Jordan Sheppard Glimpses

[Sherrinford]

Jordan didn't send e-mails home to his family. For someone you love, you make better efforts. He pulled out his fountain pen and a box of creamy stationery from an upper shelf. He sat down at the cherrywood desk.

He had set the desk against the large window in the living room. Jordan had lucked out and found good lodgings in the Elmhurst area of Sacramento, on T Street. It was within walking distance of a small park and, more importantly, within short delivery distance of Mike's Pizza and Subs.

Dear Mom and Dad:

Everything was delivered to my new place, and I'm now more or less settled in. Dad...don't worry about the money. The finder's fee I got from the manuscript with the scandal-riddled marginalia made me enough to spend and lend for months, with care. And the Archdiocese of Chicago is bidding on that first-edition Chesterton.

I know you wanted me to keep the agency going, dad. But after talking to Enid and some of my other counsellors from school, I think that I am where I belong, at least for now. One of the local museums should give me some guidance in moving onward careerwise. It is a place where I can learn to hone some of the skills I developed working with dad, too.

And no, mom, no girlfriend prospects at this point...give me a break, I've only been here for a little while!

Your last letter suggested I wasn't clear about why I've changed my name. Like some of the folks in the 60s, I need to establish my own identity, and a change of name makes sense. I'm not rejecting family history; just redirecting it a bit. Anyway, I think the name sounds....sonorous.

I'll fly down for Thanksgiving; don't sit me next to Aunt Betty. She makes off-color comments on my chilling lack of love life, and I don't have the energy.

Best to everybody.

Love,

[Sherrinford]

[Takes place after the Three Hour Tour]

"An unsupportable day." thought Jordan as he walked into his apartment, and closed the door a little louder than perhaps strictly necessary. No messages on the answering machine...no surprise there. The young man sat down and opened his laptop.

Jordan kept a journal, double encrypted and located on a removable CD-R. After each entry, he did a seven fold overwrite just like the NSA did so no one could read an entry in some odd partition of the disk.

He wrote:

I may have made a significant mistake in coming to Sacramento from the warm comfortable cocoon of Los Angeles. Both my trips to the museum were either dismissive or laced with unnecessary conflict or, by heavens, both. I think about the balances involved.

On my original trip, I encountered a cordial greeting from Ruby, the politeness of Deacon Eclipse, and a generally indifferent reaction from the head of my Order. But the lady who offered the cordial greeting ripped the ears off another newcomer who had spent years wandering and was ignorant of the etiquette of the place. In point of fact, it does not take Holmesian deduction to posit that my fellow newcomer was used to acting automatically for survival and safety. And the head of the Order erupted with cold, cold lava...and exposed a true name, for Pete's sake.

To be perfectly fair, the head of the Order and I left each other on OK terms. And Ruby arranged a museum tour for me, when she was under no obligation to do so. But I was able to see first hand on that tour the way senior Concilium treated other Awakened. Shameful in the extreme. A significant overreaction to what, in my mind, was a minor mistake, complicated by inadequate instruction from a superior.

I know that mages, by their very nature, are not social animals. In that, time has not changed from the days of Atlantis. Tempora non mutantur. We can be dogmatic and opinionated. The Concilium mages for time immemorial have born tremendous responsibility as well. Such things can fray nerves and dampen good humor. But to encounter no good humor to speak of! No understanding, no evident sympathy, no demonstrated empathy. Brr.

Acanthus are very much taken up with the power of words. Not only to commit an Oath, but the ability of words to sooth, to encourage, to succor. Maybe I am just seeing words misused and it bothers me. But I have only been Awakened for two years or so, and have much to learn and experience.

But one thing is certain...I could never work in that environment long term. If that makes me a solitary, so be it. It is sad.

[Sherrinford]

Practice, practice, practice.Jordan's first mentor was insistent on the point. But even after two years of practice, his grip of spellcasting had a lot to be desired. Perhaps it was still remnants of the Lie that separated Sleepers from Awakened. Perhaps it was his reliance on his own ingenuity rather than making a wholehearted commitment to being the mage he was.

Young Jordan was in his spare bedroom, that he had outfitted for arcane workings...lots of open space, a chair, side table and lamp, a low bookshelf with tomes that he had acquired over the period of his Awakening. He hadn't found a new mentor yet; perhaps the solitary nature of being a mage meant that he would proceed at his own rate. A snail's pace, he thought to himself.

