Date: Tue, 29 Jan 2008 08:49:09 -0500
From: John Ellison <paradegi@sympatico.ca>
Subject: Aurora Crusade - Epilogue

Aurora Crusade is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living
or dead, or to places and institutions, is purely coincidental.

The usual caveats apply.

This is the final chapter of "Aurora Crusade".

To all who have written with their comments and commentaries, my thanks. It
is difficult to think that the first book, the first chapter of which was
posted on Nifty in May, 2003, led to five books! It has been a long haul,
but not it is over. I hope that you all enjoyed my writings. I know I
enjoyed writing the books and bringing to life my beloved Boys of Aurora.

My plan now is to take a rest and then concentrate on other works that I
have waiting in my computer files. I shall return! One day, I hope, I shall
take up the Phantom's story again.

I wish to express my heartfelt thanks to my sterling, long suffering
editor, Peter, who has over the years borne my grumpiness with patience and
humour. His contributions to the overall series cannot be weighed.

Copyright John Ellison 2008

Aurora Crusade

Chapter 21

Epilogue


	The storm that had marred the Order Day Ceremonies continued
unabated. Snow piled higher and higher, sending sheets of the white stuff
whipping across the open areas, drifting into near eaves-high piles. The
leafless branches of the trees that lined the Long Walk whipped this way
and that as the wind howled through them.
	The Phantom stared out of the tall Palladian window of his office,
glad that at least the power was still on. Winter storms in the Ottawa
Valley were vicious and power outages were almost written in stone. As were
road and airport closures. The Phantom always kept a small radio on in his
office to monitor the weather, and was not surprised to learn of the
closure of the Trans Canada Highway between Ottawa and Renfrew. Highway
148, on the north shore of the Ottawa River, was also closed as far as
Grand-Calumet. Arnprior was, in effect, closed for the duration.
	As The Phantom returned to his desk he thought it a very good thing
that the ceremonies and afterwards ended when they did. With the roads
closed, and the small airport at Arnprior socked in, none of the Knights
would have got out, which would have meant a further strain on the
Hospital's facilities and disruptions all over the place! So far as The
Phantom knew, everybody - Harry, the Twins, and the others - had managed to
find Ottawa, although he doubted that the Ottawa airport was open. He knew
that thanks to the storm it would be days before he could stir from
Flagstaff House, which suited him perfectly.
	He needed the break. What with the ceremonies, the parties, and
dinners, The Phantom was woefully behind in his "boxes". They were
delivered every morning without fail by FedEx, and were piled on top of the
long, antique sideboard that stood under the window of his office. Then
there was the mail, piles of it, sitting on his desk, none of the envelopes
opened for days.
	Colin had been urging The Phantom to find a secretary, someone to
take care of the mundane correspondence, someone to help with the schedule,
and keep the Appointments Book. The Phantom was not quite resisting the
idea. He knew that a secretary would lift a weight off of his shoulders,
but who? A secretary would have to be a friend, someone who knew, or would
come to know, The Phantom's quirks, which he admitted were many and
annoying. As he considered Colin's idea The Phantom thought that there
simply was no one whom he could trust, dismissed the idea, and returned to
his papers.
	Although he did not realize it, The Phantom was scowling. He was
the Grand Master of the Order and with that title came unrelenting work! On
his shoulder seemed to rest any and all questions, queries, complaints and
general bitches of the Knights, and those who demanded knighthood! There
were also requests for charitable donations, which The Phantom never
acknowledged and, except for the Salvation Army, never sent a penny to. He
simply would not send a donation to any organization that seemed to spend
more money on so-called "administrative costs" and begging for more
donations than it ever did on the work it was supposed to be doing. Colin
called The Phantom a piker and a cheapskate. The Phantom felt he was merely
exercising fiscal responsibility.
	Which led The Phantom to read again the letter he had received from
Edouard Lotbiniere, the Prior of England, who needed money, at least
Ł100,000; more if the Trades Unions staged one of their infamous "work
stoppages"?
	Edouard had written that the London Hospital, which occupied a
former embassy compound between Palace Gardens Terrace and Brunswick
Gardens, was simply overflowing. The main building needed new plumbing, and
the Hospital was too small to house the small army (or so it seemed) of
rescued rent boys and waifs. Edouard wanted to build a new wing. He could,
and would, put the touch on his friends and his partner, Andreus Maartens,
who was a diamond broker of some prominence, and who would guarantee the
whole sum. This was not surprising. Andreus was well-respected in the City,
and his signature alone was good for any sum, from any bank, including "The
Old Lady of Threadneedle Street": the Bank of England.
	The Phantom twiddled his silver Cross fountain pen, thinking. Money
was not a problem. The Order was not exactly flush with cash, but there
were other resources available. In the corner of the office was a floor
safe in which were kept not only The Phantom and Colin's Chains of Office,
but also the emerald parure that The Gunner's aunt had bequeathed to him so
many years ago. The jewels had never been used to finance any of the
Order's activities since then, although The Gunner had come close a few
times, before and during his tenure as Grand Master. They would easily
fetch the required sum at "Uncle's".
	Still, a decision had to be made so The Phantom flashed up his
laptop, punched in his password and accessed the financial files of The
Keeper of the Common Treasure.
	Gabriel Izard, who had more or less inherited the post from Major
Meinertzhagen when he passed on, was a very careful, very conservative man
when it came to the Order's money. He had invested well and the accounts
were in order. There would not be, on Gabe's watch, any fiddling with the
books, as had happened back in 1976. Of course, the fiddlers had paid a
price for their malfeasance, and the Order had actually gained much more
than it had lost, thanks to the efforts and general all-around sneakiness
of Joel Chiang.
	Joel, a cousin of Michael Chan's, was a computer geek of the first
water and what he could not do with a computer had not yet been thought
of. The Phantom missed the cantankerous man, who complained and moaned but
always came through. Joel had managed to hack into mainframes of many banks
and found the hidden hoards not only of Logan, but of Willoughby, and also
of three of the Knights who had supported them, using their financial
acumen to milk the Order of millions of dollars, through a non-existent
German pharmaceutical research company. Much of the money they had
sequestered had gone to pay Willoughby's debts and to cover his stock
losses. Logan, who had been a miser, simply hid his profits in off-shore
accounts in Switzerland, Liechtenstein and the Cayman Islands. They had
also laundered money for Edmund Stennes, who had been even more secretive
than Logan. Joel found it all, using a prototype Cray Super Computer,
cackling away as his fingers followed the money trails.
	Thinking of Joel, The Phantom felt a wave of melancholy sweep
through him. He stared into the fire blazing in the fireplace. Joel had
died much too young, and in great distress from AIDS. So had Joel's
partner, Cousin Tommy Chan, who had lasted a year after Joel died.
	There had been others, of course. The epidemic had lasted 20 years
now, and while the list of Knights who had perished from AIDS was small,
there had been others. Paul Greene, the nemesis and bane of the Boys of
Aurora, was dead of it, dying noisily in the Hospice of St. John in
Toronto, with only Simon Keppel, whose ministrations Paul refused, as he
did not believe in God . . .

******

	GRIDS . . . AIDS . . . The virus had many names, all of them
promising death. The governments of the United States and Canada and of
England and France and Germany, paid little heed to the reports of their
health services. No one in power cared a damn. Why spend money on a disease
that killed fags? The churches, the charge led by the bishops of the
Catholic Church and the demented televangelists of the Fundamentalist
Religious Right, considered the disease God's vengeance on man for their
being queer.
	The epidemic was in its early stages, the first cases reported in
1981, and public outrage turned victims, no matter how innocent, into
pariahs. Children were driven from their burned out homes by overweight,
slatternly self-righteous viragos, trailer trash for the most part. Doctors
refused to treat patients, no matter that they had sworn an oath to treat
the sick - one dippy female surgeon would only operate on an HIV positive
patient wearing what could only be described as an astronaut's space suit!
The preachers had a field day. The day of wrath had come to those who
ignored the Word of God!
	Families were shattered, friendships destroyed, and the victims,
denied their basic human rights, denied medical care, denied housing,
denied work, and were left to die in whatever corner they could
find. Mutual consent said that they deserved what was happening to them.
	Government callousness and public indifference led to the formation
of AIDS communities, which rallied the local gay communities. They and they
alone, would care for their brothers.
	Michael Chan was fully aware of what was happening. He could not
help it for the disease touched not only the Order, but his family. Joel
Chiang, Michael's cousin and schoolboy lover, fell ill and wasted
away. Cousin Tommy Chan, Joel's partner, followed. Demonized by his
children, and vilified by his wife, Cousin Tommy had suffered the torments
of the damned. Michael had arranged for his care and when Cousin Tommy
mercifully died, had ordered, as he had for Joel, a monumental funeral,
complete with a band. He dared the Chinese community to take
exception. Wisely, none did.
	Michael's wrath descended on Cousin Tommy's wife and
children. Although Cousin Tommy and his family were estranged and lived
apart, there had been no divorce and in the Chinese tradition Tommy was
still the head of their household. Cousin Tommy had provided for them and
when he fell ill should have been able to rely on them for his care. Cousin
Tommy's family did not offer even lip service to tradition. They refused to
have anything to do with their provider and when Cousin Tommy died they did
not attend his funeral. It was whispered that Cousin Tommy's eldest son had
murmured, "Let him die in the street like a dog!" when informed of his
father's illness. The whisper did not take long to reach the ears of the
Emperor of Chinatown.
	The money that had kept them all in style and paid for the tuitions
of Cousin Tommy's children to the finest schools suddenly stopped
flowing. The bank, with the principal borrower dead, demanded immediate
payment of the mortgage on the house the family lived in. Cousin Tommy's
widow appealed to the family for help. None was forthcoming, for Michael
had growled, "Let them eat grass!" Eventually, with no home, no prospects
and no money, the family moved away, some said to San Francisco, some said
to Toronto. Michael knew where they had fled to and his wrath followed
them. The last he heard of them was that they were living on Social
Assistance in Montreal, in a welfare flat.
	As time passed, other names would be added to the list of the dead,
although only one would be a Knight. Nathan Berman, who was not Jewish by
the way, and a rising star in the Democratic Party in Seattle, suddenly
withdrew from public life. While there were rumours, Nathan never admitted
or denied them. His family, who knew the truth, and ashamed that a son of
their house would be not only gay, but suffering the Wrath of the Lord
because of it, turned their backs. Friends drifted away except for two
memories from Nathan's past. Bob Herzog and Jeremy Cohen, ex-Sea Cadets who
had sailed with Nathan, and loved him, stepped forward. They knew of
Nathan's love for Cory and when Nathan called for him in his delirium,
Jeremy Cohen called Vancouver. Nathan died in Cory's arms on the 12th of
March 1984.

******

	Other names, more than could be believed, began to surface. Sandro
Signaransky married and with sons of his own, had never forgotten his first
true love, Chad Peters. Sandro knew of Chad's promiscuity, and his openly
gay lifestyle. Chad had loved widely, and so it seemed inevitable that he
would contract the disease.
	When the Boys had left Aurora back in 1976, Chad had gone home. He
was not in love with Sandro, but he did stay in contact with the Russian
boy. Later, Chad had moved to Toronto. Here he cut a broad swathe in the
bath houses of what would become known as the "Gay Village". Arrested in
the infamous "Bath House" raids in February 1981, Chad had evolved into an
activist for gay rights. He never gave up, and spent much of his time
lobbying the city, the province and the federal government.
	Chad blamed no one for his condition when he was diagnosed. He knew
that he had been handed a death sentence and worried only that he might
have infected someone who had never ceased loving him. Chad, a founding
member of the AIDS Committee of Toronto, in extremis, reached out and
contacted Simon Keppel. When he was informed that Sandro was not only
healthy, but married and the father of two fine sons, Chad nodded, turned
his head and closed his eyes. He never opened them again.
	Simon contacted Sandro, who came to Chad's funeral and afterward
sat alone in a dark room. Before he flew back home Sandro visited Chad's
grave and placed on it a small bouquet of red tea roses, in the language of
flowers a sign that Sandro would never forget his first love.
	Each year, on the anniversary of Chad's death a similar bouquet
appeared.

******

    Michael Chan realising that the gay community and the dying could not
depend on the government or the churches to care for them met with The
Gunner. AIDS was in the Canadian mainstream, it was now a part of life and
something had to be done. The Gunner agreed and arranged for the proceeds
of the auction of his aunt's jewels to be paid to the Order.
	Held in Monte Carlo, the auction had attracted bids from all over
the world. Chaim Goldschmidt, The Gunner's agent, had spent a small fortune
researching the provenance of the jewellery and the sum raised, 3,378,450
US dollars, far exceeded the initial estimates. While perhaps half of the
money was allocated to the Toronto Hospital, and in the initial
construction of the Hospital at Arnprior, the balance was used to establish
two hospices, one in Vancouver, and one in Toronto.
	The Gunner found a rambling old wreck of a Victorian mansion,
bought it, and refurbished it, turning it into a pleasant home for gay men
to die in. He reached out and appointed Simon Keppel, one of the original
"Boys of Aurora" and an ordained Anglican priest, as administrator. Simon
left his small working-class parish in Richmond and moved to Toronto.
	Simon had grown into a warm, caring young man. He understood the
hatred and bigotry that drove homeless men to the hospice. With the help of
caring volunteers he turned the hospice into a refuge, and while he knew,
as his patients knew, that none of them would ever emerge alive, he
persevered. The doors of the hospice opened in 1983 and never turned anyone
away.
	At the time The Phantom was busy furthering his career as a Reserve
naval officer, and fulfilling his duties as Prince of the Order. He and
Colin had taken the second floor of Mary Randolph's house in Victoria and
were quite happy.
	For The Phantom, 1983 had been busier than usual. He had foregone
his usual summer of training with the Naval Reserves - they didn't seem to
be going anywhere soon and, as he was also a Honourary Aide-de-Camp to the
Queen, and a Midshipman in the RNR, he decided to standardize his Royal
Navy connection by attending a course for Reserve Officers at Britannia
Royal Navy College. When he returned he was faced with Christmas, which was
approaching at a rate of knots. He had always enjoyed Christmas, and had
returned from shopping, trying to find a gift for Colin, when the telephone
rang. It was Simon, and one of his charges was dead. When Simon spoke the
name of the charge, The Phantom had to sit down.
	Paul Greene, Little Big Man, was dead.

