Paris Above And Below

From the journals of Reid, son of Osric.

Paris...what a place! The directions these people are going with art are so challenging. Impressionism is in vogue the photographers are taking their stab at it as well. I haven't written nearly enough on photography since I've arrived here. I've been meeting too many people and learning so much, I've had precious little time to commit any of it to paper.

"The theory of photography can be taught in an hour; the first ideas of how to go about it in a day. What can't be taught... is the feeling for light - the artistic appreciation of effects produced by different...sources; it's the understanding of this or that effect following the lines of the features which required your artistic perception.

"What is taught even less, is the immediate understanding of your subject - it's this immediate contact which can put you in sympathy with the sitter, helps you to sum them up, follow their normal attitudes, their ideas, according to their personality, and enables you to make not just a chancy, dreary cardboard copy typical of the merest hack in the darkroom, but a likeness of the most intimate and happy kind...." -- Nadar, Paris, 1857

These people, at least in spirit, must inherently know the nature of trumps. In fact, I've heard that only a few years ago pocket sized portraits, or cartes-de-visite, were quite popular to collect and trade.

This new medium certainly has my curiosity piqued. At a recent gathering of fellows, I was handed a magazine called "Amateur Photographer" which contained an article describing a "Photo Secessionist" movement taking place abroad.

"This...movement is...an attempt... to produce pictures by means of photography. Pictures, that is to say, which shall stand the test of criticism; that one would apply to a picture in any other medium; that shall be satisfactory in composition, colour quality, tone and lighting; that shall have esthetic charm and shall involve some expression of the personal feeling of the photographer."

The photographers who profess these high artistic aims and scrupulously live up to their principles and have the ability to practise them, are necessarily few in number, though steadily increasing; nor are they engaged in scholastic discussions as to whether photography can be reckoned among the fine arts, for they leave such theorising to the choppers of academic logic. It is not with phraseology they are concerned, but with facts.

'Here is a print,' they say in effect; 'has it any of the qualities that you find in a black and white; does it give you anything of the pleasurable feeling that you experience before a picture in some other medium? If not, we try again; but if, on the other hand, it does, then at least to the extent in which this print has affected you, pray acknowledge that there may be possibility of artistic expression in a pictorial photograph. How far the camera is responsible for the result or how far our own modification of its record, we venture to say is not the question; the sole point, as between you and ourselves, being whether our prints have aesthetic qualities and will stand the test of the kind of criticism that you apply to other pictures."

I'm wondering to what extent the arts of trump and photography could be combined? I've met two brothers, Louis and Auguste Lumiere, who have agreed to work with me on the construction of a camera that might suit my purposes.

As in all things, this grand experiment shall always be in a constant state of tinkering, tweaking, and with any luck, spectacular results.

I'm off to have coffee with Atget... he's been at it early again today. Don't know why he insists on capturing the spirit of a Paris without any people in it. They seem as much a part of the city as it is of them.

After finishing the notes for his journal, Reid makes his usual preparations for departing his home for his appointment with Atget. It's really much more convenient to live on the Left Bank than to stay in Castle Paris with Corwin; Castle Paris is a bit stuffy and traditional compared to the exciting forward-thinkers of the artists' quarter. And the people here are so much more interesting.

Most of the newcomers to Paris rapidly adopt the garb of Parisians, as Reid recalls immigrants to Amber doing, but some of them stubbornly cling to the fashions of their home shadow. So the robed man Reid sees en route to his appointment isn't that odd, although there's something niggling Reid about his garment.

After his meeting with Atget, Reid recalls what it was, and where he's seen that robe before: it was in Vere's reports about the Paresh.

// The Paresh! What had Vere told me at the masque? The Monks of Clervaux may have been tied to them. Cymnea... mother... and Clothilde's name at the chapel. I think the women of my past may be trying to tell me something... but what??? //

Clothilde has no further insights for Reid, although he does dream of her.

Reid will take an active interest in any similarly dressed persons he sees in and about Paris, with the intent of tracking down the whereabouts of any collective that might exist here. He also makes it a point to aquaint himself with the sewers and tunnels under the city, remembering that religous cults had been at one time linked to the caves under Kolvir. In fact, taking their underground position in proximity to the original Pattern, he begins his underground explorations in Paris in a radial spread from the local Pattern.