The mage emergant needed a little light meditation to pull his discordant thoughts together. He set down in his chair, and took up one of his old manuscripts. But the words started to run together in his sight as fatigue mixed with his will to do better, and he drifted into a dreamlike state.

He was dressed in a martial arts gi, which was odd since Jordan had only taken the basics of self-defense. The pain that he felt at the end of his spine was a token of the older sensei type with him in the undefined chamber.

His dream-teacher spoke. "You think like a pregnant yak. You are preoccupied with your limitations. Now, what is limitation? Limitation is our separation from our Source. What is limitation? Limitation is our conscious acceptance of the non-essential as our very own. What is limitation? Limitation is your failure to integrate the reality of your magical ability with the unreality of what you call a "real world." Limitation, worst of all, is the yawning gulf between your being Awake and Awakened will. Come here and break the board!"

Jordan felt that he had tried this exercise before. But the dream-master had made it clear that to move forward, he must accumulate more Awakened will. He stood before the board and took a deep cleansing breath.

Then he realized: ...it isn't a matter of making it happen. I have to let it happen!"

His hand swept, the board shattered, and he found himself out of the insubstantial fabric of the dream. And Jordan's better-honed awareness felt it...the Lie had reduced it's grip, and he had taken a step forward in Awakened will. He would try that spell again.

[Sherrinford]

It gnawed at Jordan all night and half the day. The resistance that the books gave to that dating spell really urked the young Acanthus and he had been practicing all morning...starting at midnight. The exercise was repeated every morning for two weeks.

Jordan had sort of fallen into the business of being a documents expert and rare book broker. He had really thought that he would end up taking over his father's detective agency when he retired. But on that case, so long ago, he had met a questioned documents expert and life changed.

Andrew McNair could only be convicted of theft if the manuscript scrap of Boccacio's Decameron was genuine. Jordan had taken the scrap of the larger manuscript to Able Goldman, who made a living consulting with the police on all manner of questioned documents.

They had spent all afternoon on the scrap, doing chemical tests on the ink scraped from the sample, doing a watermark sampling test with light, infrared, and photograde film, and test for the acidity of the paper. The big question was whether to go to the University and pay the whopping fee to use the electron microscope that could finalize whether the paper and inks were old enough to belong to the old Italian.

Goldman had dumped it in Jordan's lamp...he and his dad were the clients after all. Jordan took the scrap and asked for a moment in private to think. The documents guy looked at him a little askance, but agreed. When he was out of sight, Jordan repeated a couple of words of the High Speech Enid had taught him, along with the imagio for precise dating. There was a surge, and he knew the date. But his knowing wasn't evidence. He called Goldman back and agreed to the test. Jordan knew how the test would come out. That first visit to Goldman was the first of many as his fascination with the documents grew. He had a solid understanding of the science now, and he came to Sacramento with great skill.

He had used that spell on occasion, and up until Ryan's books, there was no problem. So Jordan practiced and refined, practiced and refined until the spell, became very much his own. Now it took less effort...like dad always said, it only took a coat of polish to make any effort shine.

[Sherrinford]

e·piph·a·ny (-pf-n)
n. pl. e·piph·a·nies
1. Epiphany
a. A Christian feast celebrating the manifestation of the divine nature of Jesus to the Gentiles as represented by the Magi.
b. January 6, on which this feast is traditionally observed.
2. A revelatory manifestation of a divine being.
3.
a. A sudden manifestation of the essence or meaning of something.
b. A comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization:

Jordan looked up from the dictionary. Yes, this word fit as well as any and better than most, especially 3b.

The young Acanthus had spent years working with the magics of Time and Fate, but there had always been such an artificial feel to it. Yes, he had been growing in Awakened will, but the will seemed to overshadow the reality.

But earlier that day, Jordan had been reading a rather imaginative work of fiction where the protagonist said to a loved one: "Magic is real, and I can do it."

That silly phrase rang in Jordan's head like a bell. It rang and rang until the very vibration of it's simplicity shattered the artificiality of magic that blocked Jordan from a greater level of Awakened will.

Magic is real, and I can do it. I can bend Time to my will...really. I can influence Fate...really. I can detect things concerning Life...really. I can recombine, aid, focus...so much more. Magic is an essence, part of who and what I am. It is not a gift...no more than my arms and legs are gifts.

Magic is real, and I can do it. Christ, where have I been. Why didn't I know?

