One Shot: Black Magic

[honorat]

By Honorat
Pairing: Jack/Anamaria
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Damn to the depths whatever muttonhead thought up “copyright!”

Summary: Well now, I haven’t written much in this realm but the plot bunny for the drabble challenge “Inspire” at Black Pearl Sails got away in the most severe way. This is no longer a drabble. Jack as a teacher—couldn’t resist mate. Set a good many months after the movie.

Much thanks to the ever-obliging geek_mama_2 for beta reading this.

* * * * *



She knocks firmly on the cabin door. One last duty before she turns in for the night.

“’S open.” The captain’s voice is muffled by the heavy wood.

Cautiously, she presses the door ajar, letting the golden glow of candles escape into the shadows behind her. She has never been able to enter this cabin without a sense of trespass, not even when it was, very briefly, hers.

On the threshold, she stands irresolute. And irresolute is not a feeling with which Anamaria is familiar.

Captain Sparrow is seated in one of the elaborately carved chairs at the mahogany table, writing. About him is spread the paraphernalia of his task—the fine sheets of thick linen paper (trader off the tip of Cuba, her mind supplies), the elegant bottles of India ink (merchantman just out of St. Lucia), the sand and quills (from a little village on Antigua).

He does not look up at her, merely nods his head in the direction of another chair and continues to write. She does not sit, but watches him instead. He is not tricked out like the captain right now. The hat and coat are not in evidence, and he has even shed the vest and boots. That he can relax like this, unprepossessing in his white shirt and gray trousers, is a relief to her. For so long he has been unable to trust them enough to drop any of the trappings of command.

But now he can sit, with his back to her, dark head bent over his work. And she has to fight back a small smile at the honour.

The ink flows out over the paper in incomprehensible swirls and strokes, fine bold lines, a flourish here and there, so evocative of their scribe. Anamaria knows that she can hold her own across steel with Jack Sparrow. She can drink him under the table on occasion, out-cuss him any time, read the weather signs nearly as well, race him to the topgallant yards, with the men cheering and casting bets. But in this, she feels inferior. This art of text and paper reduces her to awe.

That dark lines on creamy white should allow men to read one another’s thoughts is a wonder to her—a magic more potent than voodoo. Across time and space the words remain. Who is he writing to? She wonders. What thoughts has he hidden in ink and paper? She watches as Jack sprinkles the sand over the page, blotting the glistening, fresh letters. He tips the sand back into its box, waves the paper with an inelegant flap, then folds it swiftly. With the candle flame, he heats the scarlet wax that drips like fresh blood on pale flesh. It oozes up around the press of his seal. And the ritual is complete.

The captain tips his chair around and faces her, candlelight brushing his face with gold and lighting its flames in his eyes.

“Anamaria,” he says. “You’ve brought the readings for the log?”

“Aye,” she nods, ready to recite them for him to record. But instead he pushes the worn, leatherbound ledger towards her. She is to be trusted to record them herself. Her throat is tight with embarrassment.

“No. You do it,” she insists, ashamed to explain that she can’t.

He makes no further comment. Merely draws the book back, opens it to the last entry, smoothes back the page, picks up the abandoned quill and dips it in the ink. With hand poised above the paper, he looks inquiringly at her.

She watches as the words of her report are translated into black symbols marching across a field of white. When she leaves the room, her voice will remain behind, tucked within warm leather covers. There are so many words she wants to leave behind. But she knows she will never say them.

The log is complete for another watch. Anamaria turns to go.

“Wait.” Jack’s voice stops her, although she doesn’t turn back. “Would you like me to show you how to record the log?”

She should have known she could never keep anything from those eyes. Slowly she pivots back to face him, her face angry and exposed.

He holds up a hand to forestall her. “There’s no shame in not knowing what you’ve never been taught.”

Hopping up from his chair, he waves at the seat like a grand lord seating a lady. “C’mon,” he urges, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “It’ll be fun!”