Reid finds that Paris has catacombs in addition to navigable sewers. Although he is not a fastidious man, he finds it is preferable to search the former than the latter.

It is ten days after his initial sighting of a putative Paresh that Reid sights another. His explorations of the catacombs have begun and he has been able to make some headway in them.

He follows when possible, and when not, makes note of location and time of day of such sightings.

There seems to be no particular pattern to when the "Paresh" are out and about.

He is able within another week to track them to a building in a working-class quarter. It is not entirely unlike the great unicorn temple of Notre Dame under which the Pattern resides, but is, of course, much smaller.

Reid tries to discretely keep the building under surveillance... do all of the people entering dress the same? What's security like? Is there a ritual involved in getting through the front door? Etc.

More than half are dressed as monks. The remainder are a mix of well-dressed and poorly dressed people. They tend to arrive at different times. There is no obvious external security and people do not knock when the door is closed.

[OOC: the model church is Saint-Gervais-Saint-Protais in Paris; I'll post some links in the GM blog]

One day when he sees [a monk] exiting the building, Reid casually strolls up to the person and inquires, "Excuse me? Could you tell me what building this is?"

The monk turns to him and looks him over. "This is the abbey of St. Ninian of Clerveaux. This is where we minister to the poor." The monk seems, to Reid's eye, to be human, if slightly exotically so.

"Clerveaux, you say? I had family there at some point," Reid muses. "But I can't say I know of this St. Ninian. Tell me, would an outsider such as myself be welcome to come and learn the history of your order?"

"Of course! We always welcome seekers after knowledge. It is our fourth duty. We follow the strict rule, of course. I must attend to my errands, but if you will come with me, I shall introduce you to Brother Meditation, who will certainly be interested in what you can tell him of Clerveaux. He can also tell you of our brotherhood." The angular, bony fellow seems quite pleased and turns back towards the building to lead Reid in, if he follows.

Reid is both excited and amused by the mystery that lies ahead. Perhaps some inkling of his mother's fate; certainly another encounter with a race that has knowledge of at least three shadows, presumably with a family tour-guide or some other method of traversal; or, at worst, he's walking alone into a den of enemies within a city of few allies or aides.

He straightens his articles, discretely ensuring the readiness of picks, darts and daggers within his linings as he cleans himself up for church. He doffs his slouch in reverence to the building he is preparing to enter, and smiles at his guide. "Lead on."

Inside the doors of the abbey Reid sees a large number of candles. Candles in stands, candles on tables, candles hoisted in the air on great iron chandeliers. It would be more than a full-time job to keep them lit. The interior of the building is relatively sparse, with few permanent installations. There are screens dividing the area, and a number of similarly dressed monks inside the building. At the back there are doors leading deeper into the facility. The floor is covered with rushes.

Reid might guess that the monk who comes over when they enter is older, but there are few clues. The man is as bony and sallow as the guide, and as hairless. "Brother Vigil, who is this with you?"

"I have no idea, but he asks interesting questions of the history of the order. Can you help him learn? I must attend to my business."

"Of course. I am Brother Meditation. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"My name is Reid," he says, addressing both monks. "I thank you, Brother Vigil, for inviting me in." He nods at his guide, acknowledging his prior commitments and giving him leave to go. He keeps his head slightly lower than usual when addressing Brother Meditation. While he hasn't seen any overt rank differences between the two monks, he feels it is best to humble himself before his latest acquaintance.

Brother Vigil moves his hand in a circular pattern and, after Brother Meditation repeats it, departs.

"Brother Meditation, I have come seeking knowledge about your order and its abbey. When I was young, I spent a little time in Clervaux. I do not remember many details, but I know that some of my ancestors made their home there. It is possible I have blood there still. I have traveled much since then, but do not believe I have ever encountered anyone else who knew of the place. Thus, you can imagine my surprise when Brother Vigil mentioned the abbey's patron saint." Reid pauses. "I would like to know something of your history, because in learning such, I feel I would better know myself. Likewise, if there were any fragments that I might be able to recall about the Clervaux that I knew, I would be obliged to offer what little I might in the spirit of sharing."