[Sherrinford]

The sky was overcast today. Clouds promised rain but would betray the state again as the sun beat its merciless rays on the moisture. Later it would be sunny. But right now, the sky was as grey as Jordan's mood.

From his earliest childhood, the youngster who became Jordan Shepard had been taught to be useful. And since his arrival in Sacramento, his life experience had been neither useful nor fulfilling, especially in the Awakened partition of his life.

He had made no new friends...no one that he could call in for a drink or to see a movie with or take on in a friendly game of Scrabble. There was a brief glimmer of romance, but the direction there was cloudy.

The work he had done with the Awakened community? Ha! He could have been jailed at the air base. All of his investigative background and he could not bluff his way past a guard. Perhaps it was pride...no, certainly it was pride. But it was still a failure. He was still working on aspects of the problem with Henry...but who knew how it would end up.

He had missed the internal clues in Theo's computer...thank the Almighty that Jack and Trench spotted it. But his father would have been ashamed of his lack of astuteness. It was also a work in progress, but Jordan was glum. He had taken no steps forward in the Order or the Consilium. But perhaps he was too anxious?

But as he gazed at the unrelenting grey clouds, he had a thought. It was the Hero Syndrome, wasn't it? Jordan believed that every mage wanted to be a hero, dashing obstacles away with the panache of a de Bergerac, and be acclaimed an amazing hero. It was the Hero Syndrome that made it hard for mages to be team players to any meaningful degree. Being a mage was pretty amazing by itself, but there was a yearning for more. More recognition, more accomplishment...just more.

The young Mystagogue nodded. That was it. Jordan was glum because he wasn't a hero. Would the feeling pass, like the clouds eventually would? Heaven knows, Jordan didn't. And he would need more Time magic to see the future. Right now, Fate didn't seem on his side. But Fate was fickle...generous one day and stingy the next.

He moved from the window and picked a book off his shelves to read. Wouldn't you know...it was Ulysses.

[Sherrinford]

Phrymides was looking over Jordan’s shoulder as he set down the clay tablet covered with cuneiform symbols. The museum was working with Mesopotamian artifacts, and Jordan had volunteered to work on classifying anything with writing on it.

Among other things, it gave him opportunity to work with the pretty and vivacious Phry. She only seemed flighty away from work…but put the woman on a project and she was deadly serious.

“Were you able to work them out?” she asked.

Jordan nodded. “With the help of my great big reference book, yes. The problem was that everyone was looking too far back. These cuneiform symbols are much later, about 3000 BCE. Did you see the cursive ascenders and descenders?”

He held up a magnifying glass for her to use. “Yep,” she agreed.

“I’m afraid it isn’t a monumental discovery, and it doesn’t take us to Hammurabi’s heart. If this translates the way my reference suggests, it is a listing of household repairs that need to be done. My dad would call this a honeydew list…you know…honey, do this or honey, do that?”

They both laughed together for a brief moment. “Coffee break,” Phry declaimed. They stripped off their gloves and soon were sipping coffee from the urn at the end of the room away from the artifacts.

“This coffee is strong enough to wrestle three falls,” Jordan remarked.

“It has to be,” Phry giggled. “Sometimes, we’re up real late, especially when an exhibit is opening, or if we have a more, er, awakened project.”

“I can understand that. My first authentication work…”

It was only a short chat, then there were more clay shards to deal with. As Phry said, an exhibit was coming up. There were two piles, as it were. Conventional things like Jordan’s honeydew list, and materials that might have occult significance. Jordan was fairly certain that one was a summons to a Silver Ladder meeting. More to analyze later, Jordan thought as he raised his magnifying glass again.

[Sherrinford]

From Jordan Shepard's Journal

There's no doubt about it, I am a book person. I buy them, I sell them...but mostly I read them. Reading for me is almost compulsive. I read everything...cereal boxes, milk carton panels; I may be the only person alive who actually reads the little contracts on parking receipts and movie tickets.

But books are an almost sensual seduction, appealing to all of the senses, just about. The feel of a good binding, be it rough or pebbled. The smoothness of a printed page, the slightly musty smell of an older volume and the slight yellowing of oft-used pages.

Like this one here. Enid, who kept me sane when I awakened, sent me a care package from Los Angeles; I think she feels responsible for sending me to Sacramento. So she sends things...homemade strawberry preserves, crossword puzzles from the Times of London...but mostly books.

This one I've been waiting for...a volume of occult knowledge. Part of the book is missing...it is quite old and hasn't been well treated. I can help that some; handling books for years has taught me a trick or two.