Anamaria rolls her eyes. For Jack, so it seems, fun is more to be desired than wealth. Hesitantly, she approaches the table with its trappings of literacy, desire warring with fear that she is too slow for teaching, that such things are not meant for her sort.

But Jack has never been one to pay attention to convention. Maintaining his parody of courtly style, he seats her at the table, flipping a sheet of the valuable paper in front of her. Gingerly, she accepts the quill.

“Don’t be shy, love,” Jack grins at her. “The rest of the goose is gone, so it won’t bite.”

Her fingers shift.

“On the other hand,” he grimaces as her grip nearly crushes the delicate object, “you don’t have t’kill it, neither.”

Anamaria freezes as he leans over her and covers her hand with his own, moving her fingers into a more relaxed and natural position. She can feel every callous, every scar, almost every crease and whorl of his palm and fingertips brushing the backs of her knuckles and fingers. His hands are those of a sailor and a fighter, rough, but shaped as finely as any gentleman’s. Damn the man. Does he know what that light touch does to her? Being Jack, he probably does, the bastard. Resolutely she ignores the shiver running up her arm.

At last, Jack is satisfied with her stance and withdraws his hand. Now she can breathe again. She resists looking at him to see if he’s smirking. Sometimes slapping Jack Sparrow is irresistible, and she wants to learn this art. Best to avoid temptation. Ignore everything but the knowledge he offers.

Then he picks up a second quill and leans back over her. Apparently she has relaxed too soon. She can feel Jack’s shoulder against her hair as he reaches to dip the quill in the ink. He sets the quill to the paper and begins to move it, saying the names of the letters as he writes.

“A-n-a-m-a-r-i-a.” His free hand alights on her shoulder. “Anamaria,” he says.

“What!” she snaps, trying not to shrug off his hand and succeeding. Her discomfort would reveal more to Jack than she wants him to know.

“That’s what it says,” he explains patiently. “It’s your name.”

Anamaria stares at the black marks that are her name. They obviously speak to Jack, but they are saying nothing to her.

Nevertheless, Jack tells her to copy the letters and say their names as she does so. Although the task seems hopeless, Anamaria does as she’s bid. For awhile Jack hovers over her, making suggestions, distracting her with his warmth and the brush of his breath on her cheek and the veil of his dark hair that falls alongside her own, but eventually, she is writing well enough that he wanders off to some other chore in the room, leaving her to practice.

She bites her lip and concentrates, repeating, “A-n-a-m-a-r-i-a.” By the time she has covered one side of the page, she has blackened the tip of her index finger, smudged her nose, and left a trail of black ink at the corner of her mouth where she forgot and chewed on the quill. This has wrecked the nib completely, and her next word is a blobby black smudge. At her exclamation of disgust, Jack saunters over, takes one look at her, laughs in a most annoying fashion, pulls out his knife, and mends her pen for her.

“Here, love.” He hands her the quill. “Let’s try something different.” He leans over her again and writes, “J-a-c-k. Jack. That’s me.”

Anamaria scowls at the new word. Trust Jack to think his name is the second most important word to learn. Actually she is surprised he hasn’t made her learn it first. She recognizes one letter—“a”. But the others are new. She compares her name to Jack’s. Hers flows along evenly, all variations of the same shapes, but Jack’s is all loopy and prickly and up and down odd shaped. She smirks at it and wonders if his parents knew he’d be the way he is.

She bites the corner of her lip and concentrates on reproducing the lines. “J-a-c-k.”

The candles have burned down until they are guttering in their own liquid wax before Anamaria realizes she’s been in the captain’s cabin for an unconscionably long time. Her back feels like she’s been trampled by a team of oxen and her fingers feel like lumps of lead—painful lumps. She looks around for Captain Sparrow and discovers that he is seated in a stuffed chair across the room, his feet up on another chair, a book open on his lap. But he is not reading. His head is tilted back, his eyes are closed, and soft little sleepy snorts are issuing from his open mouth.

