it, and they walked down the corridor together. “I understand you’re working on something for General Gallante. Some new weapon?” Evie asked, her dark eyes wide with interest. “I find your work so fascinating!” Dudley harrumphed in the most genteel way he could and straightened his spectacles. “Indeed? He doesn’t find it so. That new vehicle in the paper? The ‘War Machine?’” “That’s yours?” Lady Weatherby gasped, a tiny, squeaky sound that never failed to appeal to Dudley. “Oh, yes. He told me what he wanted it to do, and I made it for him. And do you know what he’s paying me for it? Two hundred drakes. And before you tell me what a whopping amount that is, it’s only double my normal commission; he promised me twelve hundred. Still, it’s enough to keep me in tea for a while.” “Speaking of tea, I had Charles brew us a pot. Have a seat!” They had come to a pleasant tea table at the end of the main hall of Weatherby Manor. Two wicker chairs, a tiny glass table, and a tray with a single porcelain pot and two dainty cups and saucers. The tea had already reached Dudley’s nose, and the moustache, which he had grown to filter out strong smells, did nothing to stop it. The sumptuous scent was blended with a hint of… “Peppermint?” “Yes.” Evie handed the bouquet, dirty stems and all, to her butler Charles. The aged, balding fellow took them reverently and carried them off with the care of a newborn—all the way to the dustbin. They seated themselves, and while Evie poured Dudley a cup of the peppermint tea, her poise was only barely disturbed by the sudden

chime of the doorbell. Charles scuttled about the corner in only the way an aged butler can, and Evelyn pardoned herself. “Someone’s at the door; it would be rude of me not to see who it is.” “Perfectly fine,” Dudley replied as he danced in his seat, frantically trying to dry the scalding tea from his trousers. “I’ll wait here, shall I?” “Madame Weatherby, a General Gallante to see you,” Charles yelped from the far end of the hall. Evie’s heart skipped a beat. The General and Dudley on the same day? That wasn’t right. Iggy was supposed to come on Thursday! Dudley’s stomach fluttered. The General was seeing Evie? There was no ending this peacefully, not with the Iron Dragon. The General’s eyes bulged. The upstart engineer was at the far end of the hallway, at the tea table, with a tea cup in hand, sitting in his chair. The impudence of the fellow! Resplendent in his crimson uniform, gleaming with gold medals, both epaulettes quivering in his rage, the war hero strode indignantly down the hall in such ire that not even the boldest Nosiran soldier would have crossed his path. His walnut hair, streaked here and there with white, frizzed in irritation, and his thick, waxed moustache trembled with rage. A single gloved finger extended at Dudley Foxe, he uttered the only words that would come out. “W-w-what’s HE doing here, Evelyn?!” Dudley stood, placing his cup and saucer back on the table. He was barely able to contain the tremble in his voice. “I’ve been seeing her on Tuesdays, General. Certainly that’s still legal.” “Not when I’m seeing her on Thursdays!! Evie, what’s the meaning of this?!” The poor lady’s face had gone quite pale, and both the General and engineer were afraid she’d faint. When she eventually spoke, her words came in half-sobs. “You look so alike…I thought you were the same man! I was certain that the one was disguising himself to look like another…Can you blame me? I couldn’t bear to break the one’s heart, for fear the other would desert me as well!” General Gallante puffed up like a pouter pigeon. “I don’t look anything like this impertinent pup!” Dudley glanced at the soldier. “My nose may eventually be that big, but that’s all I can see.” The General whirled on Dudley. “WHAT did you say?!” He marched up to the engineer, looking him in the eye as he spat his words in the poor man’s face. “I was fighting the Nosirans with my own hands while you were still a schoolboy!” The meek inventor had been pushed far enough. He’d suffer no further humiliation at the hands of this tea-sipping professional paper-pusher. “Perhaps, then, it’s time you retired, old man!” Evie collaps d into her chair. “No,