I've been needing more book learning concerning the occult arts. I know it. Enid knows it. I am going to close down the journal and get to it.

-------------------------------

At 4 in the morning, Jordan goes to sleep after the third reading. He was right about the compulsiveness part.

[Sherrinford]

Only a short trip back from the Circle to Jordan's apartment. When he got back, there was an envelope in his pathetic little mailbox that they seem to make for apartment buildings. It was from Beverely, explaining her sudden departure in loving, thoughtful terms. Jordan knew it was over because she had used her True Name, ordinarily a reckless mistake. She had provided just about the only positive feedback that his life had enjoyed since coming to this thrice-cursed city.

He entered his apartment and sat as his desk in the living room. Jordan managed to get through the letter one more time. Then he pulled pen and paper and wrote in a private cipher to the Curator in Los Angeles.

Dear Enid:

I have just returned from my first Consilium meeting here in Sacramento. You remember Sacramento? You convinced me that I might be needed here. You must really send me some of whatever you were smoking when you made the assertion. The leadership only needs themselves...just ask them. The Consilium reorganized, fought two duels, and then finally got to some important considerations. This is a place for the Adamantine Arrows, since there is battle aplenty. There is a place for the Guardians, because there is intrigue. It is a place for the Ladder and for the Free Council, since politics is available aplenty as well. There was one Free Counsellor, whose name in Greek means 'all gifts' who was so hungry to be part of the political grinder that you could see it in her body language and hear it in the tensions of her speech. Those who had the courage to speak their minds were challenged under the aegis of the Lex, rightly or wrongly. If there was ever an assembly which postponed the importance of knowledge, this one is it. It makes me understand why we reserve some of it. And it is strange, too. The Curator here is mindful of her duty to the extreme, and mistrusts even members of her own Order. But I still have more respect for her than for many here. There was one apostate that had trust issues who was challenged...talk about playing to a weakness. They have elected some new leadership. Heaven grant that they will do well. But the situation is less than encouraging. But my family is all about perseverance. I'll write again later, if I don't return outright.

Best to the Alae Draconis in Los Angeles.

Jordan

[Sherrinford]

Memorandum to whichever deity is in charge of screwing up my life. You're doing just fine, thank you. I came near enough to drowning or hypothermia that the difference can be measured in microns. Not satisfied with afflicting me with loneliness, uneven attention and You know what else, you wanted to see how I was as a pickled herring. May I sincerely recommend a vacation...prolonged and engaging enough that you don't screw up my life any more for a while.

Jordan wrenched his attention back to the book he was reading; the last volume of a 7-book set on the subject of Atlantean runes. Each book in the series was ruthlessly dog-eared and margin noted...even to the point of little sketches in the margins. After another half an hour it was done, and he looked up...

And the apartment was a memory. He was in the middle of a forest that stretched almost forever. Jordan got up off the rock that was an overstuffed chair a moment ago, and looked around, disoriented only for a moment. Those mountains had moved to another horizon, there was a tall tower over there...yes, there was no doubt about it. And if there was any doubt...

"Jordie, you bad boy. Where have you been hiding?"

He smiled. "Hello, Anthea."

Anthea...child one moment, scantily clad girl the next, matron the next...was an Anachronism, one of the fae of Arcadia who embodied Time in this, the realm of Arcadia.

"I'll have you know, Jordie Shepard, that Titania is not pleased with you at all."

That was serious; one of the Queens of the Sidhe...you did everything you could to stay on her good side.

"What is it, Anthea?"

"You have been slow in progressing, and time waits for no one, especially a mortal. We need to put you to work, and spruce up your grasp of time."

"So be it, Anthea. When do we start?"

The child/girl/woman giggled. "There is never a now or then in Arcadia, Jordie. Let's start."

Jordan spent the next year studying some of the aspects of Time...turning it back, using Time to divine, and other practice assignments. At the end of that time, whenever that was, the Anachronism spoke.

"Time is actually moving on in your world, Jordie. Now get right back."

Jordan waited for the young woman aspect of Anthea to manifest, and kissed her on the cheek. She gave him an impulsive hug...

...and Jordan was back in his chair, the book on Atlantean runes on his lap. A glance at his clock told him that he had spent 20 minutes of the Fallen World in Arcadia, even if it seemed much longer.

He stood, and shook his head. His body was there in the apartment, but his mind....well, it was somewhere in time.