Since he isn’t awake to see it, she smiles fondly at him. This is the first time he’s let himself sleep in her presence. Unguarded. Vulnerable.

But she should probably go--before the rumours on deck get too fierce. She blots her last page, stoppers the ink bottles, and straightens the papers as best she can. She doesn’t know where any of it should be stored.

Anamaria looks down at her first writing. The magic words that will always speak to her now—will always say “Anamaria” and “Jack”. If she can learn two, she can learn more. She traces her fingers over the letters. Then she folds one page up into a small packet and tucks it inside her shirt, next to her heart.

She looks up to see Jack’s eyes on her, a knowing grin on his face. Damn the man. She should have known he would wake to any movement in this cabin.

Holding her head up high, Anamaria stalks to the door. “Goodnight, Captain Sparrow,” she snaps.

“We’ll do some more tomorrow?” Almost his voice sounds—hopeful?

Anamaria stops with her hand on the door. She nods briefly, not trusting herself to say anything that won’t betray her. Then she lets herself out of the room. Through the door, she hears Jack's voice drift like a warm breeze.

“Goodnight, Anamaria.”

The End

Comments

[erinya.livejournal.com]

When she leaves the room, her voice will remain behind, tucked within warm leather covers. There are so many words she wants to leave behind. But she knows she will never say them.

That's beautiful.

She compares her name to Jack’s. Hers flows along evenly, all variations of the same shapes, but Jack’s is all loopy and prickly and up and down odd shaped. She smirks at it and wonders if his parents knew he’d be the way he is.

This made me smile. Love the comparison of the shape of the letters to Jack's personality. Although Ana's name should be similarly prickly. I also liked the bit with the quill. You're so good at the little details that make the story feel true to life.

[honorat.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for letting me know the things you liked about this. I've done a lot of work with medieval manuscripts and the fact that a person 800 years ago can in some way still be speaking to me is a bit of a thrill. So this idea that we leave our voices behind in our written words is one I've often thought.

As I was visualizing their written names, I could clearly see all the rounded letters and minims (the similar strokes that make up m, n, i, u, w in script)in Anamaria's name and then Jack's name is so different-looking in calligraphy that it intrigued me. I guess Anamaria's parents didn't know she'd be the way she is. *grin*

I really appreciate your comments.

[rennie1265.livejournal.com]

ahhhm how sweet. She's prickly but he has a way to get past that and this is believably done. I remember learning to write with a quill and did just what Ana did and chewed the nib, ink and all. And there she is, looking at their names, all loops and spikes, her back aching and there he is, all soft snuffly sleepy snorts. I should be studying but the programme crashed so came over to have a quick read. Loverly.

[honorat.livejournal.com]

So glad you liked this. Oh you eat your art supplies too! I always gnaw on my paintbrushes, and often I get the wrong end. So I end up with paint in my mouth--alizarin crimson! That stuff's poison. Come to think of it that explains so much! And graphite. I am permanently decorated with graphite smudges. Leave it to a writer to get enamoured of the shapes of handwritten letters. Jack is so sweet when he's asleep. I loved that part of the movie where he's mumbling and snuffling away into his moustache while Elizabeth is busy burning rum. I should be producing concept art for a children's book, but my motivation crashed, so I came over to enjoy your lovely comments. Thank you.

[geekmama.livejournal.com]

Had to read this again with my morning coffee. There are still too many wonderful lines to site, but I'll pick just two...

The ink flows out over the paper in incomprehensible swirls and strokes, fine bold lines, a flourish here and there, so evocative of their scribe.

We have never seen Jack Sparrow's writing, but this thing with the swirls and flourishes is certainly canon. How could it be otherwise?

The magic words that will always speak to her now—will always say “Anamaria” and “Jack”.

The idea that words written on a page really speak to us is a familiar idea, something I really started to think about when my children began to learn to read. Such a vital skill, one that effects every aspect of life.

The addition of the little line in the midst of Jack's goose quill statements worked perfectly.

You know how I love romance, and this has more sensuality to it than 90% of the smut out there. Beautifully done, my dear.