His proposition made, he makes eye contact with Brother Meditation awaiting his reply.

"Whatever you could tell us about Clervaux would be considered a holy gift, Reid. We have lost much of our heritage with the passage of time. Ninian, the sainted abbot, was the last abbot of the monastery in Middletown in Beveland to have been born in Clervaux. He set the rule that we follow and if not for his good guidance, I think our sect would have died out after we lost contact with Paris and Clervaux. Ninian's rule kept us to our tasks and our duties. Indeed, it was only three decades after the Abbot of St Willibrord's in Beveland restored the strict rule that the miracle happened that allowed a small group of lost missionary brothers to return to Paris. When we arrived, we found that we were proceeded by our sisters from the Priory of St. Plectrudis. We hope to one day return to Clervaux and restore contact with our long-lost brethren."

He pauses. "The abbot will want to hear what you can tell us of Clervaux. With your permission, I will send word to him."

Indeed. Word is sent.

"Certainly. In the meanwhile, you can tell me more of the Abbey, its mission and tenants, as well as the Priory." Reid replies as he glances around for a place where they could make themselves more comfortable for an extended conversation.

"We are missionaries. We minister to the physical needs of the poor and hungry, because no man can consider the shape of his soul while he is focusing on the needs of his belly. The Priory was originally consecrated to meditation, but as it is the only one in Paris, they have expanded their mission to meet the order's charter of ministry. They run a medical clinic." He doesn't seem to take the hint about being comfortable.

Reid makes due and begs the monk to continue.

He speaks of the order and the charter and the strict rule they follow, St. Ninnian's legacy. Not too long after it gets boring, another monk shows up.

[Aw, you're not even trying... I bet at least one of their strict rules has something to do with sheep, doesn't it? But you'd never know it from reading that summary...]

"I am Brother Repentance, the abbot of St. Ninnian's. You're Reid, from the palace. It's my pleasure to meet you. My brother tells me that you have been to Clervaux and can tell us of it."

Reid considers for a moment. "I'm afraid I can tell but a little. I was young, and it was some time ago. In truth, I was hoping that you and your brethren could enlighten me where the details have faded. But of what I do recall... Clervaux was one of a collection of learning institutions that lined a lush valley in some far off land where my ancestors had once made a home away from their own. I was brought there in my youth and had a sampling of teachings from the finest they had to offer. There were schools specializing in logic and reason; theology and writ; arts and music; engineering and construction; morality and ethics. All manner of disciplines, although conflicting in their priorities, coexisted peacefully, each installation acting in the name of their sponsor, whose interests the schools' focus reflected. I had the fortune of having a sampling of many of their schoolings, but as a result, can offer little detail of the individual institutions as they've all run together in my mind."

"That is what the blessed Saint Ninnian taught, that the valley of Clervaux was a haven for learning and different holy orders. Ninnian taught that all ways of learning are paths to the same destination, but we know little of our long-lost brothers from other orders."

"We have a painting of Clervaux, done from the descriptions of the Blessed Saint himself. Perhaps you would wish to see it? It is said to grant peace to those who gaze upon it."

Reid raises an eyebrow appreciatively. "A painting, you say? I would be most intrigued. I'm a bit of an artist myself. At least _one_ of the schools was good for that!" He smiles broadly and gestures for the abbot to lead the way.

The abbot nods and leads you towards an alcove that houses a stairwell. You climb two flights above the chapel and find yourself in a large, empty communal dining hall. "In the end, we wanted to put the picture here where we'd see it every day, instead of in some dusty catacomb."

In a niche near the far doors is a painting. The frame is plain and the inscription is just the word 'Clervaux' in simple type. The picture shows a snow covered valley. A few buildings poke through the snow on the near side of the hill and a river cuts through the center. It is iced over. Standing like a sentry over the top of the vale is the octagonal tower. The roof is steep and dark red and only lightly dusted with snow.

The last time you saw it, it was collapsing in flames, the snow falling in with the roof to put out the blaze.