Ignatius, Dudley, stop fighting! I’ll try to choose…” Her protests unheard, the battle continued. Dudley took firm hold of the General’s nose and twisted as hard as he could. “That’s what I think of your fool War Machine. I’ll dismantle it this afternoon and put the parts to better use. The Leadinghall Primary School had been requesting I expand their latrines.” Ignatius blustered violently before roaring. “I’m twice the man you’ll ever be, Foxe!” “Aye, and it’s all in your nose!!” Having nothing further to say to the ruffian, Gallante removed his gloves and brought them hard against Dudley’s face. Mr. Foxe looked about sheepishly, having no gloves. He glanced at Evie’s momentarily before seizing the General’s and returning his challenge. Evie screamed, and swooned, draping her slender, beautiful form over the wicker chair as both her suitors ignored her. “I’m fairly confident, Foxe,” the General smirked, “That I can conquer you anywhere, at any time, with any weapon. Unless you’d like to think this decision over, you can name the place, time and medium.” “Not necessary, sir. Outside those doors,” Dudley began, pointing petulantly at the grand doors of Weatherby Manor, “Right now. Pistols. Agreed?” The General leaned in a little further, so that their noses were almost touching. “Agreed.”-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Evie awoke with a start. Charles’ gravity-stretched features hung over her as he fanned her with her own hand fan. Snatching it from his hand, she leapt to her feet. “Where are they?” “Milady, perhaps you should lie down. You’ve had a nasty shock—” “Where are they, Charles?” “The front walk. They’ve armed themselves with your father’s duelling pistols and they’ll have at it—just about now, actually,” he said, glancing at his pocket watch. “How dare you be so calm and collected about it?!” “Pardon my saying so, madame, but trying to balance two courtships isn’t the best way to handle one’s romantic life. This way, the problem solves itself without your having to choose a…man….” Charles didn’t bother finishing his sentence; he was alone in the room. Her skirt held higher than perhaps was modest, Evie flew through the halls of her manor. She dashed out onto the balcony overlooking the front walk in time to see the combatants raise their pistols, gleaming cruelly in the midday sun, and with the deafening report of field cannons, fire.

C A Gentleman’s War, By Asher Davian

The Aether ReviewOf Books

ear readers, Asher Davian delights us with the second chapter of his satire entitled “A Gentleman’s War”. The first Chapter left us poised with the

understanding that both Dudley Foxe and General Gallante were courting the mysterious Lady Evelyn Weatherby.

The setting: the conflict between the Monarchy of Albion and the People’s Republic of Nosira over how much jam, in ounces, should be served at tea serves as a catalyst to “The Beastly War” between these two nations.

The premise: Both nations then decide to utilize hot beverages to fuel their weapons of mass destruction. This led to the great Tea Shortage, and coffee being socially relegated as beverage for the poor.

The Characters: Dudley Foxe, a lower class mechanic who has built the latest war machine, who has been relegated to drinking coffee due to the Tea Shortage. General Gallante: a high-ranking military officer who commissioned the war machine that Dudley Foxe built, and is a proponent of tea being relegated to the upper classes. The third: Lady Evelyn Weatherby, a wealthy woman of the upper class who is privileged enough to afford to drink tea. Until this latest instalment, all three characters know (or knew of) one another. However, the first climax to this little satire is the chance encounter of these three dissimilar individuals, who happen to cross paths on Lady Eveleyn’s doorstep. The scene is set for bloodshed, as Dudley Foxe realizes his employer is also trying to court the high ranking Lady Evelyn. General Gallante realizes his direct competition for marriage to a wealthy upper class woman is a mere mechanic in his own employ. Lady Evelyn realizes the game is up, and her attempt to juggle two suitors at the same time is about to end in fatalities.

The author treats this situation of so-called “Courtly” love with derision. This is obviously a situation rampant with social climbers: Dudley Foxe seeks to marry a woman miles above his station. General Gallante seeks to win himself a marvellous trophy wife, who will produce offspring of a high social standing. And Lady Evelyn is obviously utilizing the war

as an excuse to further her own agenda. Two men in prime positions in the war are courting her at the same time. A war is often the making of a man, particularly a genus mechanic who single-handedly built the latest war machine, or a General in a brave position of command. Both prospects are promising, so she decides to see them both, until an unfortunate encounter which caused them to learn of one another. Her excuse for seeing them both is frankly hysterical: ““You look so alike…I thought you were the same man! I was certain that the one was disguising himself to look like another…Can you blame me? I couldn’t bear to break the one’s heart, for fear the other would desert me as well!”