*saves to memories*

[honorat.livejournal.com]

Oh, it’s so sweet of you to comment on this after you’ve already beta-ed it.

Jack’s handwriting insisted on being written this way. If it isn’t canon, it should be.

As a writer and a voracious reader, I must admit to being in love with words. And as a teacher, I see what a difference a mastery of language makes in people’s lives. While in this time period many people couldn’t read or write, then as now, writing was power and advantage. Anamaria would realize that. And I couldn’t resist having her accidentally doodling their names together—although maybe that was a deep Sparrow plot (he would!).

I’m so glad the muse provided romance to help the coffee and the day go down. I do prefer the non-traditional sensual descriptions where the emotion is just under the surface instead of overt. I’m reminded of a very old example, the pottery scene in “Ghost”—not a stereotypical move in the whole scene, but Wow! And the finger painting scene in “Benny and Joon”. Am I sensing a trend here? Art is sexy! I do like the juxtaposition of sensuality over ordinary acts, things that would not normally register become charged with significance. I’m happy you found this sensuous. So much smut misses the slow dance in its hurry to get to the bed. I happen to like the tension of almost, but not quite.

I’m honoured that you found this worth remembering. Thank you so much. Your comments mean a lot to me.

(p.s. This is the third time I’ve tried to write this comment. The computer ate the first two, so now I’m writing this in Word first—I swear my computer is inhabited by demons or cats--yes it ate it a third time, so now I'm trying this from home.)

[felaine.livejournal.com]

Tried to cut and paste favorite lines to comment on, but ended up with half the fic.

Ana's reaction to entering Jack's cabin, even when she was captain, was great.

Love the secret look of their names, and how it would seem such magic to someone without the skill. Jack presents learning in a way she can accept without being put down.

Jack's remarks about whether or not Ana needs to kill the goose, or be bitten by it, are so clever.

Jack sees this as fun, just for her. He can find fun in many places, as you showed in your Island sequences with Elizabeth.

We don't know from your story which paper Ana folded and put next to her heart, do we? You tease.

How about a drawing of Jack and Ana in the Pearl's cabin, at the desk while he teases her with his hair on her face? (Greedy pirate.)

Felaine

[honorat.livejournal.com]

*Bounce* So glad you liked this. I enjoyed playing with the tension between them, both mistrust and attraction. The magic of writing seemed something Anamaria would covet, and Jack would know how to handle her pride so that this is just another challenge he is sure she is up to.

The fun and games is just so much a part of the man who would think about teaching the "Pirate Song" to his crew. I can't imagine things are always business on the Pearl. I'll leave the paper up to your imagination for now. *Smirk*

That picture would indeed be a lovely one. Perhaps someday I'll feel comfortable enough with their likeness to branch out into original poses.

Thank you so much for commenting. It means a lot to me.

[hereswith.livejournal.com]

You've mangaged to convey Anamaria's thirst for knowledge, and the sense that there's something magical and almost mystical about writing, very well here. I especially liked this sentence: When she leaves the room, her voice will remain behind, tucked within warm leather covers. And ...the table with its trappings of literacy... is great.

[honorat.livejournal.com]

Yes words are a type of magic. Twenty-six letters in the English alphabet can give us everything from Shakespeare to Pinter. And there's power in them too. So writing is a bit mystical. I'm glad you like my version of Anamaria--who knows this is a weapon she needs. Thank you for your comments and for letting me know what you liked about this.

[piratepurple.livejournal.com]

Beautiful.

[honorat.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much.

[jenthegypsy.livejournal.com]

Taking a break from an increasingly hectic RL for what seems like my one read of the week which I am allowed - very, very nice piece. I think your true strengths show when you wander into totally uncharted waters such as this, the education of Anamaria. As others have said, there are many lines of note here, but these gain the crux of the matter for me -

She should have known she could never keep anything from those eyes. Slowly she pivots back to face him, her face angry and exposed.
He holds up a hand to forestall her. “There’s no shame in not knowing what you’ve never been taught.”

and

“A-n-a-m-a-r-i-a.” His free hand alights on her shoulder. “Anamaria,” he says.
“What!” she snaps, trying not to shrug off his hand and succeeding. Her discomfort would reveal more to Jack than she wants him to know.
“That’s what it says,” explains patiently. “It’s your name.”