******

	The death of Edmund Stennes had left his protégé and sometimes bed
partner a wealthy young man. Paul was living in Germany, at first in a
duplex supplied courtesy of the Canadian Armed Forces. His father, falling
deeper and deeper into alcoholism, had been arrested for his neo-Nazi
activities and given a rare (for the CAF) dishonourable discharge. Only the
fear of a scandal had kept him out of jail. Paul, flush with money, paid
the old man off and he disappeared. Where he went, no one cared.
	Frustrated at his inability to wreak his revenge on his brother,
Matt, Paul had also arranged for the repatriation of his mother, sisters,
and brother back to Canada. He never regretted his decision and was glad to
see the back of them. Save for a large cheque, enclosed annually in the
tackiest Christmas card he could find, he had no contact with his family.
	Stennes had chosen his heir well. Paul was a sharp operator, and
smart enough not to continue Stennes' activities in the buying and selling
of young boys. Stennes' business partners had tried to take over, which
Paul had expected. Stennes had expected that and had ensured the legality
of everything he had bequeathed to the tow-headed young man. His will had
been watertight and the partners knew better than to push Paul. He knew too
much, and was not averse to revealing certain facts and secrets and once
they realized that he was a venal as they were, and much more vicious, they
left him alone. That he also surrounded himself with thugs and Nazis, all
of whom catered to his every whim, and knew how to use their fists and
feet, and his connections with the German and French criminal underworld,
made his enemies pause.
	Paul's age prevented him from having direct access to his
money. Stennes had expected this and had appointed a conservator, a
Silesian priest name Bernard Huber. The priest was very old, but completely
honest and, at least as far as Stennes had been concerned, his credentials
were impeccable. Huber had spent much of his career in Rome, in the German
College and had been actively involved in ODESSA, the organization that
provided documents and assistance to high-ranking SS officers escape the
clutches of the Allies at the end of World War II.
    Huber, who had been forcibly retired back to Germany, at first tried to
restrain Paul's spending. Paul threatened to inform the German authorities
about Huber's wartime activities. Huber, old and frightened, and not keen
on spending his declining years in a dank prison, signed . . . and signed
. . . and signed, until Paul grew weary of him and spoke to two of his
neo-Nazi associates. One day the priest left his small house and never
returned.
	Paul settled into a small villa in the town of Weltersbach, which
was just north and west of Ramstein. The villa was surrounded by over 300
hectares of forests and fields, and boasted a huge barn. This Paul turned
into a "studio". With Stennes dead, Paul could now indulge himself and put
into play several of his ideas. He had deliberately settled near Ramstein
because just to the south was the large U.S. Air Force Base, populated by
thousands of airmen who craved booze, sex and drugs.
	The near-collapse of the U.S. military after the war in Viet Nam
played into Paul's hands. He listened to the gossip, read the papers, and
heard the reports that his skinhead colleagues gave him. Drug use was
rampant and if half the stories that made the rounds about the Amerikaners
were true, then a good portion of the base population was high most of the
time. Paul used this dependency on narcotics to his advantage.
	Before Stennes' death, Paul had thought of exploring the new video
cameras, and using them to tape porn. Pornography was a huge business, Paul
knew, and while much of the product was on 16mm film, he thought that
videotaping the "actors" would be easier. Using his contacts (or rather
Stennes') with the criminal underworld and black market, Paul purchased
equipment, refurbished the barn and hired a man who had once worked with
Leni Riefenstahl.
    From Paul's perspective it was all ridiculously easy. A thousand marks
went a long way with the always broke soldiers and airmen. Paul laid in a
supply of cocaine, marijuana and heroin. He spread the word through a
network of whores and pimps and before very long he had a stable. The
Americans, all young, some hung, could not resist Paul's lures. Not only
were they given free access to drugs and booze, which loosened their
inhibitions, and broads, they were paid larges sums to have sex with the
women. Since most of them were high during the videotaping, they made no
objections to their actions being taped. If they did, Paul stopped filming,
threw more money at them, and then showed them the door.
	At first, Paul concentrated on straight, run of the mill,
heterosexual porn. However, given his proclivities, he soon ventured into
the world of gay porn. He had strengthened Stennes' ties with the neo-Nazi
organizations and gathered around him a large group of men and boys who
revered Adolph Hitler and all he stood for. Paul used these "Jugend", as he
referred to them, for all his dirty work, and as his partners in sex. In
was no great leap to convince them to become part of his stable.
	As the popularity of home videotape players exploded, so did the
market for videotaped pornography. Paul's early decisions had placed him at
the core of a most lucrative business.
	Paul continued to expand his empire. Sex was a money maker, and
while he was astute enough to know if something was forbidden, the more men
lusted after it. While he stayed clear of anything that hinted of sexual
slavery, Paul invested in brothels in Hamburg, in Antwerp and
Marseilles. He also invested in a small travel agency.
	In the summer of 1982 Paul went to Bangkok, studied the
demographics and the sex trade there, and soon men were being offered
all-in packages to Bangkok, complete with hotel accommodation, and tours of
the red light districts. Business boomed and Paul was well on his way to
being an even wealthier man than he had been.
	The only cloud on Paul's horizon was the slight malaise he seemed
to be suffering. He felt achy, had a fever, and more and more woke up to a
sweat-soaked bed. He saw a doctor who diagnosed general fatigue and
recommended that Paul take a long vacation.
	As his symptoms increased Paul felt worse and worse. He had been
tested for sexually transmitted diseases (one never knew, after all) but
everything had come back negative. By the end of 1982 Paul was nauseous
most of the time, and could not keep anything down. Shortly after the New
Year, Paul also discovered small, wine-coloured lesions on his torso. Then
he developed pneumonia and ended up in hospital where he was diagnosed with
Kaposi's sarcoma, a relatively indolent disease affecting elderly men from
the Mediterranean region, or of Eastern European Jewish descent, neither of
which Paul was.
	While he lay ill, Paul's businesses began to unravel. His partners
moved in and before he knew it Paul was no longer as important as he once
had been. His money was being frittered away on medical expenses. His
friends avoided him, thinking, rightly, that he was suffering from what the
news media called "The Gay Plague."
	Not wanting to die in Germany, Paul returned home. He first went to
Ottawa, but as he knew no one there, went on to Toronto where he checked
into St. Michael's Hospital, where they were doing research on his
disease. When the doctors told Paul that he was dying, and soon, he looked
around for a nursing home. None would have him, not even with the money he
offered for his care. He had AIDS and the mainstream medical establishment
wanted no part of him. A friendly orderly told Paul about a hospice that
would take him and he spent Thanksgiving, 1983, in the Hospice of St. John
of the Cross of Acre.
	As the days passed, and Paul's condition worsened, he became, if it
were possible, even angrier at the world. He abused the volunteers who
nursed him, and refused the comfort of the Church. He was dying, so let him
die in peace.
	Simon Keppel watched in silence as Paul Greene deteriorated. As
Christmas approached Paul was bedridden, incontinent, and medicated to near
stupor. During Paul's lucid moments, Simon urged him to make his peace with
God. Simon had known Paul when he had been a Sea Cadet, knew that Paul had
tried to implicate his fellow Sea Cadets in a sexual non-existent scandal
involving homosexuality and Sea Puppies, and was universally loathed
thereby.
	True to his vocation, Simon did everything he could to ensure that
Paul Greene would die with some dignity. Faced with Paul's stubborn refusal
to accept reality, and tendency to blame God and everyone and everything
but himself for his condition, Simon took to avoiding the man. He prayed
for Paul, as he did for all the hospice patients, but that was all. Let
Paul face his Maker on his own terms.
	Simon was administering the last rites to a dying patient when one
of the volunteers came into the room. With the last prayers said, the
volunteer told Simon that Paul wanted to see him. Hoping against hope that
Paul had at last seen the light, Simon hurried to his room where, not
unexpectedly, his hopes were dashed. Paul would not reconcile himself with
God. He would not reconcile himself with man. He was quite lucid, knew
where he was, and knew that his time was short. He asked about the Boys of
Aurora and Simon told him of their successes.
	Paul was unimpressed. He had hated them all his life and he would
hate them with his last breath. Most of all he had hated his brother,
Matt. Paul's only regret was that he had been unable to wreak his revenge
on his brother. He had tried, but The Gunner, aided by Laurence Howard, had
kept his promise. Matt was placed under surveillance by a team of former
SAS and ex-Royals. They had been discreet, and Matt never knew of their
presence. The neo-Nazi thugs that Paul had ordered to take care of his
brother did, however.
	One night, Matt had left his school in Lahr, the Canadian military
base, and went into town, to buy Christmas cards. He did not see the car
following him - the streets and sidewalks were filled with shoppers - but
those in the car saw the boy being accosted by three obvious
skinheads. While shoppers scattered, the men in the car rushed to Matt's
aid. The skinheads, who had been assured by Paul that there would be no
problems paused in their attack, and paid the price. When the police
arrived they found three bodies sprawled on the sidewalk, bleeding, one
with testicles so badly damaged that they had to be removed. Paul tried to
be stoic, and while he did rage at the failure, never let his hatred for
Matt die.
	Simon listened to the raving and the hatred, tried to convince Paul
that there was a new life waiting for him, that death was but pause on the
pathway of God's plan for all mankind. Laughing behind the oxygen mask that
covered his face, Paul cursed God and mankind. He ripped off his mask and
spat at Simon. "That to God!" he snarled.
	Simon watched as Paul's wasted body grew paler. Never a muscular
man, Paul resembled a talking, raspy-skinned skeleton. As Simon watched
Paul began to descend into dementia, ranting, raving, cursing, Sieg Heiling
and calling on Adolph Hitler. He returned once, to the time when he had
been a Sea Cadet, his moans of lust filling the hospice corridors with his
moans and lascivious demands for an unknown partner to increase his
thrusting, to hurry and slake the appetite of a beast that raged in the
dying man.
	Shaken, Simon had retreated and prayed, not only for Paul, but for
deliverance from this horrible plague. It was all he could do.
	Paul Greene died alone, with no one there to hold his hand, or wipe
his brow. As he had rejected God, his body was cremated and buried in the
Hospice Plot in Mount Pleasant Cemetery. His grave was not that far away
from that of Chad Peters, and no flowers ever appeared on it.

******

 	An exploding ember brought The Phantom back to the reality of
now. He shook his head sadly. As he uncapped his fountain pen and wrote a
note to the Keeper of the Common Treasure to arrange for the requested
funds to be sent to Edouard Lotbiniere in London, he thought that while
Paul Greene had been the personification of evil, he had also been, for a
brief time, a part of the Tapestry. His shade had faded into nothingness,
and The Tapestry lived on. Other figures had been added, all of them men
and boys who had participated in the rescue of the Lost Boys. Alex
Grinchsten, Pete Sheppard, Ned Hadfield, the minders and the Cousins, all
had been woven into the cloth. Brendan Lascelles, The Phantom's brother,
his figure vibrant in red and blue and gold, stood amongst them, his face
calm, his eyes bright with the love for his brother, the ivory baton of a
Knight of Justice clutched in his hand.
	As the Tapestry grew, so did the Order. Priories were
re-established, new men welcomed and other men rejected. The Order was
stronger now, the strength of the Order resting with the men it
accepted. Michael Chan, and Stephen Winslow, as Grand Masters had done
their best to ensure that the Order chose wisely. It was only after he had
accepted the Sceptre and Collar of the Grand Master, The Phantom realised
just how difficult the selections could be. Character of the candidate was
everything, and both Michael and The Gunner had relied heavily on Chef, who
could spot a farceur at a hundred yards. But . . .
	Chef was gone his expertise and experience with him. The Phantom,
while he had proven near-infallible when adding figures to the Tapestry,
never claimed to be as great a judge of character as Chef had been and
relied on the reports sent to him by the Priors of the Order. These men had
been appointed either by Michael or The Gunner. They made mistakes - as all
men did - but in the main had chosen new candidates well and The Phantom
was smart enough to overrule them only rarely.
	Still, from time to time problems did arise, witnessed by the
letter he extracted from the next box he opened. The Prior of Germany and
East Prussia had decided to reject the application of a candidate. His
reason was valid. The man, a princeling of the Catholic branch of the
Hohenzollerns, refused to abide by Article 24 of the Rule of the Order. He
had been offered, and rejected a Companionship. The Prior had tried to
reason with the prince, to no avail. He would not under any circumstances
be circumcised. His Church forbade it, and his tradition confirmed the ban.
	Sighing, The Phantom resorted to the Internet. He flashed up his
laptop, punched in his password and "Googled" the prince. The man was well
known, was a member of every aristocratic organization in Europe, a Knight
of the Golden Fleece, and related to half the Almanach de Gotha. He was
also as rich a Croesus. He could be a good friend; he could also be a bad
enemy, one with money and connections.
	The Phantom was, if anything, a purist when it came to the Order,
and the Rule. What was written was written. The Rule had been codified, not
without difficulty, and Article 24 confirmed by Proclamation. There could
be no exceptions, no mitigating circumstances and no amount of money could
buy a knighthood. A candidate might rant, he might rave, but no amount of
shouting or threatening could, or would, persuade The Phantom to break his
Oath.
	To refresh his memory, The Phantom called up the Codified Rule of
the Order, and the proclamations issued by Michael Chan. Everything was as
clear as a crystal note. Closing the laptop, The Phantom frowned. Every
priory had a copy of the Codified Rule, and there should have been no
problems at all, which had not been the case back in the early days of the
resurging Order.
	Everything back then depended on memory, on making things up as
they went along, or on the incomplete history of the Order written by
Bertie Arundel - the Twins' father - and crumbling, faded archives rescued
from wars and a century, at least, of indifference. There were no questions
now, but back in 1976 . . .