The notion that either man could possibly be mistaken for the other (despite the decades between them) is offensive to both suitors. Thus, in attempting to make the situation better, Lady Evelyn actually makes it worse. The General challenges Dudley Foxe to a duel, which Dudley readily accepts. The location: Lady Evelyn’s doorstep. The Lady faints at the prospect. She awakens to find her butler standing over her, fanning her with his hand.

There is a delightful bit of class warfare taking place here, as the butler informs his Mistress, quite candidly, that “trying to balance two courtships isn’t the best way to handle one’s romantic life. This way, the problem solves itself without your having to choose a…man….” In this brief statement the butler proves himself to be the most candid, the most practical, and, ultimately, the most callous of all of these foolish players, as his words happen to coincide with shots ringing out. Well readers, I’m on the edge of my seat, and whichever of the two suitors happens to survive can comfort himself with this thought: it was all doe for a better seat at table, and a cup of tea!

Should you wish to send a Letter to the Editor, submit your written work, or offer a tip regarding a potential story (eg. political upheaval, crime, special events, art and music) please contact Leslie Orton at: ortonlj@hotmail.com.

D A Gentleman’s War, By Asher Davian

New Author Asher Davian

thenian jails are not pleasant. Just ask Socrates. Come to think of it, Socrates is partly to blame for mine and Alice’s current scenario.Our excursion to the Greek peninsula started off in fine

fashion. Alice and I joined a tour of the Eastern Orthodox monasteries at Meteora on Day 1. Perched high upon the cliffs, they are not the easiest things to reach. Have no fear- the barrage balloons of Rhodes are at your service and for a small fee will transport a quartet at a time of interested site seers across the water to the holy place. The surrounding cliffs that rise from the ground below in chaotic form are covered in verdant green at this time of year and the morning fog lends a mystical aura to what is already a spiritual haven as you traverse its rocky outlet. Descending into its environs took my breath away. The landing is set on a wide, flat stone surface across from the monastery, which can only be accessed via a steep staircase cut into the rock wall itself. It winds around the cliff face in dramatic form, a frightening view for those afraid of heights. You next exit into the main courtyard and are greeted by several of the monks who reside there. The outer grounds are extensive, well kept, and peaceful. There are gardens in the main courtyard and the baritone voices of those singing the Lord’s praises in unison can be heard throughout. The monks begin their day in contemplative prayer, but when that is done they quite leave off their solitary and silent existence in favor of beneficent and enterprising work. For Meteora is the seat of the religious publishing industry for all of Greece, and Alice and I were thrilled to witness the process behind which they are able to create their artistic masterpieces. Deep within the bowels of the monastery of St. Alphonsus lays half a dozen work chambers. One room is filled with men dipping quill into inkwell and scribbling away their most precious thoughts. They are the imagination and the driving force behind the industry, also the illustrators of the novel. The only sound that can be heard there is the furtive scratching atop thin parchment. They tell the stories of the Orthodox gospel and weave color into their descriptives with hand crafted detail throughout. Down a stone hallway (my apologies but have I failed to mention that these buildings were originally erected in the fifteenth century?) is the transcription room. There is much yelling and arguing over what will actually be printed here. I tried to grasp the hierarchy in their group but with my limited command of the Greek language I was hard pressed and our monastic guide was closed mouth regarding that particular end of things.