Of course, the subtly intense sensuality doesn't hurt either!

(Vanishing back into the shadows of reality now - and I do so prefer the light of FanFic.... Ta!)

[honorat.livejournal.com]

It’s lovely to hear from you again. I’m sorry RL has been attempting to drown you, but I’m glad you dropped by. Thanks for letting me know my “we were the first who ever burst into that silent sea” works are succeeding. Sometimes I think that’s all I’m writing right now. For every one scene in the movie, I find I’m writing about six missing scenes so it's good to know when they're right.

Thanks for your comments on my Jack and Anamaria dynamic. They’re difficult characters to capture. I don’t think Jack can DO anything that’s not subtly sensuous. That man makes eyes at everyone and everything in that movie. I enjoyed trying to write him being a little more serious about it, and Anamaria trying to ignore him and her own reactions.

I do appreciate your feedback. I hope RL is treating you right. Thanks again.

[hendercats.livejournal.com]

*dawdles through lovely piece a second time*
*peruses comments*
Huh?? I know I commented on this. Phooey on feedback-eating bugaboos!!

I adore Jack as reading tutor! You've given him just the right amount of caring restraint, knowing just how to handle his skittish student. This is a beautiful piece!

Must point out the bit that brought a delighted laugh:
“The rest of the goose is gone, so it won’t bite.”

If you don't mind reading slash, you might enjoy another Jack-as-reading-teacher fic: tessabeth's Ink

[honorat.livejournal.com]

So sweet of you to re-write a computer-eaten comment. I've taken to writing my comments on my wordprocessor before pasting them here since I had to rewrite one three times once!

*blushes and bows and feels highly flattered* I'm so glad you liked this. It's funny how it seems right for Jack to be literate. I guess I just can't imagine a person who tosses around "ecumenically" and "grammatically" as illiterate. Jack is such a good manipulator of people that I'm sure he'd know just how to encourage a reluctant student without scaring her off. I love your use of the word "skittish" to describe Anamaria's reactions--it's perfect. Thank you again for commenting.

geek_mama_2 did recommend this, so I had a look. While slash is not usually my cup of tea, I do appreciate marvelous character-centric writing, and tessabeth is one of the best.

[virgo-79.livejournal.com]

I think I need to print this out and tuck it away for a rainy day. (Which today actually is, but then I'd have it for the next one.)

This is just perfect. Awesome, awesome concept, and both characters fit and shine so well here. I don't really do J/A, but this just *works*. It's not only a beuatiful story taken just for what it is, but it accomplishes something almost like foreplay, particularly here:"Anamaria freezes as he leans over her and covers her hand with his own, moving her fingers into a more relaxed and natural position. She can feel every callous, every scar, almost every crease and whorl of his palm and fingertips brushing the backs of her knuckles and fingers." That's erotic!

I love the description of Jack finally at ease in his work. Likewise Anamaria's observations and thoughts on the power and artistry behind writing. It's so easy a thing to take for granted, and considering it through her eyes is pretty powerful.

I love Ana's comparisons on their names and natures, and all that's implied in the presence of those two particular words on the page together.

“There’s no shame in not knowing what you’ve never been taught.” -- I love wise Jack.

“The rest of the goose is gone, so it won’t bite.” -- This may be the line that I can hear his voice in more than any other. LOL.

"For Jack, so it seems, fun is more to be desired than wealth." --If that ain't hitting the nail on the head.

Fabulous story!

[honorat.livejournal.com]

*Bounce* Such a lovely long comment. Makes me all happy for what is also a gray and foggy day here.