******

	As Grand Master of the Order, Michael Chan had dedicated his life
to rebuilding it. He was prepared to expend vast sums, if that was what was
needed, to re-establish the "Lost Priories". He was, however, a man of
business, with far ranging contacts, partners and interests. He could not,
no matter how much he tried, or relied on the assistance of Chef, The
Gunner, and his Knights, or Bertie Arundel, give too much attention to the
details of rebuilding.
	It was not that Michael wanted the situation to remain as it
was. He was just as anxious to stabilize and standardize the Order's rules
and regulations. However, at the time he was much too busy dealing with the
aftermath of the "Eighth Crusade", as Chef called it, and the demise of
General Minh and his compatriot, Diem.
	No one expected that the sudden disappearance of five apparently
"upstanding citizens" would go unnoticed. They all had friends and
co-workers who would question their absence and sooner or later the police
would be notified. Michael had planned for this and the only surprise was
that no one seemed to know or care that the late and obviously unlamented
Doctor Bradley-Smith had wandered off into the mist. The Canadian Armed
Forces, with a letter of resignation from the doctor on file, seemingly had
other fish to fry and never questioned the reasoning behind the
resignation. The doctor's family was equally indifferent. They wanted no
reminder of their homosexual son and had spurned him years before. A
"faggot" son was an embarrassment in their tight-knit, conservative
community and the less they heard of him the better.
	The police, on the other hand, were required to investigate the
sudden disappearance of four seemingly well-respected, well-known members
of the community. They had no choice, really, not with family and, in two
cases, politicians asking questions. That they were essentially spinning
their wheels, courtesy of Michael Chan and Cousin Tommy, the police never
realized.
	The Missing Persons Bureau went through the motions. They searched
the homes and offices of the missing men and discovered certain articles
that hinted at a dark doings: photographs, bank statements showing large
transfers to accounts overseas that seemed to no longer exist and, even
more disturbing, evidence that little boys had shared the homes of the
men. Each home searched showed signs of hasty departure. Dressers drawers
gaped open and closets had been seemingly torn apart. Scattered about were
rejected articles of clothing that could only be worn by boys . . . little
boys. The detectives raised their eyebrows and their eyes scanned the
photographs. In every house they found snapshots of the missing men with
little boys, a variety of little boys. The Chief of Detectives opined that
something stank to high heaven and the detectives dug a little deeper.
	Inquiries at the airport showed that each of the four men had
departed the country. Their names appeared on four passenger lists. The
check-in clerks recalled the names, and agreed that the photographs the
police officers showed them certainly looked like the men in question. The
detectives then went the next step, and queried the authorities in the
destination countries. The police in Bangkok, in Rio de Janeiro, Hong Kong
and Cairo confirmed that the men had passed through immigration control -
alone. Where they went after they landed was anybody's guess and while they
would "make the usual in inquiries", nobody seemed all that
interested. After all, if a man wanted to hide in their countries, for
whatever reason, and had the money to sustain him in the hiding, who were
they to question?
	The police also accessed the men's bank records, which showed the
transfer of their wealth (Joel had been busy) to foreign accounts, which
could not be accessed by anyone, including the police, who had no
authorization to do so.
	The niggling question of the boys, or at least the evidence that
the men had kept boys, continued to haunt the detectives. The men had left
Canada alone, so what had happened to the boys? No one seemed to
know. Michael Chan added to the confusion of the police by arranging for
carefully planted newspaper articles, mostly uncorroborated bits of gossip
in the tabloids. The men were boy lovers, and every time the police turned
around another can of worms opened. Eventually it was decided by all
concerned that perhaps certain suspected facts should be left to moulder
away in the Cold Case Lock-up.
	The police investigation was hindered by another set of crime
investigations. With the death (or at least the disappearance) of Minh and
Diem, all hell broke loose in Little Saigon. Minh, aided by Diem, had
spread his tentacles wide, his interests including drugs, prostitution,
gambling and loan sharking. Diem had owned two construction companies, and
had interests in several other legitimate businesses. With the general out
of the picture, everyone wanted a piece the action.
	Van Trang had been the first to make a grab for part of Minh's
empire. The car containing the bodies of Ming and Diem had scarcely been
stowed on board the waiting freighter when Trang appeared at the Dallas
Street brothel. He announced that Minh had joined his ancestors and that
he, Van Trang, was now the boss. The denizens of the brothel were
indifferent to who called the shots. So long as they got their cut of the
action who cared who sat in the office? Their indifference was buttressed
when the hulking doorman took umbrage. He was a cousin of Diem's, and
wanted no part of an ignorant, ill-educated Saigon Cowboy. Blood was blood
and if anyone deserved to inherit the brothel, it was he. Trang did not
argue the point. He drew his pistol and shot the man between the eyes. When
the body was carted away Trang moved in.
	Trang did not last long. The Vancouver Vice Squad had had the place
under surveillance for a month and the war that broke out in Little Saigon
led them to raid the house. Van Trang was taken into custody and charged
with keeping a common bawdy house and living off the avails of
prostitution. He was incarcerated in the city jail where he unwisely
spurned the advances of a large, very horny Aboriginal. Two trustees
cleaned up the ensuing mess and the city buried Trang in an unmarked grave,
between a Jane Doe who had died of a drug overdose outside of the Carnegie
Library, and a derelict that had gone to glory thanks to a brain
aneurism. Nobody missed any of them.
	With Minh dead, and so many people trying to fill his shoes, it was
inevitable that the bodies began to pile up. The Italians, long a power in
the drug trade, moved in. Another Vietnamese faction objected and the
bullets flew. Yet another gang tried to take over Minh's loan sharking
business, much to the anger of the original, as it were, owners. More
bullets flew.
	Michael was busy with his own interests, not the least of which was
furthering the Italians' scheme to counterfeit near perfect $100 notes. The
Triads were interested, as expected, and Michael was working hard to keep
them that way. He was also trying to placate the Soongs. Michael's
rejection of their daughter had not set well with the Soongs, and they had
lost face. That they knew that Michael knew that they had been in the K'ang
affair up to their necks did not help the Soongs at all. Michael pointed
out in stringent tones that they were lucky that face was all they
lost. After all, they could hardly blame him for taking a dim view of their
plot to eliminate him!
	With all his problems, Michael welcomed the war in Little
Saigon. Not only did it deflect attention from him, and his business
interests, for he had been very careful not to involve himself, it also
took the heat off of the investigation of the missing men and boys.
	Well satisfied with the state of affairs, Michael devoted time to
the Order. He was, along with Chef, not pleased at the confusion
surrounding the Rule and the Investiture of the new Knights. Michael, who
hated confusion and disorder, wanted to standardize the Rule and
unknowingly walked into the middle of a religious war.

******

	The history of the Order in the Holy land had been short lived and
bloody. In accordance with the Gospel preached to them by St. John, they
raised no great temples, and the Knights of the Order carried out their
work quietly and discretely. The "Mother House", the first priory, was
established in the coastal city of Acre in 1105, by three Knights. Their
purpose was to guard the army of pilgrims that descended on Outremer (as
the Kingdom of Jerusalem was called), and provide them with food, clothing,
shelter and what medical assistance as existed at the time. The Order grew
slowly and in 1110 purchased a small house in Latrun, on the road to
Jerusalem.
	While Jerusalem had fallen to the Crusaders in 1099, the Knights of
the Order had avoided the city. The Kingdom of Jerusalem was a morass of
political intrigue, religious intolerance, and the Knights wanted no part
of it. The Hospitallers, and the Templars, knowing the Order of St. John of
the Cross of Acre for want it was, an order of homosexual knights, with no
ambitions, and no religious protection, more or less left the Order
alone. They ruled in Jerusalem and Outremer. As the Order never interfered
in anything, and gave nominal allegiance to the King, no one objected when
the Order decided to establish a small hospital in Jerusalem, to house
pilgrims.
	True to their vocation, the Knights sought no great temple to house
their Order and pilgrims. They found a small inn, located on a square
surrounded by stone buildings as old as the inn and surrounded by the
workshops of tinsmiths who supplied pots and pans to the poorest of the
poor. The inn was located just inside the Bab al-Maghariba, the Dung
Gate. Here they stayed, unnoticed until 1187.
	In 1187 Salah al-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub, known to history as Saladin,
invaded Outremer. The Order responded to the call of Guy de Lusignan, King
of Jerusalem and followed him, and the True Cross, to the Horns of
Hattin. Of the 23 knights, six pages and 70 footmen who marched out of
Jerusalem, only four knights and one page survived the battle. They,
together with the surviving Templars and Hospitallers, were executed.
	Saladin marched on Jerusalem and besieged it. The city, under the
leadership of Balian of Ibelin, resisted from the 20th of September until
the 2nd of October 1187, when Balian handed over the keys to the Tower of
David to Saladin's envoys. Balian and all Christians were given 50 days to
leave the city.
	As there were no Knights left in the city, the three squires who
had been left behind, locked the gates to the Hospital of St. John of the
Cross of Acre, and joined the column of refugees trekking to the
coast. What they left behind no one knew for no one would ever enter the
Hospital again.
	With the fall of Jerusalem, Latrun was abandoned and the Order
confined to the Mother House in Acre, where it remained until 1291, when
the Christians were forced from the city. The Knights took with them their
archives, their Articles of Faith, and the only copy of the Rule of the
Order.
	With Palestine lost, the Knights settled in Austria and enjoyed the
patronage of the Imperial House of Hapsburg. The surviving Knights began to
rebuild and priories were established in England, in France and in
Prussia. The Knights avoided politics, avoided kings and emperors, and went
about their work quietly.
	While the Order continued to exist, it did not grow. Homosexuality
was anathema. Homosexual men avoided anything that might hint at their
sexuality. Every nation on earth proscribed it. In England being found to
be a homosexual brought prison sentences. In Germany, it brought
death. Some of the priories were closed, others existed in near
poverty. Even in the New World, where there had been so much hope, the
Order was more or less moribund, the leadership commandeered by men more
interested in slaking their lust and using the Order's funds for their own
use than in furthering the aims of the Order, men who ignored the Rule of
the Order, unless it could be used to gain their own ends.
	For more 685 years the Hospital at Jerusalem remained in Limbo.

******

	As Chancellor, Michael Chan had inherited custodianship of the
artefacts of the Order, the Collars, the mascots of the Lost Priories, a
box containing what was purported to be a section of the True Cross and
. . . chaos! The old Grand Master had been much more interested in
arranging orgies for his cronies than he was in rebuilding the Order. The
Keeper of the Common Treasure, Willoughby, was merrily embezzling money
from the Order's bank accounts. The Hospitaller of the Order, Sir Thomas
Hunter, had no hospitals to care for. He arranged for the caretakers in
Acre to be paid and ignored the Hospital in Jerusalem. It was, after all,
little more than a pile of broken rubble on a square claimed not only by
the Jews, but also by the Arabs, and the Latin Primate. Why the first
Knights had chosen a building in what became the Jewish Quarter was beyond
Hunter's comprehension. Not that it mattered, the Hospital was lost and so
far as Hunter was concerned that was that.
	If Hunter was disinterested, Bertie Arundel was not. He had made it
his business to try to write a history of the Order - none was in existence
and what he knew, or thought he knew - was based more on tradition and
folklore than anything else. He had a few crumbling documents, letters,
some transcripts of past Conclaves, and so forth, and precious little else!
Bertie was a perspicacious man and a lawyer. He suspected that much of what
he had was more wishful thinking than fact, written by men who, while they
wrote of the times in which they lived, were not above embellishment. One
had only at to look at the Bible to know that! Chef, who was aware of
Bertie's labours, opined that at least he did not have to deal with Saint
Paul, who had visions at the drop of a hat to prove that God approved of
this or that, always in favour of the new Christian religion.
	Bertie researched as much as he could. He knew that much of the
Order's archives had been lost during the war. He also knew that the only
known true copy of the Rule had been "blitzed" when the Luftwaffe bombed
London. Bertie also knew that he could not look to the original Hospital in
Acre. While the building still stood, it was empty, the archives, furniture
and artefacts removed in 1291 when the city fell to the Mameluks after a
bloody siege. The small inn at Latrun was long since history, and no one
had a clue where it had stood. That left the Hospital in Jerusalem.
	As a lawyer, Bertie had an analytical mind and believed in
examining every aspect of a brief presented to him. Just as Michael Chan
had had Joel delve into the past and present of the men he would destroy,
Bertie spent many hours trying to determine exactly what had happened to
the Hospital after the fall of the Old City in 1187. For Bertie it was the
most frustrating experience in his life. His frustration came not from the
location of the Hospital, for the location was well known. His anger and
near-apoplexy came from the current citizens of the ancient, walled city
themselves!
	Jerusalem was sacred to all three of the world's primary
religions. To Jews it was the City of David, the site of their most sacred
shrines. On Mount Moriah had stood Solomon's Temple, as the temple of Moses
had stood before it, and that portion of the Western Wall of Temple Mount
that they revered as the Wailing Wall.
	To Christians every stone within the Old City was sacred, for here
the Son of God had walked, and died. The stones of the Via Dolorosa, the
Way of the Cross, which actually lay in what was the Arab Quarter of the
Old City, were objects of veneration for the Faithful.
	To the Arabs, who called the city "El Quds", Jerusalem was the
third most important city in Islam, after Mecca and Medina, and the first
prayer stop on the Haj. The Har ha-Bayit, the Dome of the Rock, dominated
the Old City. Here, under the Golden Dome, was the massive stone that
Burak, the winged steed, had stepped on when he carried Mohammed,
accompanied by the Archangel Gabriel to Paradise to hear the word of Allah
and the Prophets. Here also was the Al-Aqsa mosque, also revered in Islam.
	Over the centuries the Old City had been divided into four
quarters, Jewish, Christian, Armenian and Arab. Each community guarded its
privileges and prerogatives jealously and if any other community tried to
encroach upon the territory of another it was, as Chef once put it, "Katy -
Bar the Door!" and the fight was on.
	The most fractious of the communities were the Christians. They
fought with the Jews, the Arabs, and themselves. The smallest of privileges
was zealously guarded and even the honour of scrubbing a stone in the
Church of the Holy Sepulchre had been the subject of a battle between monks
of the Latin Rite and priests of the Coptic Church! The discovery of a
Christian site in any of the Quarters was equally fought over. No one would
defer to another religion and the Jews, and the Arabs, phlegmatically
stayed well away from any of the fray.
	The Arabs and Jews had lived in more or less harmony for
centuries. The Arabs considered the Jews "People of the Book" and deserving
of respect. To the Jews, while they wanted no part of Islam per se, they
were realistic enough to know that the Arabs were here to stay and it was
much better to live in peace with them than fight them. Besides, they were
the landlord, and space was so restricted in the Jewish Quarter nobody in
his right mind wanted to upset the landlord. There was also the very real
fact that the Jews had lived in much better conditions under Arab rule than
they ever had under the Christians.
	Everything changed, however, in 1948. Palestine was partitioned by
the United Nations and war broke out. The Jewish Quarter, the area of the
Old City between the Street of the Chain and the Ha-Yehudim, the Street of
the Jews, became a target for the guns of the Arab Legion and the thugs of
the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem. Houses, yeshivas and ancient synagogues
crumbled under the weight of the Arab Legion's artillery and, while the
Haganah defenders objected, the Chief Rabbi surrendered and the people,
escorted by the British Army, left the Quarter they had occupied for
centuries. What the guns of the Arab Legion had not destroyed, the fellahin
of the Grand Mufti completed. When the war ended the Arabs completed the
destruction of the Quarter and barred Jews and Christians from entering.
	The banishment of the Jews of the Old City lasted for two
decades. In 1968 came another war, and this time the Israelis were
ready. They swept through the Old City, reclaiming their land and the
Wailing Wall. While the war that had restored the Jewish Quarter to the
Jewish people had ended after six days, the war to establish real ownership
went on far longer.
	Bertie, with his contacts in the international law community, and
his status as an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of Canada, made
inquiries. Much to his disgust he found that not only were the Arabs
claiming that they owned the land, the Latin Church, supported by the
Orthodox Patriarch, had stuck in its oar. Both churches claimed that the
area and buildings around Temple Mount had once housed convents and
monasteries, and had not the Templars themselves once occupied the Mount
(hence their names). This claim led to a riot, for the Arabs would not
tolerate the "Crusaders" anywhere near the Dome or Al-Aqsa. The Orthodox
Patriarch quickly withdrew any claims and announced a period of prayer and
fasting, to seek Divine Guidance. The Latin Patriarch called for his legal
advisors.
	The Israelis, busy with consolidating their victory, had no time
for fractious Christians or obstreperous Arabs. They formed a Land Claims
Committee, which would examine all claims. This got nowhere. The committee
would entertain no claims on the land where the great synagogues, notably
the Hurva and Nissan Bek had stood. Nor would they countenance claims on
the innumerable yeshivas and below street level synagogues (Jews were
forbidden to build any structure that might tower over a Moslem mosque or
madrasah) that had dotted the Quarter. These were Jewish, and no argument.
	Adding to the confusion was the absence of
documentation. Succeeding waves of conquerors had destroyed, rebuilt, and
destroyed again. Written records, tax rolls and land transfer certificates
were non-existent. The British, during their Mandate, had tried to bring
order out of chaos. However, when they gave up the Mandate they shipped
their records to London and stored the crates and boxes in Somerset
House. There they lay until 1962, when a sudden a portion of the embankment
protecting the building from the Thames gave way and flooded the
cellars. Nothing was saved.
	Rather than enter the fray, Bertie had more or less given up. What
eventually led to the discovery of a true copy of the Rule was the decision
by the Israeli government to declare much of the area surrounding the site
of the Jerusalem Hospital an archaeological dig. On hearing the news,
Bertie wasted no time. He called his brother, Louis, who was a tenured
professor at the University of British Columbia. Louis contacted the Dean
of Archaeology, who was always looking for places to dig up. With a grant
from the Arundels (and a fellowship from the Order), the hunt was on.
	The site was clearly identified, the rubble of destruction moved
away and the site excavated. What was revealed was a large, oblong marble
square covering the undercroft. The marble flooring was unmarked and looked
as if it had been laid only the day before it was discovered. The
archaeologists raised the first stones and discovered an underground
chamber. Carefully, they lowered two Arab workers down, which resulted in
screams and shouts. The workers scrambled up the rope ladders, chattered
with their co-workers, and then the Arabs decamped. The chamber was
obviously haunted, they claimed, the home of a Djin! Glaring at his fleeing
workers, the Chief Archaeologist was lowered into the hole. What he
discovered astounded him.
	The underground chamber was a chapel. There was a stone and marble
altar, quite plain, on which were a gold crucifix and two silver candle
holders. There were no pews or chairs, but there was an ancient, carved
prie-deux. More importantly, along the walls were niches containing cedar
boxes, each with a lock, and in perfect condition. More importantly, in
front of the altar, was a bouquet of Hebron roses, as bright and fresh as
if they had been placed there that morning. Shaking his head in awe, the
Chief called to be hauled out and when back above ground hurried to call
Louis Arundel.
	The Latin Primate, like all good primates, had his spies, who
swiftly reported the discovery of a holy site, a miraculous site, an
obviously Christian miraculous site. The Primate gathered up the skirts of
his cassock, called for his Episcopal coach (actually an elderly
Austin-Mini) and, trailed by monsignori and altar boys, hurried to the Dung
Gate where he demanded immediate right of ownership.
	The ensuing row caused the usually disinterested tinsmiths to close
their tiny shops and watch, placing wagers on who could yell the loudest,
offer the most gratuitous insults, and mutter the most salacious slurs on
the characters of the Primate and the Chief Archaeologist. It also brought
the police, who promptly closed down the site and sent everyone packing.
	The matter was referred to the Ministry of Antiquities who ordered
the site sealed until ownership could be established. Bertie Arundel knew
what that meant! Once the bureaucrats became involved, and they were the
same in every country on earth, one could expect years of litigation,
government committees and ministers ad infinitum offering opinions. Bertie
would have none of it! He turned to Michael Chan, who spoke with The
Gunner, who called Aaron Goldschmidt, who said, "No problem."
	Aaron Mark II called Israel. His contact, while he wondered why one
of Mossad's best agents wanted an archaeological site raided, arranged
everything. In the middle of the night the residents of the square saw and
heard strange doings but, being smart enough not see anything, returned to
their beds.
	The Mossad was nothing if not thorough. Everything in the
underground chapel was removed, included the flowers, which promptly
withered and then crumbled into dust as it was handed up to a waiting
worker. This gave everyone pause, but they continued and nothing else was
lost, including the Altar Stone, which eventually was revealed to contain a
small portion of wood, a piece of the True Cross. Everything was bundled up
and sent to Tel Aviv, where the boxes were loaded onto a cargo plane and
shipped off to Canada.
	Bertie and Louis Arundel were delighted. The cedar boxes contained
masses of perfectly preserved scripts rolls of vellum, each one relating
the history of the Order in the Holy Land. One of the rolls of vellum was a
true copy of the Order, written in flawless Latin. Louis engaged the
services of two retired Latin scholars, who set to work, and by the end of
1990 the new priories had copies of the Codified Rule of the Order, which
included Articles for a proper Bar of Justice.
	The site of the Jerusalem Hospital remained sealed as the law
suits, claims, and counter claims made their way through the Israeli
courts. As litigants ran out of money, died, or simply gave up, the only
horse in the race remained the Latin Primate. As the site was obviously
Christian, the Ministry of Antiquities awarded it to the Roman Catholic
Church. The Primate, along in years, had traded his Austin-mini for an
armoured Daimler (the Intifadah, one or the other of them made this a wise
choice of vehicles). The Primate, accompanied by monsignori unto the ninth
generation, and innumerable choir boys and acolytes, returned to the Dung
Gate. Smiling, he tapped his crosier on the unbroken seal. Suddenly the
earth shook and the marble slabs began shifting, rising and
falling. Monsignori clutched acolytes to protect the boys, and the Primate
fainted. The tinsmiths and their families, driven from their houses and
shops, watched as the earth shifted and collapsed. When the earthquake
ended it was found that the only damage had been to the archaeological
dig. It had collapsed in on itself, and as far as the world was concerned
whatever the crypt had contained was now lost forever.