Reid approaches the painting for closer inspection, noting the materials and the style of the brush strokes, looking for any hint of recognition. With a slow and gentle movement, he extends a finger to slide over the surface of the paint, carefully choosing an area of the canvas near the edge of the frame, and away from any important detail.

The painting is (relatively) recent. Possibly Parisian, but not definitely so.

[and, presumably, not a trump?]

[It is not cold, it is not small, it is not detailed, it is not sealed, and it exhibits no other signs of trumpyness, other than being a visual representation of a place]

"That is Clervaux," Reid concludes. "Though I can't easily place the timeframe. I know that a fire had damaged the roof of that tower, but it could have been reconstructed." He continues to look for any other details that would place the subject within the realm of his experiences.

The abbot cocks his head and recites:
"When the crow on the tower made of brick
For seven hours will continue to scream:
Death foretold, the statue stained with blood,
Tyrant murdered, people praying to their Gods."

"It is not a clear or cheering prophesy, but it is vivid."

"Indeed," wonders Reid. "Have any interpretations been made on the verse? Who this Tyrant might be, or which statue?"

The abbot shrugs. "Who can know? There are so many undiscovered lands from which people are coming to Paris. It could be from any of them. I know little of the poet-prophet, but some consider him a seer and others a charlatan."

"It's remarkable how often those two traits coincide." Reid replies.

"And what can you tell me of either the artist or the source of the description from which he worked? I must admit, the painter did an accurate portrayal to the best of my recollection. I'm sure that is a credit both to his own craft and his muse's memory."

"It is a copy of the painting that hung in our old hall, painted by a local painter from the sketches of the Holy St. Ninian. Brother Discipline created the copy, because he had the best memory and the steadiest hand. At St. Willibord's he sat across from it for twenty years." The abbot smiles. "I think he added more snow, but otherwise it looks quite like the original."

"And what became of the first painting, or for that matter, the original sketches? Have they been lost to the effects of time? Or have they been preserved somewhere safe?" Reid inquires.

"We did not intend to become a new Parisian house of the order, Reid. We left St. Willibrord's with the intention of returning. While I do not know what became of the sketches, I am sure that the original hangs in the old hall in St. Willibrord's to this day. If we were able to return to Beveland, we could send you letters of introduction to the Abbot there." The abbot wipes his forehead, which glistens slightly. "We are only an informal institution, as we are cut off from St. Willibrord's. The Rule, of course, allows for this, but we must make contact when we can."

"How long has the route to Beveland been blocked? Or would severed be a more appropriate term?" Reid asks, with some concern.

The abbot makes the same gesture with his hand that the other monk made. "We left Beveland four years ago, quite by accident. A number of us were on pilgrimage, some were travelling with messages, and a few of us were taking goods between several monasteries. Many of us were from St. Willibrord's and we were perhaps two days travel from that holy place when we became lost.

"At first we thought we had merely crossed the wrong path, but some remembered the tales of St. Ninnian and others, of the way that the road to Clervaux would be different in front than in back. So we pressed on, and found ourselves in Paris. We have not yet found a road back, but we have not really searched for one. Paris is challenge enough, and they certainly need us here."

"So the Order spread from Clervaux to Beveland to Paris? I'm guessing it has branched in other directions as well. Do you have any estimate of how many lands in which your work is being done by your brethren?" Reid inquires.

"It's back to Paris, actually. Paris was part of the great circle with Clervaux and Beveland in the past. We lost Paris and Clervaux together, or they lost us. It's why we're hopeful that we'll be able to return to Clervaux one day. We may be in other places from the great circle, but that may be mere wishful thinking on my part. I always did have a desire to be a small part of a harmonious greater whole."

Reid nods in agreement with such wisdom.

"At this juncture, is there anything futher you wish to know from me, or anything more that you feel I should know? I'll leave you to your calling, and, with your permission, perhaps visit again for further enlightenment."

"I can't think of anything that might be useful for you to know, although I'll send someone to the palace if anything you should know is revealed to me. And you are welcome to return to St. Ninian's at any time, whether or not you bring news of Clervaux." Brother Repentance rises and makes the circular gesture Reid has already learned to associate with the brotherhood.