I'm so glad you like this. I don't really imagine Jack as the settling down type with anyone, actually. My favourite is Jack and the Pearl. But it's so tempting to write this stuff. And Jack flirts with everything and everyone, so even if he just wants to be friends or is after an opportune moment, I imagine he could wreak havoc pretty easily.

I did want that little sense of sensuality to run through this piece. That image of their hands was the one I started with. Hey, I'm a writer. How could I resist making writing lessons hot!

Thank you for letting me know the parts you liked. It means so much coming from such a splendid writer as yourself.

Jack's managed to get Anamaria doodling their names together, the sneaky scallywag.

I really relate to that philosophy of fun of Jack's. One of the reasons I love writing him. It's such fun! Even if economically a dead end.

Thank you again for the great feedback.

[alicederanged.livejournal.com]

I read this at fanfiction.net, I never get tired of it! I love it!

[honorat.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for dropping by to comment. I'm glad you like this. I've found myself writing quite a bit of fairly subtle Jack/Anamaria lately.

[tessabeth.livejournal.com]

Dammit, I said I was done bothering you for the day, and now it seems I lied.

1. This rocks. How I love present tense!
2. Especially She watches as the words of her report are translated into black symbols marching across a field of white. When she leaves the room, her voice will remain behind, tucked within warm leather covers.
3. This is delightfully freaky for me to read because in one of my extensive 'verses Jack went through something remarkably similar and I love revisiting the concept!! (It's here (http://community.livejournal.com/impofperversity/21680.html) if you're curious; but I warn you it's slashy and that might not be your bag.)
4. Letters, given implication through Anamaria's eyes just by their shapes. What a delightful conceit! I wonder what she made of the mystery of a capital A, versus a lower case.
5. MANUSCRIPTS! I love the things! Half my art revolves around manuscripts and maps. There, I knew I liked you. You are clearly a very Discerning Woman.
6. Okay, I'm really going to do some work, now.

[honorat.livejournal.com]

But what a nice lie!

1. I've written very few longer works in present tense, but a lot of drabbles that way. This one just insisted on it.

2. I remember the first time this really hit me. I had just started taking Latin and had translated an actual sentence from an early Roman author. The whole miracle of it simply swept over me. Over 2000 years ago, a man had sat down and put his thoughts onto a piece of parchment and here was I in the 20th century listening to the ghost of his voice as I read his words. It blew me away.

3. I couldn't resist making Jack a teacher. Slash isn't normally my thing, but your writing is absolutely beautiful. Here the student is a little more hungry for the instruction and has already figured out the advantages of literacy for herself. It makes for a very different dynamic, which is interesting. It is fun to see how different versions of similar ideas play out.

4. I could see their names in my head and it struck me that Jack's name in script was as crazily unique as he is, so I gave that epiphany to Anamaria.

5. There is something mysterious about manuscripts--their great age, their strange scripts, their puzzling abbreviations, all the little clues as to when and where and who and how in the codex itself. I remember the first time I opened a codex of medieval manuscripts and saw an actual bookworm hole. I'd heard about bookworms my whole life, but here was a real trail of one. I was utterly charmed. And then to actually touch the handwriting of the author whose 700 year old work I was studying, to think that his living hand once penned those words--it was a disgruntled complaint about the uselessness of the scribe who had transcribed that particular copy! Ha!--but Wow! Quite, quite addicting. It's lovely to meet another aficionado! What I like about ancient maps is what they say about the views their creators had of their universe and what was important to them--the way earlier maps would fill in the unexplored spaces with imaginary geographic details, but by the late 18th century those spaces were blank again--full of that so important space for the imagination. Too cool. I knew I liked you too! All Discerning People must admire Manuscripts!

6. Okay, I should really go to bed for it is 1:30 a.m. here. I hope you did get done some of that work you needed done!

And thank you again for taking the time to write.

[tessabeth.livejournal.com]

Re: 5... I live in the Newest part of the New World. We just don't have old things here. But last year I travelled in the UK (museums, museums, museums!) and out of the blue one morning, 'sploring a little town in Essex, I managed to wander into a library in the tower of a derelict church. It was a private library, a collection that had been donated to the town by a clergyman in 1704; 7000 books, dating back as far as 1487.