******

	Leaving his papers, The Phantom turned and looked out of the
window. The wind had died down, and there was no more drifting
snow. Thinking of the saga that had led to the writing of the Codified
Rule, he smiled. Aaron Goldschmidt had never failed the Order, and while he
remained true to his Jewish religion, had proven to be a true Knight. He
lived, happily, in Israel, with his partner and lover, Aaron Edgar, whom
everyone referred to as "Aaron Mark I", on a kibbutz, tending his olive
trees and spoiling his adopted children.
	The Phantom had not seen either Aaron since the dedication of the
Mast, which now topped the roof of Flagstaff House. The Mast had stood over
the old Sea Cadet training establishment on Heron Spit from the time it was
opened, and which The Gunner had purchased from Crown Assets for $25.00
when the site of HMCS Aurora had been sold to land developers.
	Making a note to invite the Aarons for a visit, and to talk about
establishing a new Hospital in the Holy Land, The Phantom returned to his
work.
	His eyes fell on the appeal on his desk and frowned. Just such an
appeal, in 1992, had led, and The Phantom was convinced of it, to Chef's
death. Of course it had also led to one of the last, and greatest, funerals
ever held in Halifax, or the rest of the country for that matter.
	"Dear God," The Phantom thought, leaning back in his chair. "What a
funeral that had been!"
	Chef must have been looking down and clapping his hands in glee,
knowing that the Order had prevailed, and that the most pestiferous brat in
existence had cocked a snook at the Prime Minister of Canada!

******

	As Chef would have put it, The Phantom was as cranky as Harry with
the Pride in dry dock for engine repair and the Escorts out of service for
bottom scraping. The Phantom did not think that he was that bad, but he was
in a grumpy mood nevertheless. Colin was still away, serving in HMCS
Athabascan, not doing much of anything at all except transiting the Gulf of
Arabia. The surgeons at RNH Haslar had done a great job in putting The
Phantom's leg back together, but it still bothered him and he had months of
rehabilitation to look forward to. He was still using crutches, which he
had not yet quite mastered, and the damned things kept getting in the way.
	So it was that yes, The Phantom was in a cranky mood when he sat
down in what had been the front parlour of the crumbling old farmhouse that
was now doing double duty as the "Grand Priory" and headquarters of the
Sovereign and Noble Order of the Cross of Saint John of Acre.
	Everything was covered in dust and the noise was near
unbearable. Outside the construction machines growled and roared as the
work on the new Hospital buildings went forward. There was so much noise
that The Gunner had almost to shout to be heard.
	Why The Gunner had decided to hold a meeting of the Grand Council
here, The Phantom could not understand. There was a perfectly good hotel in
town, after all, complete with conference facilities, but The Gunner had
insisted. The business of the Order went on, and a little inconvenience was
to be expected.
	Slightly under the influence of the drugs the doctors prescribed
for pain, The Phantom had not really been paying all that much attention
when a thunderous bang interrupted the proceedings. Chef was off and
running again!
	A meeting of the Grand Council covered many items, not the least of
which was the candidacy of new Knights. The Gunner, as Grand Master, had
continued Michael Chan's dream of rebuilding the Order. He had established
new priories in England, in France and in Austria. He was also in the
middle of negotiations to purchase suitable property in Germany. On the
surface, things were going well, very well indeed.
	There were problems, however. Chef, as Proctor, had been travelling
the world, or so it seemed, judging new candidates. Under normal
circumstances his word was law when it came to accepting or rejecting any
candidate Knight. He therefore did not react well to his orthodox approach
being questioned.
	While The Phantom had been daydreaming, and wondering how Matt
Green and Cory were doing, an argument of titanic proportions had
developed. The Germans were being obstreperous, which was not
surprising. They were even worse than the French! Always demanding and
always trying to impress with their names, their titles and their general
all-around arrogance. Chef, being Chef, was just as obstreperous, and as
stubborn as a Clydesdale in the mud. Right was right and he was not about
to pander to the prejudices of a clapped out count who was probably a Nazi
anyway!
	Major Meinertzhagen, who was suffering from heat rash, begged to
demure. While a German, the man was eminently qualified and had never been
a Nazi. Chef growled in return and the war was on. Pete Sheppard and
Alistair Chan, who were representing the ailing Michael Chan,
metaphorically drew back their chairs. The Phantom looked around for a
glass of water and his pill box. He wished that Cory were here or, more
importantly, Ray Cornwallis, Chef's adopted son. But Cory was still in
hospital in England, recovering from his wounds, and Ray was in Vancouver,
half-way through his residency at Vancouver General. Ray always managed to
calm the old man down, just as Randy and Joey always managed to wind the
old man up!
	There was much pounding of the table as Chef and the Major
emphasized a point and The Phantom found himself shaking his head. They
were arguing over Article 24 of the Rule, something that The Phantom knew
had been settled years before. One either complied with it, or one did not,
in which case, one would be offered a Companionship. Chef himself had
talked Michael Chan into allowing wavering candidates to become Companions,
although if the truth be told, The Phantom had had a great deal to do with
it.
	When Michael Chan had offered knighthood to all the Boys of Aurora,
several of the boys had been found wanting. Sandro Signaransky and Nate
Schoenmann were Jewish, although Sandro was not yet a true son of
Abraham. He had not had his bris, although it was planned for later in the
year 1976. Peter Race was perfectly acceptable, as was Ned Hadfield, a
member of Michael Chan's security force. So was Jérémie Larôche. Except
that they did not meet the requirements of Article 24.
	When Chef informed The Phantom that none of the boys could be
knighted, The Phantom had threatened to leave the Order, threatened to
refuse knighthood. As The Phantom had been and still was the catalyst, the
central figure in the Tapestry that bound the Boys of Aurora together, Chef
had compromised and offered Companionship, with Knighthood to follow if and
when the boys (and Ned) decided to be circumcised.
	As Chef and the Major traded barbs, The Phantom looked at his old
friend and mentor. For the first time The Phantom realized that Chef looked
old. Of course, Chef was old, but he was also looked tired. His colour was
bad, and he had lost weight, which was not surprising. Chef was simply
juggling too many balls. He refused to admit to frailties of any kind, and
never shirked what he thought was his duty. In addition to his work as
Proctor, he had inherited the catering business of the Maestro, in
Vancouver.
	With the focus of the Order now in Eastern Canada, he had also
purchased a building in Ottawa and opened a restaurant in Ottawa where he
taught Randy and Joey how to cook. He also taught them his imperious and
stubborn attitudes. The restaurant, successful even before it opened its
doors, catered to the movers and shakers, the rich, the famous, and the not
so famous. These were, much to the regret of some, declarative terms, for
if Chef did not think you were worthy of patronizing his dining rooms, you
simply did not get in.
	Chef added to the exclusivity of the restaurant by opening a third
floor dining room. Here only the elect of the elect, as determined by Chef,
and Chef alone, were welcome, and no woman, no matter how exalted in
government or the military, ever set foot, period, although Mrs. Arundel,
Mrs. Randolph, and Mrs. Airlie and Sophie Nicholson, had been allowed to
lunch there. Someone had once asked what would happen if the Queen had
decided to call, but the question was never answered as Her Majesty never
dined out at a restaurant.
	If Chef was as ill as he looked, no one knew. He kept his personal
problems to himself, and never complained.
	The Phantom, engrossed in the argument, never noticed that Chef had
suddenly turned pale and was as shocked and frightened as the others when
Chef clutched his chest, moaning quietly, and lapsed into unconsciousness.
	Rushed to Arnprior Hospital, it was found that Chef had suffered a
massive heart attack. When he had been stabilized he was taken by air
ambulance to the University of Ottawa Health Institute. Here he lay,
failing, for three days.
	While semi-conscious and medicated for the most part, Chef was
aware of his surroundings, and determined to meet his Maker on his own
terms. He didn't care a fig what the doctors - quacks, the whole of them -
said. As The Gunner told Ray, who had rushed from Vancouver, Chef would die
when he decided to die, and no argument.
	On the fourth day, Chef rallied. He was lucid, growled at the
nurses, and refused medication for the pain the doctors insisted he
had. Chef threw a bedpan at the Chief of Cardiology and called for his
solicitor. They had matters to discuss.
	Chef's nominal solicitor was Cory Arundel. However, with Cory still
in England, his brother, Todd, answered the call. Chef, being Chef, could
not let the opportunity slip by to chastise one of his favourite boys. Todd
was a fool, so he was, and Chef let him have it, a broadside, and no
danger.
	Todd had been feuding with Cory. He had married a woman for all the
wrong reasons, and Cory despised the woman. He had refused to stand as
Todd's Chief Supporter, and had dragged both The Phantom and Matt off to a
course with the U.S. Navy Seals immediately after the wedding ceremony
(which Cory did not attend) ended. Cory, if it were possible, was even more
stubborn than Chef, as stubborn as a Missouri mule with spavins and heaves,
and refused to compromise.
	Chef wanted Todd and Cory to kiss and make up. No woman should ever
come between brothers! Todd, who knew that he had made a mistake, was as
stubborn as his brother, and while he was not rude, he reminded Chef that
he was here in his professional capacity, and his personal business was his
own, thank you.
	Chef knew that Todd was right, lapsed into petulant silence, and
then they settled down to the business at hand: re-examining the provisions
of Chef's will and adding codicils where needed. They talked for two hours
and then called for the Charge Nurse and an orderly, who witnessed the
changes in Chef's last testament.
	Satisfied with the disposition of his worldly goods, Chef settled
back and entered into negotiations with God. While he had been raised a
Catholic, Chef had issues with the Church, and hadn't been in a Catholic
church in years, except for the odd funeral. He considered himself a free
agent, and hoped that God would understand. Chef was also of the opinion
that one religion was as good as any. While organized religion did not, in
the main, attract him, Chef realized that he was dying and a man did want
to tie up any loose ends, so to speak. So he called for Simon Keppel.

******

	Simon really did not know what to expect. As one of the Boys of
Aurora, Simon had known Chef from a very early age, and seen the man in his
glory days. He knew that Chef never professed, one way or the other, any
love for the Established Church, or any church. Still, as a priest, and
knowing that Chef was a Christian, Simon gathered up his Book of Common
Prayer, his holy oils, and his cassock. As Chef was not a communicant of
the church Simon would not offer anointing unless the old man asked for
it. He would pray with Chef, and pray for him, as he prayed for so many
these days.
	Chef greeted Simon weakly. The old man was failing fast but
determined to shuffle off this mortal coil when he was damned well ready to
shuffle. As Simon draped his purple stole around his neck he was startled
to hear Chef ask him to hear his confession.
	Simon quickly cleared the room and closed the door.
	The Seal of the Confessional, and the firmly closed door,
guaranteed that whatever sins Chef admitted to would remain between him,
Simon and God. No one would ever know what Chef confessed, or told
Simon. The Gunner, who was waiting outside in the corridor with The
Phantom, was frankly listening but all he could hear were indistinct sounds
and then . . .
	Straightening, The Gunner chuckled and remarked to The Phantom that
whatever it was that Chef wanted to say, it must have been a hell of a tale
if the laughter that drifted into the corridor was any indication!