The most exciting part of the tour was the printing chamber. I have never seen such equipment up close. What a spectacle! There were six of them and the beasts took up a wide acreage. The massive clattering leaves an echo in the ears not easily discarded. They are massive metallic monsters with gears flying, letters lined upside down, right to left order, and the smell of octopus ink is so pervasive it is enough to make one dizzy. It stains the paper a deep violet, with curlicue flourishes and bold letters meant to inspire the devout. The words convey meaning; the designs add emphasis- a regular exclamation point, if you will. Spending the morning at Meteora left Alice with a desire to reconnect with the faith holding side of herself and so when we arrived at the island of Santorini a few days later we spent a fair bit of time hiking about and visiting the diminutive blue topped churches, lighting candles, and speaking with priests. I am not an overly religious person myself, but I did grow up Roman Catholic with my mother, so it was a kind calling to revisit those forms and breathe in the incense once again.We spent five days on the island, site seeing and sunbathing. That, and eating mass quantities of fried squid. There was a great hullabaloo over a discovery made in the waters of the Mediterranean while we were there that made headlines across the country- no doubt around the Continent, I imagine. There exists the legend of an ancient and storied civilization whose land now rests deep under the waters, cast aside in time by Mother Nature’s catastrophic temper. It is the Lost Realm of Atlantis! Marine archaeologists researching the area have stumbled upon a heretofore hidden cave entrance at the sea floor that they believe is a portal to its environs. Alice and I tried every avenue we could think of to insinuate ourselves into the project. Alice called every last professor and scientist from our university days, pestered the Cambridge archaeology department for days, to no avail. I even went down to the shores, clad in my trousers, man’s shirt, and leather belt wrapped tightly around my waist, ready to work, hoping that onsite they might just be thankful for the extra hand. Unfortunately, this adventure my compatriot and I must read about from the sidelines. I will be watching the post gazette for updates. What was meant to be the tail end of our Grecian excursion saw us arriving back to Athens for a discussion on the fate of the Elgin marble statues which was led by Professor Emeritus Pappas Dranopoulos at the University hall. There is heated debate over whether or not the British Museum ought to retain ownership of the pieces taken from the Parthenon earlier this

century. Lord Elgin took possession of the marble statues and remnants with Ottoman permission but it has been decades since the Greeks won their independence and it is felt by many that it is time to reclaim this bit of history for their own. Hundreds were in attendance for the impassioned oratory, which coincided perfectly with our itinerary: the Parthenon was next on our list. Alice and I donned our sturdy boots, grabbed two bumbershoots to block out the afternoon sun, and said hello to the famed monument around two o’clock.This is where the trouble began. We ran into a meeting of the Society of Modern Socratic Intelligentsia. They were camped out in the interior, taking up space as if they owned the place. There were nearly a dozen of them, all men, young, and full of idealism and scorn for those living materialistic lives. Though we clucked our tongues at their rough appearance and equally unrefined banter, Alice and I sought to join the conversion, always eager to examine another’s viewpoint.Due our gender, we were prohibited. We were laughed at, in fact, for our interest in their ideas. This did not sit well with either Alice or myself. Rather than give verbal protest beyond the initial inquisition of WHY NOT? we hotfooted it back to the hotel to remedy the issue. If you cannot change a person’s mind through reason, a little duplicity is sometimes in order to prove a point. Alice and I went back to the Parthenon an hour later incognito as Merle and Joseph, students of philosophy from England, and were willingly accepted into the tribe’s circle of conversation. Their informal treatise on freedom from a life tethered to one’s possessions was compelling and had merit. We sparred back and forth with the ruffians for the better part of two hours, our offensive gender undetected. Just as we were about to lift away the veil of mystery, the authorities showed up. Apparently the group had been making a nuisance of themselves all week and when they failed to ingratiate themselves to the police over the issue everyone present was arrested on the spot. Alice and I have spent the last twelve hours in custody with the rest of the Socratic Intelligentsia (essentially, overnight). The smell is awful. The manners of our cellmates are reprehensible. We dare not reveal our true identities, for fear of escalating the problem. They can’t keep us forever, for we have only committed the transgression of being annoying. I have penned my article, sealed it, and sent it out via a sympathetic guardsman. I promise to bring you more soon….The good, the bad, and the ugly right?

TravelGreece, By Amelia Owen Kibbey

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