And the rule the clergyman had laid down when he made the bequest was that the books had to be available to anyone who wanted to read them. So when I, shaky with joy, said to the librarian, "What's the oldest thing you've got?" she just smiled and pulled out a FIVE HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN YEAR OLD BOOK and dumped it in my hands.

Yeah. Bookworm holes. Plenty. But I could hardly see them because I was going all blurry-eyed with tears of delight.

I sat at the table, texting YOU MUST COME HERE RIGHT NOW to viva_gloria, and I read that book, and another fantastic book printed in 1681, the account of a fellow who was captured in Ceylon and held in slavery for twenty years (the book had a forward by Christopher Wren, and was prefaced by Robert Hooke!); and the old fellow at the end of the table wanted to know whether I read Greek, because he was reading the clergyman's journals, which were full of incomprehensible jokes in Greek, and it was pissing the old guy off. "Um, no, but some Latin?" I offered, and he made a pfft noise and said he could manage those.

It was the most beautiful morning ever. They threw us out eventually because they were closing. I am quite horribly jealous of people who get to touch and see those things regularly. It sounds like you're very lucky! :)

[honorat.livejournal.com]

I also live in the New World, so it takes a huge effort to go visit manuscripts. Of course, I could hop the border, run to the Huntington Library in California, USA and not be allowed to see the Ellesmere Chaucer!

Now, do you happen to have a name for that little town in Essex? That sounds like a place I should visit on my next trip to the UK! Whenever that happens to be. I'm sure I can talk my university into making a trip part of my job!

My major experience with manuscripts was doing the research for a critical edition and translation of a 14th century work that is extant in two manuscripts, one in the Biblioteque Nationale du France and the other in the Archivio Segreto Vaticano. For that reason I "had" to spend five weeks in Paris and Rome. I have to say that was a highlight in my life.

At the Vatican, it was rather gratifying to finally make it past the Swiss Guards, the Security, the Interviews, and the Desk Guards to finally see the manuscripts. Since I speak no Italian and very few of the people I encountered spoke French and almost none spoke English, that was the one place in all the world where I could fall back on Latin for actual verbal communication! This is not something I am used to doing! Apparently the ability to read Latin excuses one from the stigma of being unable to speak Italian. I was a "scholar," so my ignorance was forgivable. Ha!

Someday, I hope to do more of that sort of research, but for now, I have to join you in envying the Old World from across one of the great Ditches.

[tessabeth.livejournal.com]

Now, do you happen to have a name for that little town in Essex? Oh goodness yes, it's burned into my brain! It's Maldon, and the library was called the Thomas Plume Library, it's in St Peter's Tower, on the main street. and in fact its opening hours are Tuesday & Thursday 2 till 4 and Saturday 10 till 12. And I turned up at 10.05 on a Saturday, out of sheer bloody luck!

Wangle a work trip into it? You, ma'am, have the luck of the devil. The Vatican, et al, sounds fantastic. FORCED to spend five weeks on the continent, how unfortunate :) And I am most impressed that your Latin is of Oral Quality. My mother came up with a lot of reasons why I had to take Latin, but "so's you can use it instead of Italian" was never one of them.

[honorat.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for that address. I'll have to find a way to get there, if I have to organize a study tour to do it. That's how I've managed to wangle a trip to The Oregon Shakespeare Festival every year. Take students! I have now seen all but two of Shakespeare's plays live.

I just about starved after that five week trip--took two years to recover financially, but what memories! And my Oral Latin is of the shakiest slowest variety. My excuse for learning Latin--and I did it deliberately after I had already graduated--was that I was tired of feeling inferior to fictional characters. I love dead languages and have set my sights on Coptic next.

By the way, the next chapter of "Crossing the Bar" is up HERE (http://honorat.livejournal.com/40094.html).