******

	With his soul at rest, Chef settled back. He was ready now and
wanted to say goodbye to his boys. They had bedevilled him, driven him to
drink, caused his hair to turn white (according to him), and been the
authors of no end of grief. On the distaff side, Chef admitted that he had
done worse to the boys (he hadn't, but nobody was going to argue the
point), but he had loved the boys beyond explanation. He wanted them with
him when he was called home at last.
	So they gathered. Ray, who had flown east as soon as he learned of
Chef's heart attack, was on Chef's right, holding his hand. He had haunted
the hospital from the moment he arrived, pestering the doctors and trying
not to weep. Kevin Berkeley, Ray's lover and best friend, stood beside, his
hand on Ray's shoulder, offering what strength and comfort he could. Both
he and Ray had loved Chef, their Papa Chef, and together they would see the
old man on his way.
	Randy and Joey, who ran the restaurant in Chef's absence, joined
the gathering. Both boys had found something they never thought they would
have: pure, unabiding love, a love that transcended mere sex, and they had
found it in the sick old cook. With them, standing four-square and as solid
as a Martello tower, was Phil Thornton. Phil had loved the two young men
since their days in Aurora. That they had frankly seduced, and taken
advantage of him was of no importance. Phil had found his true loves and
never wavered in his determination to protect them. Now his strong arms
held Randy and Joey close, his strength helping them to keep their
emotions, bubbling below the surface of their grief, in check.
	The other boys gathered from far flung points. Mark van Beck
hurried from his coaching job in Seattle, joined by Tony Valpone, who wore
the two and a half stripes of a Lieutenant Commander in the USN. Andy Berg
- Major Berg, USMC - flew in from the Gulf, where he commanded a forward
recon unit. For the first time in many years the "American Line" was
together, save for Nathan Berman, who had died of AIDS, still mourned by
his fellows.
	Kyle St. Vincent, Andy's lover, who had been visiting his people in
Kingston, drove in and joined the Americans.
	Harry, owner of the Pride of the Fleet and the Escorts, arrived,
having left his farm and growing young family in the care of his
brothers. With him came Mike Sunderland and Phillip, called the Assistant,
Adean.
	As more and more of the men arrived the room began to fill. Stuart
MacDuff and Steve Lee came in, followed by Chris Hood and Jon
Jackson. Tyler Benbow wangled leave from his ship, HMCS Terra Nova, which
was still in the Gulf. He was joined by Val Orsini, who drove from
Saskatoon to be in the room.
	As the day lengthened and dusk approached more of the boys
entered. Sandro and Nate Schoenmann had flown out from British Columbia
together. Sandro leaned heavily on Nate, for he was still reeling from
Chad's death. "Too much, too much," Sandro murmured as he buried his face
in his hands.
	Darkness settled over the city and the room grew quiet. Still more
of the boys arrived. Rob Wemyss, together with his partner, Marc Worden,
arrived from Toronto. Rob joined his brothers, while Marc went down to the
hospital cafeteria where he joined Alistair and Arden Chan, and Logan
Hartsfield. All four felt the impending loss of the old cook deeply, but as
they were not Boys of Aurora, they all felt it would be presumptuous of
them to be present when Chef said his goodbyes to his boys. Arden, who had
come to love Chef, and looked to him for comfort and advice when one of
life's downturns came calling, wept silently.
	They were joined, briefly, by Calvin Hobbes, who tried to comfort
Arden, and wept with him, and then went up to the room to help Simon, as
deacon.
	Nicholas Rodney appeared, alone. His relationship with André de
Noailles had soured, and he had not chosen a new partner. As Nicholas
stood, his eyes welling with tears, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He
turned to see Brian Venables, still wearing his dessert camis, standing
there. Nicholas started. "What . . . what are you doing here?" he
whispered. "I thought you were still in Kuwait."
	"Somebody pulled strings," Brian whispered back. He looked toward
Chef, who was breathing shallowly. "I'm not too late?"
	"No," replied Nicholas. He lowered his mouth to Brian's ear and
asked, "What about Colin?"
	Brian shrugged. "Not my part ship," he said. He looked around the
room, and then peered into the corridor. "Have you seen Logan?"
	Nicholas shook his head. "Haven't seen him."
	Before Brian could reply, there was a thumping from far down the
corridor. Both Nicholas and Brian stepped outside to see what was going
on. Their eyes widened as they saw Cory and Matt Greene, with Sean Anders
wheeling Cory's chair.
	"How is he?" Cory demanded without preamble as they neared the
room.
	"Still hanging in there," replied Nicholas as he listened to the
faint beeping of the heart monitor.
	"He's waiting for everybody to come," said Cory, who had been close
to Chef as a boy Sea Cadet, and as a man, and knew the man's strength of
will. Chef would not die until all his boys were with him. He looked up at
Nicholas. "Two Stokes and Thumper are here. They're parking their cars."
	Nicholas looked apprehensive. Two Strokes, who was now a constable
with the Durham Regional Police, and Thumper, had been lovers once. They
had drifted apart while in college, when Thumper had decided that he wasn't
gay anymore and besides, he'd been seeing a girl, who was pregnant with his
child. The breakdown of their relationship had been acrimonious.
    Cory saw the look on Nicholas's face. "Don't worry, they're our
brothers, and part of the Tapestry. There will be no trouble," he said.
    Brian was not quite so sure, but he trusted Cory's judgement. He looked
at Matt. "You guys wangle a flight? How in the hell did you get the doctors
to release you?"
	Matt smiled for the first time since leaving England. "I'm buggered
if I know. One minute I was lying in my bed being attended by a very
handsome orderly, and the next I was in a transport plane along with Cory
and Sean and a field gun and limber, not to mention a subaltern and six
gunners of the King's Troop, Royal Horse Artillery to look after the damned
thing!"
	Brian's face grew sad. "With a coffin board?" he asked Sean.
	Sean nodded. They all knew what that meant: Chef's funeral had been
planned by Chef down to the last detail and the coffin board, mounted on
the ceremonial field gun, would carry him to his grave, for Chef would have
no hearses! "Operation Thunder," he whispered.
	Cory sighed and Matt started to cry softly. Thumper and Two Strokes
came up. They both appeared calm, and regarded each other with guarded
affection. Each still had feelings and fond remembrances of the other and
there would be no trouble.

******

	Chef continued to linger. He woke once, and asked if everyone was
here. "Colin isn't," The Phantom said softly as he stroked the old man's
cold brow. "You should sleep."
	"He'll be here," murmured Chef. "We'll wait." Then he winked at The
Phantom. "Trust me, Phantom Darlin'. I have me ways, so I do."
	The Phantom smiled. There was still a spark of the old Chef
left. "If you say so, then it's so," he said.
	"I do, and don't be doubtin' me, pestiferous brat!" replied Chef as
he closed his eyes.

******

	Toward 0300 Colin, looking as if he had just stepped out the
shower, and dressed in his RNR blue uniform, appeared with Laurence Howard,
who was impressive in his khaki, undress Royal Marines uniform. Both men
looked a little haggard.
	"How?" The Phantom asked as Colin advanced to his side and kissed
him on his cheek.
	"Well, let's just say that pressure from the highest quarters came
to bear," replied Colin with a conspiratorial grin. He reached into inside
pocket of his uniform jacket and withdrew a cream, red-crested envelope. "I
was watching the Protecteur trying to keep station while we refuelled when
I was piped to the bridge. The captain handed me a signal and told me to
pack my bags at the rush. Then it was in a Herkie-Bird, and believe me, the
only time I really worried was when I was in the damn thing, and off I went
to Riyadh airport. From there I went to London where a certain Royal Marine
and certain Kipper were waiting at the airport." He jerked his head toward
Laurence, who was standing to one side, and then at Fred Fisher, who was
hurrying along the corridor after seeing to their car and driver.
	"From London it was first class all the way. We were flying in a
VC10, quite posh, with beds and a shower." Colin waved the envelope at The
Phantom. "I'm on official business."
	The Phantom saw the red crest and started. "She knows?"
	"She does," replied Colin simply. "Fred brought this down from
Balmoral." Then he leaned down and whispered, "I also have something for
you."
	The Phantom's green eyes widened. "Me? What have I done now?"
	Colin smiled. "You'll have to wait."
	Miffed, The Phantom returned to stroking Chef's forehead. Chef's
eyes opened. "Is it done with the whispering you are?" he asked grumpily.
	"I thought you were asleep," said The Phantom.
	"Not with you and that long bulky buffoon chattering like the
magpies of Duncannon!" returned Chef.
	"Sorry. Can I get you anything?" The Phantom asked.
	"Me lips are that parched."
	"I'll get some ice."
	Colin saw a small bucket containing cracked ice on the table beside
it. He handed it to The Phantom who gently rubbed the ice over Chef's
lips. "Not as good as a drop of the creature, I'm thinking, Chef," he said
with a sad smile.
	"Aye, but now is not the time," replied Chef. He turned his head
and looked at Ray. "Darlin' boy, crank me up."
	Ray looked at his Papa Chef. "But . . . do you think you should?"
	"Raymond, it is time to haul down the commissioning pennant. I
won't be doin' it lyin' flat on me back!"
	Ray did as Chef commanded. The old man looked around the
room. "There are some missing," he said presently.
	"Everybody's here," said Ray, wondering who Chef was talking
about. They were all here, all save one.
	Chef shook his head slowly. "No. There are others that I wish to be
here. Fetch them!"
	Rob, who was closest to the door left, and returned shortly with
Logan, Alistair, Arden and Marc. When Chef saw them standing in the doorway
he smiled and nodded his head. He sighed deeply. "When I was young, I never
thought of death. I was invincible and immortal. Sadly, age has taught me
something quite different."
	A smile formed on Chef's lips. "Once, when Stevie Darlin' and I
were having a bit of the this and the that, I told him that when my time
came I would go out kicking and screaming, and causing as much upset and
turmoil as I could." He chuckled a dry, low laugh. "Of course, he was in
his cups at the time so I doubt he remembers."
	The Gunner shook his head. He was crying softly now. "I remember,
Chef," he whispered.

	"Ah, Stevie, it's surprisin' me, so you are!" responded Chef. Then
he sobered slightly. "But now is not the time for the reminiscences. Soon I
will cross the bar, so there will be no leprechauns, or besoms - although
that Charge Nurse is always coming in here and sticking sharp objects in me
tired old carcass!"
	Chef had not lost his touch.
	He regarded the assembled Knights and Companions, and the others,
his boys. "We've had a good commission, so we have," he said, "but now it's
time for me to be off to the breaker's yard. I've had a good life, a long
life and I don't regret much." He turned to The Phantom. "I would not have
really taken a shot at your bare pink bottom, Phantom," he said.
	The Phantom remembered the Abandon Ship Exercise back in Aurora,
and Chef, who was supposed to be doing life guard duty for the swimming
cadets, had armed himself with an elephant gun - fortunately unloaded,
although Chef did not know it at the time. "I know you wouldn't have,"
replied The Phantom.
	"Ray," Chef said, looking at his son. "I never really would have
spanked you with me spoon."
	Ray, weeping openly, nodded his head. "I know, Papa Chef."
	"I love you, lad," murmured Chef. Then he looked around
again. "Randy, Joey, Calvin, Simon!" he called.
	The four men came forward. Chef smiled slowly. "I don't regret
being hard on you. You were the youngest, and influenced by evil spirits
. . ." His eyes drifted to Cory and Todd, ". . . who were not as evil as
they let on, although faith, their taste in pants fair set me to reaching
for me spoon!"
	The Twins, in their younger days, were infamous for their taste in
wildly coloured underpants.
	"There was none to match you," Chef said, "although if me memory is
still with me, that scallywag Mal, came close." He paused to catch his
breath. "I wonder what happened to him."
	"I saw him last Levee Day," said Rob. "He's married and doing
well. He remembers you fondly."
	"As I do him," responded Chef. "He could have been one of the
brotherhood but it was not to be. He was not woven into the Tapestry."
	The Phantom felt Chef squeeze his hand. Both knew that there had
been others, but as Chef had said, it was not to be. The Phantom noticed
that the annoying beep of the heart monitor seemed to be slowing.
	Chef's eyes clouded as he murmured, "Phantom darlin', there's
something that's been bothering me." He saw the concerned look on The
Phantom's face and smiled slowly. "It's been on me conscience and it is
time to make amends." He raised his head and saw the two faces he wanted to
see. "Peter darlin', come closer."
	Peter Race and Eion Reilly had taken the first flights out, Peter
from Halifax, and Eion from New York, where he now lived. They were
determined to be with Chef at the end and had shared a cab to the hospital
directly from the airport.
	Chef motioned again and both Peter and Eion moved to stand beside
his bed. "Peter darlin', I know that you've always felt that somehow I
thought you a lesser being for bein' a Companion and all . . ." he began.
	"I didn't, Chef, on my honour, I didn't," whispered Peter. "I was
happy to be . . ."
	Chef shook his head and the heart monitor beeped loudly. "It was a
Knight I should have made you!" Chef growled. He looked at Eion. "And
himself, as well."
	Eion, close to tears, shook his head. He had remained content to be
a Companion, not quite ready to "Profess". His brief liaison with Peter
back in the Toronto Hospital had led him to others, none of them lasting
longer than three or for months. He knew that he could not lie to Chef, and
knew the true nature of his character. "My decision, Chef." He started to
weep. "I was wrong."
	"No matter," replied Chef gently. He winked at Peter. "How is the
wound? Healing well?"
	Peter could not help but smile at Chef referring to the aftermath
of a minor procedure as a "wound". "It's healing well, Chef, no problems."
	Chef motioned for Peter to come closer. "Don't tell the Twins!" he
cautioned. "They'll want a grand unveiling, so they will!" He sank back and
nodded. "You'll be for Knighthood then," he asked.
	"Yes, and Eion," replied Peter. "It is time."
	"Aye, so it is." Chef regarded Peter and said, "You were a good
lad, and you're a good man. I've a special job for you, my son." He turned
his head and looked at The Gunner. "Stevie darlin' will tell you, so he
will."
	Chef took another deep breath. "Ah, lads, sure goodbye is the
saddest word in the English language." He looked at them all. "We had
enough of the goodbyes, I'm thinking. But we always met again." A small
tear rolled down Chef's cheek. "But the time is come, lads. So . . ."
	Chef paused, gathering his strength. "My time is near. I want you
all to think on this: Life is a storm, my young friends. You will bask in
the sunlight one moment, and be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes
you a man is what you do when that storm comes. You must look into that
storm and shout as you did in so many times, as I did many times: `Do your
worst, for I will do mine!' Then the fates will know you as I know you: as
the Boy's of Aurora! As Knights! As Companions! As men!"
	Chef began coughing and the machines began to blink and the Charge
Nurse pushed her way into the room. Ray and The Phantom placed their arms
behind Chef's back and raised him, helping him to breathe easier. The nurse
moved to place an oxygen mask over Chef's face but he waved her way. "No!
Not yet, woman!"
	Chef eyes were closed now, but he was aware of what he was
doing. "I have loved you all, as my sons, as my brothers. Keep that love,
boys, keep that love. Always remember that it is written: `And above all
things have fervent charity among yourselves: for charity shall cover the
multitude of sins.' Keep that charity, that love, always; that is my legacy
to you."
	Chef sank back. He breathed a long, low, heavy sigh, and whispered
one final word: Ray.