"May the Goddess watch over you until we meet again."

Another of the brothers escorts Reid back out of the abbey.

The next day, Reid and Papillon are supposed to explore some of the more interesting areas of the catacombs under Paris. Reid prepares for the expedition as mentioned below....

[Reid has borrowed the photographer Nadar's (casting: Michael Jeter) assitant Papillon (casting: Drew Barrymore). Papillon grew up playing in the catacombs with her friends, where she gained her confidence working in the dark -- a skill that as served her well as a photographer's assistant.]

On days when he is not following the Paresh or engaging in artistic activities, Reid and Papillon explore deep in the catacombs of Paris.

[OOC: and we'll get back to them after we see where the "Paresh" are going.]

Catacombs perhaps linking to or going underneath the aforementioned building and working district would, of course, become more of a focus of interest.

Reid and Papillon do not find any connection between the chapel and the catacombs. She wants to know why Reid is interested in it, instead of interesting parts of the catacombs.

"There are interesting parts? Why don't you show me those as well?" Reid inquires.

"Beneath the castle where the King lives, and under the center city. The links between the island and the rest of the city. You didn't want to stop at all the places we could have gone up in the street Some of them have interesting things on the way up." Papillon bats her lashes at Reid, but it comes across as nervous as much as flirtatious.

merely a speck of dust in her eye... it's nothing Reid reassures himself.

"I'll show you."

"I'm looking forward to it." Reid smiles, a twinkle in his eye.

Reid pepares for their next outing keeping in mind that their destination will be unknown to him. He packs the numerous pockets of his traveling outfit with extra candles and flint, an assortment of tools, prybars and small blades, and some fruit and cheese for an impromptu picnic should the occasion arise.

Papillon arrives a little late, even moreso than usual. Perhaps it's the rain that delayed her arrival. She and Reid go into the sewers to find the nearest entrance to the catacombs she wants to show him.

As they are moving quietly through a tall storm drain, Reid's hearing picks up a squeaking noise from behind them, then a rumbling. A moment later, Papillon is pulling on his arm in alarm. "Reid!" she cries, as the rumbling grows louder. "That's water! This section of the sewers will flood!"

Reid smiles slightly at the thought of drowning. "Always up for new experiences..." he thinks. "Always the thirst for new knowledge. 'How long can you hold your breath?' That's a piece of knowledge I've never researched." Then he remembers he's not alone, and the lung capacity of a 7 stone jeune fille probably doesn't match that of a grandson of Oberon.

"Exit. Where?" he barks.

While awaiting her answer his mind revisits the tunnels they've passed so far in their journey trying to recall any potential pockets, as well as suitable handholds should they become necessary. He also tries to figure out which way the water will be coming from so he can be between it and his guide should it hit. Preferably with the force at his back, and Papillon held close to his front, the advantage of his height letting his legs deal with whatever the water might push them into.

But that's all last resort thinking. First thoughts are, "Exit. Where?"

"This way!" Papillon cries, grabbing Reid's hand and running away from the sounds of the onrushing water. She leads him down the trunk of the drain at full speed.

By the time Reid can see the handholds leading to the street, he can hear that the main wave is right behind them. He pushes Papillon in front of him just as the flood hits the two of them. They still have 20-30 feet to go before they'll pass the ladder, but the water is now sweeping them along.

Reid only has a few seconds to decide what to do.

Not much of a choice, really. One arm around Papillon's waist, the other reaching to snag the ladder when they pass.

If the catch is successful, he'll see that his partner has her own firm grasp on the ladder and let her climb up ahead of him, his hands on the ladder on either side of her body to keep her from getting swept if her grip loosens.

Reid grabs the ladder that looks like it was old when Reid himself was young, and Papillon grabs the bars as if she is afraid they will melt. Reid manages to place himself around his young companion and begins to think about climbing away from the torrent. The ladder is stronger than the bolts in the wall, however, and the whole assembly begins to twist away from the wall in the pounding current. Reid considers his options, briefly, before they are taken away by the crack of stressed bolts.

