The great task in life is to find reality.
—Iris Murdoch
Stalking a Monster
I wanted a dream but really wanted a fantasy. You can control fantasies, but you're at the mercy of dreams and therefore, not better much off than embracing reality.
Enjoying a quiet evening in my townhouse with Lorraine and Tess, my new-found puppy, seemed like a dream, but like the thunder grumbling over our heads, there was no doubt a storm was brewing.
Yes, I was putting off thinking about Haven and the shady manipulations of The Unholy Trinity as Tom Turner called them, but I was also curious to see what I could find out about the mysterious rings that the inner circle wore.
And yet the more I searched the topic the task seemed daunting.
"Have you had any luck in finding out about the rings?" Lorraine asked.
"I've been at it off and on since I've been home and maybe I'm just not skilled at doing an in-depth computer search."
Lorraine was sitting on the floor with Tess wriggling in her lap trying to burrow into her arms for warmth.
"She seems anxious for some reason," Lorraine frowned, just as a loud clap of thunder shook the house.
The pup whimpered and Lorraine scooped it up into her arms and held it close, soothing it.
I parted the window blinds and gazed out at the sky.
"Looks like we're going to get a real electrical storm—I'm going to text Norm Osbourne, a techie friend of mine, and see if he can help before the power goes out."
"Good idea," she said, "I'd help too but my arms are full at the moment."
I had to smile. Tess' face was pressed against Lorraine's and she was actually falling asleep in her arms.
"Looks like she feels secure with you," I whispered.
Lorraine nodded. "Let's just hope we don't get any more loud claps of thunder."
I lit a fire in the fireplace and made a full carafe of coffee which I poured into a large thermos jug in case we lost power.
I brought two steaming mugs into the den along with some warmed up croissants and jam, but no sooner did I sit down than the electricity went off.
"Don't worry," I reassured her, "I've got the battery-powered emergency lanterns ready—we won't have to sit in the dark."
"Would that be such a bad thing?" she smiled mischievously, as I lit the lanterns.
"Do you want me to shut them off?" I teased.
""Better not—I'm starving and want to see to eat, but maybe we can turn them off later."
I kissed her and sat down beside her. She cuddled close, Tess still asleep in her arms.
The three of us made a perfect picture of domestic bliss, warm and sheltered from the storm, safe in each others' arms.
We sat in the den sipping coffee and listening to the rain, talking in drowsy tones the way people always do when gazing into a fire.
Three hours later I awoke and realized we all must have dozed off. The power had come back on and there was a notification on my Messenger App that Norm had texted me back.
I opened the app and read his message;
Success! The rings are worn by members of The Apollo Guild, a society of benefactors devoted to the Arts, nurturing the young and pioneering new techniques in Education. On the surface, seems a benign group of do-gooders.
Hope this helps,
Norm
I don't know why but I actually felt let down by reading the results of Norm's search on The Apollo Guild. Yes, in its public face it appeared to be as harmless as the Shriners—just another service organization—but I knew that was a facade.
There was a dark, sinister side to Haven and Dean Stirling might appear a light bearer to the masses but I certainly didn't feel attached to a benevolent organization.
I was feeling less and less like an educator and more like an insider in a criminal organization—actually, more like Theseus venturing into the Minotaur's lair in the hope of slaying him.
Lorraine stirred and drowsily opened her eyes. "Any luck in your internet search?"
"We got a hit, but it's just window dressing, meant to project a benign face to the world. I'm afraid I'm going to have to do some first-hand sleuthing and rely on my own instincts. As Tom Turner said, there's something rotten in the halls of Haven."
"Isn't that an allusion to Hamlet?" she murmured dreamily.
"It is," I whispered, kissing her forehead, "but as Hamlet said about another coverup, it's miching mallecho—in other words, it means mischief is afoot, but we'll sniff it out."