******

	Outside of the hospital, after saying their final goodbyes to Chef,
The Phantom, Colin, and The Gunner waited for their cars. The Phantom,
while in pain, had refused the offer of a wheelchair and stood, looking
grumpy, beside Colin.
	"So, what happens now?" asked Colin.
	The Gunner reached into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes,
offered them around - both Colin and The Phantom declined - and, after
lighting up, said, "Everything is arranged. Chef planned his funeral down
to the last detail. He also called in every favour he was owed, and from
what he told me he was owed quite a few, to make sure that his wishes and
instructions are followed to the letter." He puffed nervously. "All we have
to do is show up."
	"Where is the funeral being held?" asked The Phantom, wondering why
The Gunner was so twitchy.
	"Halifax," replied The Gunner.
	"Not a problem," said The Phantom, "unless Air Canada's fleet's
been grounded." He regarded The Gunner a moment and then asked, "Are you
going to tell me what's bugging your ass?"
	Chuckling, The Gunner replied, "Spoken like a true sailor!" He took
a deep breath and said, "Chef was very specific about what he wanted. The
Order can and will ensure that some of the things are done. However . . ."
	"However what?" asked Colin.
	"Well, some of the arrangements have to be approved by DND. We have
to ask politely for a 100-man guard, and a gun carriage's crew."
	"You forgot the band," said The Phantom, who had a good idea
exactly how Chef wanted to go to glory.
	"Chef didn't," replied The Gunner with a grin. "The Royal Marine
Band, Portsmouth Division is all arranged. Edouard Lotbiniere is
accompanying the Booties."
	"Wow!" The Phantom's green eyes sparkled. "Chef sure wants to go
out in style."
	Nodding, The Gunner continued, "He also wants everyone to wear the
old style uniforms, and the White Ensign on his box."
	"Oy!" exclaimed The Phantom. "The generals won't like that!"
	"No, they won't," agreed The Gunner. "But the Vice-Chief for Naval
Affairs is a friend. He's on line."
	"So?" asked Colin.
	"So the Minister is not, and he's a stubborn twit and agrees with
the so-called Canadianization of the forces."
	"That's bullshit," snapped The Phantom. "All he did for the Navy
was hand us an American style uniform and tell us to like it or lump it!
Not to mention he kept the bloody Army rank badges!" The Phantom was on a
roll. "Army badges for sailors! Well, Mister High and Mighty Minister of
Defence can fuck himself and the horse he rode in on! If Chef wants proper
uniforms I'll raise such hell . . . I'll call every paper in town! I'll
call the Legion, Dominion Command, by God . . ."
	"I'll handle it!" interrupted The Gunner sharply. "I'm meeting with
the Minister tomorrow - sorry, today, really."
	Colin coughed delicately. "I think Phantom should go with you. You
may have to put a muzzle and a lead on him but . . ." He reached into his
jacket and withdrew an envelope. "This might help."
	The Gunner looked and said, "It's addressed to Phantom."
	"Yes, it is," agreed Colin with a smile. "Open it anyway. You
should tell him."
	Looking wary, The Gunner opened the envelope and pulled out a heavy
bond letter. The Phantom could see that it was a hand-written note, the
lettering in a firm, bold hand. He had seen that hand before! "Hell and
sheeit! Is that from who I think it is?"
	Colin nodded. "There's a galley proof in there as well."
	The Gunner read the letter, his eyes growing wider and wider. Then
he read the galley proof. He looked at Colin and asked, "When?"
	"The London Gazette, today."
	"Well I will be buggered with a large barge pole!" exclaimed The
Gunner.
	The Phantom, his ire rising, reached out for the letter. "What's it
say? Come on!"
	Clearing his throat, The Gunner quoted from the galley proof: "Her
Majesty the Queen is graciously pleased to award the Victoria Cross to
Lieutenant P.A.T. Lascelles, RNR, A-de-C, for gallantry in action whilst
serving with elements of the Royal Marine Commandoes and the Special Air
Service in Iraq." He handed the galley proof to The Phantom. "There's more
but you can read it yourself." He handed the letter to The Phantom as
well. "You seem to have a friend in higher places than I ever imagined."
	"That's because he's cute," said Colin, grinning. "Especially when
he's angry." He looked at The Phantom and said, "Cory and Matt Greene as
well, although they don't get personal letters of congratulation."
	"Holy fuck! A hat trick!" exclaimed The Gunner.
	The Phantom read the letter again. "What time is your appointment
with the fool?" The Gunner told him and The Phantom said, "Pick us
up. We're going with you."
	"Who exactly is `we', if I may be so bold?" asked Colin.
	A determined look came into The Phantom's eyes and a determined,
dangerous smile formed on his lips. "You, Custos Principum, Cory, Matt, and
me!" he said.
	Colin raised his eyes toward the heavens. "Here we go again!"

******

	The Minister of National Defence was in a snit. He'd been having
snits quite often these days. It was bad enough that he had to put up with
the backstabbing and sneers of the party backbencher's, and the
indifference of the Prime Minister's Office flunkies, but he also had to
put up with the antics of the generals and admirals. Sometimes he felt that
he was the only adult at a Mad Hatter's tea party held in a facility for
the juvenile criminally insane!
	Growling, the Minister shook his head. They were their own worst
enemies, of course. They were always squabbling amongst themselves, playing
games of one-upmanship, or whispering innuendoes and leaking rumours about
this or that supposedly fellow officer. The minister had long since learned
that there was no honour among thieves or generals, and they were always
ready to pat a chap on the back before they plunged the knife in!
	What made matters worse, the generals and admirals that infested
NDHQ, quite literally unto the ninth generation, never hesitated to blame
someone else - usually the Minister - for their shortcomings! Now they were
pointing fingers at him! The generals were getting flack from the media,
and the public, over Canada's weak response to NATO's call for troops in
support of Desert Storm! Was it his fault that the Canadian Armed Forces
was barely capable mounting a Corporal's Guard? Was it his fault that the
Militia was understrength, undertrained and woefully equipped? Was it his
fault that morale in the Forces had been at rock bottom when he took
office?
	The Minister, who believed himself to be an honest man, was willing
to admit that he was partially to blame. For years he had aided and abetted
the previous Prime Minister, the rat-faced motherfucker, in gutting the
military, which he loathed. The Minister had stood by and watched as
regiments were disbanded, the Navy reduced to a shadow that did little
except day sail, when the engines worked, and saw the Air Force reduced to
a few training squadrons and helicopters, which hardly ever worked!
	The present Prime Minister, who had basked in the close friendship
of Ronald Reagan, and was on good terms with George H. W. Bush, had heeded
the calls of the NATO allies, and the subtle prodding of the President of
the United States, and at least increased spending - but not enough. The PM
had authorised `Distinctive Environmental Uniforms', giving the Navy back a
blue suit, and the Air Force their blue/grey uniforms. Unfortunately it was
not enough and while morale did go up, the cost of refitting and
reequipping the Forces was prohibitive, and more often than not requests
for funds were put on a back burner.
	When war came, the Minister had consulted with the generals and
admirals. While they talked and offered suggestions, they all knew that
Canada could do very little. What annoyed the Minister was that these very
generals and admirals had spent much of their careers feathering their own
nests, always agreeing with the government's policies, always nodding their
heads like a bobble doll, and never opening their smug, arrogant mouths!
Canada had more general officers than the Mexican army, and not one of them
had a set of balls!
	In the end the Minister had managed to scrape together some troops,
although the sneering whispers of the Allies was hard to bear. The French,
the bloody French who never did anything unless it would gain them power,
or a blow job, had put 15,000 boots on the ground! Canada managed a
squadron of F-18s, a field hospital, and one company from the Royal
Canadian Regiment to guard it. The Navy managed to scrape the bottoms of
two destroyers and a supply ship, and sent them off to patrol the Gulf of
Arabia, where they never fired a shot in anger.
	What galled the Minister was that while they had managed to find
the men and the equipment, there was no way to get them there! He had been
forced, literally, to beg a ride for the human element from the U.S. Army,
and charter a ship to carry their equipment because Canada had no sea
transport worthy of the name!
	Now, instead of trying to rectify the shortcomings revealed, or of
planning a Rapid Deployment Force, the generals were bickering and whining
about medals! Well, actually two medals. Canada had always followed the
British manner, and rarely awarded a medal or a decoration, and only to the
most deserving of servicemen and women. What had set the flag officers to
clucking and pecking like chickens when the fox comes around was a
decoration the Sultan of Kuwait had announced would be given to the
liberators of his country. It was to be of gold, pure gold, and was being
designed by Spinks and Sons, in London.
	The generals were upset because the Sultan had decreed that the
medal would only be awarded to those who had actually been "In Country",
which meant that all the generals and colonels, admirals and commanders who
had stayed back in Canada and formed a "Special Operations Group" to
"monitor the Canadian Forces in Iraq", and why they needed a staff of 1,000
to monitor perhaps 1,500 combatants escaped the Minister, and never saw
action, unless counting arguing amongst themselves was "action", were in a
pet. There never was an officer, of any rank, who let an opportunity for
another piece of tin to add to their collection. To be denied a prestigious
decoration was not to be allowed, especially when Junior Ranks (the bulk of
the Canadian Forces in country) would be recipient's of the Sultan's
gratitude!
	Then there was Canada's own contribution to the medal
stakes. Awarding such a medal was proper, and the Minister had no
objection. Even the PM was for it. The generals were for it! Everybody was
for it except the Minister. He had been through it before and knew that
every bugger and his brother, anyone who had had the merest hint of a
connection with the Ops Group, from the Chief of the Defence Staff to the
little man who cleaned the toilets in the bathroom next to the Ops Room,
would be lining up with their hands out! Which meant that those who had
actually been there would feel slighted? The newspapers, already looking
for a head to roll, would sneer and write unflattering op/ed pieces. The
Legion would stick in its oar and every retired admiral and general would
growl and roar.
	As the Minister studied the preliminary recommendations from the
PMO - someone in NDHQ had been telling tales out of school, it seemed - he
realized that he could not defy the Prime Minister too much. He could not
do much about the Kuwaiti medal. To do so would lead to an international
incident. What he could do was order that yes, the men who had been in
country could receive the decoration, but not wear it, except as a
miniature on their mess kits. This was against policy to be sure, for
Trudeau, in his madness, had decreed that no Canadian could accept or wear
a foreign decoration, although he actually meant a British
decoration. Well, fuck Trudeau, and the horse he rode in on.
	As for the Canadian medal, the Minister could hardly refuse to
authorize it. However, he could make sure that just by looking at it
everyone would know if the wearer had actually been in country, or lolling
in comfort back in Ottawa. The fighters would wear an oak leaf cluster on
the ribbon and the desk wallahs could suck wind. He made his notations on
the situation papers and sat back. He reflected on the shape of things to
come.
	He was on his way out. He knew, as sure as he was sitting in his
opulently appointed office. The Prime Minister was in trouble. The Airbus
scandal was bubbling to the surface again, after having been halted by
political pressure. The failure of the "Meech Lake Accord" had damaged the
PM's credibility. The Quebeckers were also up to their old tricks as
well. All of which meant that heads, innocent and not so innocent, would
roll. The PM needed to mend fences in Quebec, which meant a cabinet
position for an ungrateful Frog and the Minister knew that only a high
profile post would do.
	The Minister was an astute politician, and a man who had
friends. He knew that he was in the PM's crosshairs, and he knew that his
successor was already standing in the wings. There would be a cabinet
shuffle soon. Until then, life, and the business of the ministry would go
on. He leaned over his intercom and spoke. "Please send the gentlemen in."

******

	As the Minister's secretary rose and opened the door to his office,
Colin leaned and murmured in The Phantom's ear, "You know you catch more
flies with honey than with vinegar."
	The Phantom gave his partner a baleful look. "Which means?"
	"I know you," replied Colin. "Please, behave!"
	The Phantom sniffed. "I shall be the morals of decorum!" he said
haughtily.
	Colin started. "God, that sounds like something Chef would say!"
	"He said it often," returned The Phantom. "Of course he was usually
over-medicated when he said it." Then he looked Colin up and down. "He also
used to expound on tighty-whiteys being `bulwarks of morality'." A slow
grin crossed The Phantom's face. "Not that they did you much good!"

******

	After the Vice-Chief made the introductions, the Minister sat back
and regarded his guests. He knew the look: ex-service, probably Navy as
they were with the VCDS for Naval Affairs. The Minister was well aware of
the rivalry that still existed between the services and doubted that an
Army or Air Force type would interest himself in anything Naval.
	In a way, the Minister was pleased with the rivalry, pleased that
the Liberal politicians, particularly the arrogant Trudeau and the
obnoxious Hellyer, had not quite managed to do what they had set out to do:
effectively gut their country's armed forces. The minister, when he had
been a lowly back bencher, had warned that one could not replace a
substance with a vacuum. His warnings had gone unheeded, and the across the
board elimination of identifying uniforms, of the old traditions, had
resulted in a loss of personnel, loss of faith, loss of
morale. Unification, combined with the cost-cutting and refusal to upgrade
equipment, had resulted in a force that had little value and was useless
save for responding to domestic natural disasters. The Forces were very
good at that, but as for launching an offensive operation, forget it.
	Add in the government's zealous adherence to Pearson's bankrupt
"Peace Keepers" policy, which had resulted in nothing but useless deaths
and international disdain. The forces were a shell, and the Minister knew
it, a sham and only a faithful few had managed to keep the fires of
patriotism alive. The Permanent Force was undermanned, and officered by men
whose only ambition was to make their nests as comfortable as
possible. They spent much of their time telling each other what good little
boys they were, shuffling papers and warily looking over their shoulders
lest a hand reach out and plunge a dagger in their backs or give them a
wedgie!
	The Militia and Naval Reserves were as bad. There was not a full
company of soldiers in any of the regiments, or a full ship's complement in
any of the Reserve Divisions. Both organizations were underfunded and under
equipped, and the Minister had not noticed vast numbers of potential
sailors or soldiers beating down the doors anywhere.
	Not that the Minister was all that anxious to accept such potential
recruits. Most of them were interested only in the pay, which while low,
added up, especially when they were almost guaranteed three months
employment in the summer training months. What disturbed the Minister was
that most of the Militia and Reserves were not all that anxious to put
themselves in harm's way. His predecessor had commissioned a survey to
determine just who would, or would not serve in a shooting war. He was
unpleasantly surprised that something on the lines of 48% would not take up
arms, no matter who or what the enemy was.
	Sighing inwardly, the Minister was fully aware of the rot that had
set in. Morale, always low, was, if possible, lower, despite the recent
contribution to Allied coalition that had defeated Sadam Hussein and, if he
was right, and the Minister thought he was, the two men before him dressed
in sombre suits, were typical products of his ministry's ineffective
efforts. They were disillusioned officers, tired of the politics, the
in-fighting, the total lack of purpose . . . the list went on.
	Although the Minister did not know it, what he thought was
true. The Phantom, fed up with doing nothing as a Reserve Naval Officer,
had taken advantage of his status as a Honourary ADC and rank in the RNR
and used Edouard Lotbiniere's influence to train in England, gaining
experience and expertise. That it had led to his serving in the Gulf War,
and a wound that was still healing, bothered The Phantom not at all. He was
justifiably proud of his service, and the shared hardships with Matt and
Cory.
	The Gunner's retirement had been less prosaic and much more
selfish. Just as The Phantom had been disillusioned, which was a polite way
of saying he was pissed off, The Gunner had resigned his commission upon
being elected as Grand Master of the Order. He had realized that as a naval
officer he was doing nothing more than spinning wheels, trapped in a system
that did not look upon smart, intuitive young officers kindly. His being
commissioned from the ranks had not helped at all. It had, in fact, been
detrimental. The Old Guard, ever on the lookout for rivals, slapped down
"Mustangs" as they were called south of the border quickly and effectively.
	Coming up through the hawse pipe was no recommendation, and while
it looked good to the Lower Deck, the Wardroom turned its collective back,
The Gunner was not "one of them", was too independent minded, too
well-connected, and not afraid of using his connections, to suit the
Captain Blimps.
	The politics of the Services, particularly in the huge NDHQ, was
mind-boggling and deadly. No one trusted anyone, and even friendship was
dangerous. One never knew when a so-called friend would turn into an
enemy. Far too many up and coming officers thought nothing of destroying a
career if it would benefit his own.
	The Gunner had left the service without regrets. He was now doing
something constructive, and beneficial. He had turned the dirty little
secrets of many of his former colleagues to the Order's benefit, just as he
had blatantly milked his contacts for everything they had, to gain
something for the Order.
	He stared at the Minister, wondering if the man knew what was
coming if he refused to give Chef what he wanted. The Gunner was no fool
and had long ago learned that there was no honour amongst thieves or
politicians. Long ago Michael Chan had told The Gunner that using an
enemy's peccadilloes and sins to gain an end was no sin.
	Michael had taught The Gunner well. Chef would have his funeral,
and no one, not the Minister, not the Prime Minister, nor all the generals
and admirals in their posh office suites overlooking Colonel By Drive could
prevent it.