The ladder, Papillon, Reid, and all shoot down the current. The girl clutches the ladder and the son of Osric with equal fervor. Reid concentrates on keeping hold of the girl and getting the occasional gasp of air. He manages to keep both of their heads above water frequently enough but the girl holds the ladder too firmly to get away from it without either abandoning her or breaking her arms. In the odd glimpses Reid has of the rushing water, Reid thinks they have swept far from the catacombs and into the sewers proper. The way twists and there are frequent drops as the water seeks the lowest path downwards.

After what Reid knows is merely minutes, but which seems like days, the water sweeps over another opening. This time, however, the two surface-dwellers do not. The ladder jams across the opening and leaves Reid hanging over a pool of water, holding the jammed ladder and the wet girl, his feet dangling over a 20 foot drop into more dank wetness. The rush of water that has been driving the two of them passes completely in just a moment more as the two hang, panting, from the iron ladder.

Papillon opens her eyes, and looks at Reid.

"I suspect up would be preferable to down. Do you think you can make it?" Reid asks.

If she's got the strength, he'll let her climb to safety first while his weight keeps the ladder from moving. If she doesn't, he'll pull himself up (straight, not swinging, if can be avoided, and pull her up after him.

"Let me. Let me catch my breath." She hangs on Reid, letting his body support hers. Her hat is gone, and she's wet from head to toe. After a moment, she pulls herself along the bars in the direction of the dim light. She pulls herself up and calls out. "Reid? There's a walkway here."

Reid pulls himself up on the same side as Papillon and joins her at the "walkway." Is this more than just a clear path in the muck? What purpose does it look like it has served? (Does it seem like a service route for sewer maintenance? An eccentric lord's brass plated secret path to his mistress? Or something in between?

"You OK?" Reid asks his guide as he checks his own pockets to see if everything is still in place. (Trumps, food, weapons, art supplies, not necessarily that order...)

In that order: yes, yes (but it's wet), no, yes (but they may be damp).

"Oh, joy. I've lost my blade. Everything else seems to be intact, though," Reid informs his guide. "Yourself?" he asks.

"Well, I lost the light, but you knew that. And I'm unpleasantly wet." She shakes her arms to emphasize her point and her sleeves throw off a small spray of excess water.

Reid smiles in the darkness.

It's not very mucky, but it doesn't look like it's anyone's secret either. There are footprints. It looks like a route for maintenance. Actually, it looks more like a route for construction of the sewers, as it doesn't seem to be very frequently maintained. There also don't seem to be any paths away from here except for the one that parallels the stream below you. It must have water in it most of the time, because you note a half-eaten fish by the side of the retaining pool.

"Do you recognize this stretch, or should we just trudge on?" He stoops to examine the fish. "We might not be alone for long..."

"No, I've stayed in the catacombs. This part floods."

It's half a fish. The head, two eyes, and part of a spine sticking out of the meaty bit. The bite marks are probably human. Some similar largish omnivore, anyway.

Reid tries to guage how long the length of ladder is... the one that's currently spanning the big hole. Trying to decide if it's worth it to lug with them, or if the most convenient exits will have their own modes of elevation. Probably the latter, but if he doesn't think he'll look like a fool with its unwieldyness, he'll pull it to their side of the shore and check its weight.

It's a bit short of 20 ', twisted at the top and bottom, and heavy. Since it's mostly dark, there isn't much looking like a fool. Reid doesn't think it will fit through many of the openings he's seen, though. It might limit where they decide to go.

[then it's left behind]

Once determined, he offers his free arm to Papillon and leads her down the tunnel...

She takes his arm and they move down the tunnel, watching in the dim light for openings or options. After a short trip back along the side of the waterway that washed them down, they come to a junction where a smaller side branch enters the main body. There is a rickety catwalk across the water here.

"Do we have to cross that?," asks Papillon, who is still holding his arm.

Reid feels a familiar stirring, as if someone is attempting to contact him via trump.

"Maybe not... let's stay here for a second." Reid tells her.

He stretches out in his mind to answer the trump call. Establishing contact, he speaks. "Who is there?"