******

	The Minister studied the sheet of paper the VCDS had passed to
him. The list was comprehensive, and even costed, down to the last
estimated penny. The Minister's eyes grew wide as he read the total
figure. "I never knew a funeral could be so . . . expensive!"
	The Gunner shrugged. "That is only an estimate." He shrugged
expansively. "We are prepared to cover all costs, without exception."
	The offer was generous. The Minister knew far too well that any
military operation, from a funeral to an invasion, the initial "estimates"
in men, material and money never balanced with the actual costs. The
Minister thought of the "butcher's bill" for the Canadian contribution to
the Gulf War. What had been budgeted bore little resemblance to the actual
cost.
	"Six hundred men, give or take?" the Minister said, pointing to the
lists of participants.
	The VCDS nodded. "A traditional funeral is very labour intensive,"
he said.
	The Minister's ears perked up. "Traditional? What does that mean?"
	The Gunner interjected. "The deceased, Chef that is, was nothing if
not traditional and . . ."
	Abruptly the Minister held up his hand. "Chef? You mean the man who
owned the restaurant downtown?"
	"Yes," replied The Gunner. He knew what was coming and dreaded the
consequences.
	The Minister scowled. "That old bastard! He went and died on me!"
	The Phantom looked questioningly at The Gunner, who gave the VCDS a
quizzical look.
	Noting the exchange, the Minister laughed softly. "For years Chef
wouldn't let me see the inside of his place, except at Christmas, and then
I had to be a guest of someone he thought suitable to dine in his
restaurant! Then he allowed me to lunch there! Can you imagine, the
Minister of National Defence, allowed to lunch there!"
	The Gunner looked embarrassed as he replied, "I am afraid that Chef
had a very low opinion of politicians of all stripes."
	"It wasn't personal," The Phantom hastened to add.
	The Minister laughed delightedly. "Chef was an astute man, and I
don't question his judgement of politicians at all!"
	"You don't?" asked The Phantom, frankly surprised.
	"Of course not," said the Minister easily. "Most of them are liars
and interested in keeping their seats and feathering their little nests."
He regarded the funeral list again. "Traditional, eh? How traditional?"
	The Gunner looked at the VCDS, who nodded. "All participants will
wear the traditional naval uniform."
	It was the Minister's turn to look surprised. "How . . .?"
	The VCDS spoke quickly. "This . . . operation, if you will, has
been in the planning stages for ten years. Chef supervised and wrote every
aspect of it. He resolutely refused to recognize the changes brought on by
`Unification' and was determined that when the time came he was going out
in a blaze of glory."
	"Not to mention causing infinite inconvenience to everyone," said
The Gunner with a smile. "He planned his funeral and made arrangements to
have uniforms available. Some are from England, some from New Zealand and
Australia. The caisson is from England, as is the Royal Marine Band." Once
again The Gunner shrugged. "To many, Chef was a dippy old man, but he was
also a shrewd planner. He knew what he wanted and I intend to see that he
gets it all."
	The Minister thought a moment. Then he looked directly at the
VCDS. "You approve?" The VCDS nodded. "And the Chief" the Minister asked,
referring to the Chief of the Defence Staff, the highest ranking officer in
the CAF.
	"He is at the moment, probably, yelling at his tailor to finish his
uniform."
	The Minister looked wryly at the VCDS. "I'm almost afraid to ask
what uniform."
	"Full regimentals, including a new sword," replied the VCDS. "Red
serge, gold braid and all."
	Shaking his head, the Minister muttered, "The PM will be pissed."
	"The Prime Minister is not the Commander in Chief," offered The
Gunner. "The Governor General is." He smiled slyly. "You are aware that
there is a proper uniform for Governors General?" he asked.
	"You're kidding!"
	"Smelling of moth balls, to be sure," The Gunner said with a
grin. Then he sobered. "I am aware that the PM might object." He nodded to
the VCDS, who slid another piece of paper across the Minister's desk.
	"This might persuade the PM that it would not be in his best
interests to oppose this funeral," the VCDS said. He pointed to the piece
of paper. "That will be announced in the London Gazette today."
	As the Minister read the paper his eyebrows rose. "Three?" Then he
regarded The Phantom. "You?"
	"One of them, but yes, Minister," The Phantom replied without any
emotion.
	"Arundel? That name is familiar," the Minister said as he read the
other two names in the citations.
	"Cory Arundel is a son of Albert Arundel," offered The Gunner.
	The Minister knew who Albert Arundel was. He nodded. "Will
Associate Justice Arundel be attending the funeral?" he asked.
	"Along with his wife, his brother Louis, his other son, Todd and
his nephew, Gabriel Izard-Arundel" answered The Gunner. He did not add that
Joe Hobbes, Gabe's partner for life, would also be in attendance. There
were some things that the Minister had no need to know, so there were.
	Politically, it did not bode well to piss off an Associate Justice
of the Supreme Court. "I suppose there will be other, shall we say, very
important people attending?" the Minister asked.
	"Invitations have gone out to many people, some in high places,
many in low," returned The Gunner. "Chef had many friends."
	"From the sound of it, I'm sure he did," returned the Minister
dryly. He scratched the side of his nose reflectively. "There is, however,
still the Prime Minister."
	The Gunner leaned forward and asked, "Do you really think that you
owe him your loyalty?" he said as he drew an envelope from his pocket. He
handed it to the Minister without comment.
	Inside the envelope was piece of paper bearing the letterhead of
the Prime Minister's Office. On the piece of paper was typed a date, and a
name.
	The Gunner watched as the Minister's choler rose. He watched as the
Minister's eyes turned flinty and his fist crumpled the piece of paper. "So
much for party loyalty," he opined.
	The Minister nodded. Then he asked, "This is supposed to be secret
- not unexpected - but secret. How did you . . .?"
	"I have my ways," replied The Gunner firmly. His tone suggested
that just how he had managed to learn not only the date of the Minister's
removal from office, but also the name of his successor, not be looked at
too closely.
	The Minister sighed. Years of loyal service to the party, years of
politicking and boot licking lesser men, and this was his reward. "Am I to
be given a new portfolio?" he asked The Gunner.
	"No."
	The Minister reacted quickly. He signed the original operations
order for Chef's funeral. As he scrawled his signature the VCDS asked
quietly, "What of the Prime Minister?"
	"Bugger him!" exclaimed the Minister. Then he looked at The
Gunner. "Is he invited?"
	The Gunner shook his head. "One of the things about planning your
own funeral is that you get to say who's invited and who is not." He
chuckled. "You at least got to eat lunch in Chef's establishment. The Prime
Minister couldn't have got in the service entrance, unless he came to wash
the dishes or fry the chicken!"
	Laughing, the Minister asked, "Swords and medals?"

******

	"Swords and medals," thought The Phantom. Chef had had them, and
much more. For pomp, panoply and ceremony there were few comparisons to a
military funeral, with his horses and uniforms, flags and bands. The only
comparison that The Phantom had was Michael Chan's funeral. When Michael
succumbed to prostate cancer his adopted son and heir, Alistair, had pulled
out all the stops and buried his dearest friend with all the pomp that
Chinese culture and tradition demanded. To do less would have meant a loss
of face for Alistair, and demean the memory of the man many called the Last
True Viceroy".
	There were contrasts, of course. The Gunner's funeral had been
one. While Chef's plans had run to nearly 100 single-spaced typed pages,
The Gunner's wishes were limited to a hand written single page of
instructions. When he died quietly in his sleep, in London, from a heart
attack, he was returned to Toronto and his low-keyed funeral held in the
same small chapel where his aunt's funeral had been held. The chapel held
barely 100 mourners, and in accordance with The Gunner's wishes, only the
Boys of Aurora, and selected guests attended. Amongst them were Ace Grimes
and Lester Menkes. As The Gunner had prophesied, his relationship with Ace
had faded. Ace remained loyal, however, to the Order, and was active in the
administration not only of the Hospital in Toronto, but also the
Hospice. He and Lester had drifted together, and lived together.
	Lester, for his part, welcomed Ace's presence. He too had suffered
the loss of a lover when Ames Cale had broken off their relationship and
returned to being what he essentially was, a good cop and a loving father
and husband. While Lester knew that he and Ace were not in love with each
other, they did care for each other and, as Lester put it, at the end of
the day living with Ace was much better than living with a cat!
	Unlike Michael, who occupied an ornate, much decorated marble
mausoleum in the Arnprior Hospital chapel, as did Chef, whose tomb was much
more sombre, The Gunner had been cremated and the ashes carried to Halifax
by The Phantom where, after a short voyage in HMCS Huron, they had been
scattered over the dark waters of the Atlantic, returned to the sea he so
loved.

******

	Sometimes, when the night was still, and the wind ceased to blow,
the sounds came to The Phantom. At times he heard again the measured tread
of marching men as the cortege wound its way through the North End of
Halifax. At other times he heard the slow, mournful notes of Chopin soaring
over the heads of the crowd that lined the narrow streets as the procession
passed by.
	Oft times he heard again the soft jangling of horse tackle as the
Halifax Mounted Unit, which had led the procession turned from Windsor
Street, through the gates of Fairview Cemetery, and down Last Post Drive to
the grave site. At the memory of the horses The Phantom always smiled. Chef
had arranged, how no one ever knew, for horse-drawn carriages to carry the
"Lady Mourners" as the Order of Service called them, from the church to the
cemetery. There had been a royal-maroon coloured town coach, and a pair of
curved-front Clarences, each drawn by a pair of Cleveland Bays. The coaches
were provided as Chef had strictly enjoined that no woman would march in
his funeral cortege! The coachmen wore black livery, as did the ladies,
Mrs. Arundel, Mrs. Randolph Mrs. Airlie. Sophie Nicholson, looking far
younger than her years, also wore black, a lace creation that she had
picked up on the fly in Paris on her way back from the south of France,
where she had been when the news of Chef's death had come.
	The ladies were handed into their respective carriages, Mary and
Mabell by Blake Randolph, resplendent in the full dress uniform of his
regiment, the Seaforth Highlanders. Todd, in his naval uniform, helped his
mother join Sophie in the town coach. Then he and Blake joined Sophie's
husband, James Edgar and her adopted sons, Aaron Edgar and Eugen Arenburg,
in the second rank of marching mourners.
  	Memories of that day always seemed filled with flowers. Chef had,
in his later years, become an avid gardener and his flat and restaurant
were filled with fresh-cut flowers. He would have been chuffed at the
floral arrangements, wreaths and arrangements of roses, carnations, and
seasonal blooms in the church, and his chest would have filled with pride
had he seen the three arrangements adorning the Altar, which bearing a
discrete white card with just a name, each arrangement composed of the
finest blooms the gardens and glasshouses of Windsor had to offer.
	The Phantom had not marched in the procession. Nor had Cory or
Matt, the only Boys of Aurora who had not formed ranks behind the caisson,
drawn by sailors in their traditional blue uniforms - and blue caps!
	Although he had steeled himself for the walk, Colin and The Gunner
had threatened dismemberment if The Phantom so much as took one step
forward. His leg was still not healed, and the risk of infection was still
great. Cory, weak and as badly wounded as The Phantom, was unable to walk
at all, and Matt, while not wounded, would not leave him, nor would Sean
Anders.
	Frustrated, The Phantom watched as Chef's old-fashioned,
"toe-pincher" coffin was carried from the church by eight bearers - retired
Chiefs resplendent in gold buttons and shined medals. In the pockets of
each bearer, and the pockets of the Petty Officer who carried the bearer's
hats, and the Chief G.I., was a gold sovereign, an inducement not to drop
or jostle the coffin.
	There had been no music as the coffin was off-loaded from the
caisson, or when it was replaced. This too was traditional and unlike
American funerals, no hymns were ever played as an old sailor or soldier
began his last journey.
	Silence reigned on the Halifax Parade (which the church fronted)
and the mourners filed from the church. The silence was broken first by the
command for the funeral procession to march off, and then by the mournful
tolling of the funeral bell that hung in the octagonal spire of the church.
	Chef was followed to his first resting place by his boys. Behind
the last rank of the sailors of the gun carriage's crew marched Peter Race,
dressed in the dark blue uniform of an RCNR Lieutenant, and carrying the
only flag that Chef recognized other than the White Ensign: the old, Red
Ensign, the flag he had been born under, and was determined would be buried
under.
	Behind Peter, Fred Fisher, his dress uniform of a Lieutenant
Commander much more ornate in that he wore gold epaulettes and gold
aiguillettes of an AdeC to the Queen. He carried Chef's medals and
decorations on a small, crimson pillow.
	Flanking the caisson, four on each side, were the Escorts, and here
Chef had designated that only Companions of the Order would march, Eion
Reilly, Nate Schoenmann, Logan Hartsfield, and Ned Hadfield amongst them.
	Behind Fred came the mourners, neatly formed in ranks, six men to a
rank, with the senior Knights in the first. The original Boys of Aurora
were followed by the Knights, including Pete Sheppard and Alistair Chan,
Jake Guildenhall, Alex Grinchsten, Terry Hsiang and Cousin Ray Chung, the
Viceroy of Montreal, and Ginger, who called himself the "relic" of the
Maestro, and was Chef's partner in the catering business in Vancouver.
	Here too marched the men who called themselves "The Fifty", the
group of ex-Servicemen who had replaced the treacherous Chinese guards that
had betrayed Michael Chan, the men who had willingly joined the Crusade, Ty
Ravenel, Rusty Smith, Vince Demarco, Dino Antonelli, and Dave Edge amongst
them. With them marched "The Warrior Knights of the Priory of Upper
Canada", once known as "The Gunner's Rangers": Teddy Vian, Shane Kingscote,
Max Hainey, Gil Stephenson, Sam North, and Jeff MacDuff.
	Behind them, in a group, came the Litany of the Saints. They were
sombrely dressed and together again for the first time since they had left
Aurora. They had not forgotten Chef, or the lessons he had taught them of
honour, and integrity. David Tomkens, who had fallen on hard times, marched
with them as well. His legs were gangrenous from diabetes, and he leaned on
two stout walking sticks, but he was determined to walk with Chef wherever
the old man led him.
	Behind the Litany came the marching unit of HMCS Stadacona, 100
young, strong men in the traditional blue uniforms and white caps of the
Navy Chef knew and loved. No one but The Phantom knew that their presence
there was the result of a first class dust up between him and the Prime
Minister.

******

	The Minister of National Defence could not keep the news of the
funeral from the Prime Minister. It was in the Ottawa and Halifax papers,
after all, and Chef had been a well known character in both cities. The
Prime Minister, when he read of the military's participation, had called
the Minister, demanding an explanation and ordered a cessation of all plans
for the Navy to be a part of Chef's funeral. It seemed that Chef had barred
the man from his restaurant and the Prime Minister had not forgotten. He
owed Chef nothing and the old boot could go to his grave in a tumbrel as
far as he was concerned.
	The Minister argued in vain, and then tried to contact The Gunner,
who was in Halifax arranging Chef's temporary interment in a chapel of
rest. Unable to reach The Gunner, the Minister then rang The Phantom, who
listened, and then took action.
	Gaining access to the Prime Minister was child's play. The word of
The Phantom's new honour was common knowledge, and the PM was anxious to
meet a true "War Hero". It made for good press and would please the old
vets, most of whom voted conservative. Little did the man know what was in
store.
	No one except The Phantom and the Prime Minister ever knew what
transpired behind closed doors, and indeed the PM denied their meeting ever
took place. However, there were witnesses, at least in the form of
secretaries listening at keyholes. There had been shouting, and muffled
growls, and one aide swore he heard his country's leader being firmly told
to go and fuck himself and the horse he rode in on.
	The Phantom would only admit that he was privy to many secrets,
several of which he shared with the Prime Minister. The Phantom would only
say that he had had a chat with the man and at the end of the day Chef had
had his 100-man Guard, which was all that was important.  ******

	The Phantom had not seen the crowd that such a procession always
attracted. He, Cory, Matt and Sean had been hustled into a back Cadillac
limousine and, by back streets, carried to the cemetery. While he waited
for the cortege, The Phantom, with Matt, walked into the cemetery, past the
"Titanic" graves, to a small, plain, Chapel of Rest. Here Chef would rest
until he could be carried to whatever tomb had been made for him in the yet
to be built chapel of the Hospital in Arnprior. Chef wanted to be with his
boys, and until he could be with them he would stay a while with Hal
Simmonds, whose grave lay under a nearby towering, now ancient tree. On the
grave was a fresh bouquet of red roses. Hal Simmonds' last resting place
was a small piece of serenity.
	Chef would rest near Hal. His temporary resting place would always
be adorned with the flowers he loved, and on the anniversary of his death a
group of men, some old, some young, would gather, and raise a tot of Pusser
Rum to him. Chef would have been pleased.

******

	The sound of a deep, echoing bell broke the quiet of The Phantom's
office. He turned and looked out the window, although he did not expect to
see anything. He knew, however that the sound of the Doomsday Bell told the
students that it was 2230, time for bed.
	Wickedly, The Phantom wondered if the boys actually called it the
Doomsday Bell, or if they had, in the perverse way of schoolboys, named it
something else. He remembered what had happened back in Aurora when the
Last Post sounded and the lights turned out. If he knew teenage boys, and
what they did in the dark of night, and The Phantom thought he did, he had
no doubt that the tolling bell had been renamed to something like "The
Wanking Bell".
	He had no time, however, to dwell on the doings of boys in the
night, for the door to his office opened and Randy appeared. He was
carrying The Phantom's winter overcoat, hat, and gloves. Whenever he was in
residence The Phantom walked the grounds of the Hospital. Except for
Christmas Eve. He never walked on that night, for the memories were too
hurtful.

******

	As he left Flagstaff House, with Randy's whispered admonition to
keep bundled up following him, The Phantom started walking up the Long
Walk, toward the main building. In the houses that lined both sides of the
central playing fields lights twinkled and blinked off as the masters and
boys retired for the night.
	Overhead the moon shone, lighting his way. His footsteps crunched
on the snow-covered path. Behind him he could hear his footsteps echoed. He
never went anywhere without his detective, a man hand-picked by Phil
Thornton. For the past two years it had been Damian Porter, a tall, slim,
dark-haired man who never smiled.
	The Phantom knew of Damian's past, of his involvement with Paul
Greene, and his later sterling service with Special Branch. Damian never
put a false step forward. He had learned his craft, first with Rick Maslen,
and later with Phil Thornton. His brief infatuation with Little Big Man,
which had begun in a brothel in Toronto three decades earlier, was never
mentioned.
	As he walked on, The Phantom saw the lights of the Christmas trees
that seemed to fill every window fronting on the Long Walk. With each tree
his melancholy returned. Memories of a decorated tree, a decorated house, a
decorated street, filled his thoughts.

******

	Christmas, 1981. For The Phantom, life was good. He had spent the
summer training on board a destroyer, earning his Watch Keeping
Certificate. He had aced his mid-terms and, more importantly, his
relationship with Colin Arnott was firm and committed.
	Colin was back home for the holidays. His parents and siblings did
not know that he and The Phantom shared a flat in Mrs. Randolph's ancient
townhouse or that they were lovers. Colin, who had a Staff Position at the
naval base, could never quite bring himself to tell his parents that he was
gay.
	Nor could The Phantom. He worried, sometimes, about being "outted",
and what his father's reaction would be. Tom Lascelles was a bluff,
no-nonsense cop, Chief of the Courtenay Police Department. In addition to
being a hard-nosed disciplinarian, he was also a prude, uncompromising when
it came to conduct and morals. He had nothing but contempt for those who
lived their lives in what he considered a moral cesspit. His disdain
extended to his family. When his eldest son, Brendan, had been forced to
marry, Tom had refused to attend the wedding, and always seemed to be on
duty when his son and daughter-in-law came to visit. Eventually Brendan's
wife got the message and stayed home.
	The Phantom had a very good idea what his father would say - and do
- if his youngest son announced that he was gay. It was Christmas, and not
the time to make such an announcement.

*******

	After dropping Colin at the airport, The Phantom headed north
toward home. He was, in truth, looking forward to the holiday, if only to
see what the latest excrescence his mother had perpetrated.
	To call Kate Lascelles a Christmas junky was a kindness. She adored
Christmas, and her house showed it. As he drove northward, The Phantom
pictured in his mind's eye his boyhood home. On the sideboard in the dining
room would be a crumbling gingerbread house, made years before by one of
the neighbours as a Christmas gift, and never eaten, and carefully packed
away each year. The house dripped with white, dusty icing imitating snow,
and was decorated with holly and ivy. The Phantom thought the scene
pretentious and ugly. His mother did not and no one dared disagree with
her.
	In the front parlour would be the tree, the odour of fresh-cut pine
filling the lower floor. The tree would be hung with ornaments, most of
them family heirlooms, the green boughs sagging from the weight.
	The fireplace would be swathed in mistletoe and pine bows. In every
corner there would be potted poinsettias, red, with the occasional white
for contrast. On the long table under the bow window overlooking the street
would be a huge Nativity scene, hand-carved in Germany and a souvenir of
his father's time in the army. The carved figurines, dark with age, would
shine in the string of multicoloured lights that rimmed the
window. Hopefully they would not flash on and off!
	The nearer he came to Comox the more The Phantom thought about what
would be waiting for him. If he knew his mother, the front of the house
would be as bad, if not worse, than the inside. The whole place would be
hung with lights that sparkled and blinked. There would be another Nativity
scene on the lawn, well-lit, and flanked with at least one illuminated
Santa Claus.  The trees that stood at the sides of the house would be hung
with red lights, and on the roof would be . . . something! Last year it had
been a sled-borne Santa and eight tiny reindeer, plus Rudolph out front,
his red nose blinking like the aircraft warning light on top of the radio
relay tower that stood on the point of land at the southern edge of the
harbour. The Phantom shuddered at the memory.
	He also shook his head at the expense of it all - all those lights
and figures, and the cost of the electricity to light them, all for what
was essentially a "friendly" neighbourhood competition. The Phantom knew
that when he turned into his street every house on both sides would be as
lit up as the Dartmouth Ferry, the whole street a river of brightly
coloured lights!
	In retrospect, however, The Phantom could not be too harsh with his
mother, or the people who were his neighbours. Decorating the town for
Christmas was a small town tradition. Comox was nothing if not a small
town. Everybody knew everybody else, and the streets reeked of small town
values, family, and church, an aura of Small Town Canadianism blanketing
it. Neighbours were neighbours, real neighbours, and Christmas Eve was a
time for renewing relationships and friendships.
	The Phantom knew what was awaiting him. At dusk the neighbours
would gather at the foot of the street. They would walk the length of it,
singing carols and admiring the decorations (no matter how ghastly, they
were always beautiful at Christmas. Along the way the householders would
appear, offering egg nog, and hot buttered rum, and mulled wine and
home-baked cookies and fruitcakes. It was all good natured fun; it was a
small town tradition.
	Sometime during the evening Brendan and his wife would arrive,
children in tow. Depending on the crankiness of the children, they would
join the walkabout.
	Once the walkabout was finished, everybody would gather at The
Phantom's house. They would spend part of the evening eating the huge
buffet his mother had spent days preparing, and drinking the open-handed
offerings his father always put out. None of the celebrants knew, except
Tom Lascelles and his son, that much, if not all of the booze, was
"donated" by the bars and bistros of Comox and Courtenay, the gay bars
offering the most and best brands. Tom Lascelles might hate fags, but he
was hypocrite enough to accept the yearly tributes with a smile.
	Once everyone had a glow on, everybody would go home to change for
Midnight Mass. Kate Lascelles would change into a proper frock, put on her
best necklace and earrings, and hat, take up her white gloves and prayer
book, and wait impatiently in the hall, tapping her foot for her husband,
sons and daughter-in-law to finish dressing. The Phantom would put on his
mess kit, his new rank of Lieutenant glowing on the sleeves. His father
would put on his Chief of Police uniform, which had more gold braid than
his son's. Brendan would add éclat to the occasion by squeezing into his
Mounted Police dress uniform, all red serge and brown leather. His wife,
looking sad as always, and perhaps two sheets to the wind, would don her
least objectionable shroud. Once the babysitter arrived they would all
troop off to St. Peter's Anglican Church for Midnight Service.

******

	Christmas Day they would gather in the kitchen in robes and pyjamas
and enjoy a huge breakfast. Brendan's sons would be coddled and petted, and
Kate Lascelles would say a thankful prayer that they both resembled their
father. Once breakfast was done they would troop into the front room and
open presents. Later in the day there would be Christmas Dinner, roast
turkey, cranberry sauce, all the traditional foods offered at the season,
gathering in the dining room where the table had been set with Kate's best
china and wedding silver.
	After dinner was a time for rest. The Phantom always snuck away to
call Colin. His father would leave to "check things out", which meant that
he would be gone for the rest of the night as he usually ended up with his
best friend, Harry Jensen, who was Town Constable, drinking and playing
poker until the wee hours.
	The next day, Boxing Day, was a free day for the men. Boxing Day
was for women! And for SHOPPING! Every shop in Comox and Courtenay had
Boxing Day Sales, and The Phantom doubted that there was a woman in town
worth her salt who would not be downtown, credit cards in hand, taking
advantage of the bargains.

******

	The Phantom had not been disappointed. The street was a sea of
multicoloured lights, and two of the neighbours had set speakers outside
and carols were blaring. The roof of his house had a small choir of angels
glowing brightly, and blaring some banal Tin Pan Alley song.
	Kate was in the kitchen, icing cakes when The Phantom arrived. She
laughed to see him, hugged him, and told him to go away, as she was much
too busy to play mother! The Phantom inspected the house and noticed that
every flat surface seemed to be covered with his mother's latest
decorations: Christmas villages. There also seemed to have been a bumper
crop of poinsettias, as the hall and dining room were lined with them.
	In his room The Phantom unpacked. Fortunately this room was devoid
of any decorations, and was exactly as he had left it in the waning days of
April when he left for his summer training.  After laying out his mess kit,
The Phantom left his room. The back of his battered old Land Rover was
packed with the Christmas presents he had bought for his family. Colin and
he had exchanged gifts before Colin left.
	As he was descending the stairs, The Phantom heard the front door
open, and then slam shut.  The Phantom paused at bottom of the staircase,
thinking, "Hell and Sheeit! Trouble's back in town!"
	He knew the signs: the slamming door, his father's early arrival
home and, if The Phantom was right, a stiff shot of whisky in the front
room.
	Gingerly, The Phantom peeked around the doorframe. His father was
standing in front of the drinks cabinet, a large glass of amber liquid in
his hand. He was muttering something about "In my house!"
	Not knowing what was wrong, The Phantom entered the parlour and
coughed. Then he said, quietly, "Hi, Dad."
	Chief Lascelles turned and seemed to notice his son for the first
time. The Phantom noticed the strange glint in his father's eyes. Something
had happened that had caused the old man to fly into a rage.
	The Chief downed his drink in one gulp and motioned toward a
chair. "Welcome home, son," he said.
	A new, stranger look came into the Chief's eyes as he sat on the
sofa opposite his son. The Phantom, still in the dark, said, "It's good to
be back, Dad. I miss the old homestead." He saw that his father was
fighting to maintain control, and his temper. He was clutching the glass in
his hand so tightly that his knuckles were white.
	Tom Lascelles eyes were blank, cold and devoid of any emotion. "You
look fit," he told his son. "How's school?"
	School? This was a strange question. His father always asked about
the navy first. The Phantom tried to think of what would prompt this change
of questions. "It's fine. I didn't make the Dean's List, but school is
good," The Phantom answered carefully.
	Tom nodded absently, his mind seemingly miles away.
	The Phantom decided to get to the bottom of what was bothering his
father. "Is something wrong, Dad?" he asked. He did not want to press, but
this mood of his father's usually meant that something had gone horribly
wrong, usually on the job, or when Tom was faced with an unusually gruesome
crime.
	At first Tom did not reply. He rose and returned to the drinks
cabinet, poured another drink and offered one to his son. The Phantom shook
his head. He was not in the mood for drink.
	After returning to the sofa, Tom asked, his voice strangely cold,
"Phantom, how well do you know Jeff Jensen?"
	The Phantom started. Jeff? Jeff Jensen? What had he to do with
anything?
	Truthfully, The Phantom answered, "I haven't seen him - read a lot
about him, but . . ."
	He had no reason to lie. Years ago, before Sea Cadets, before
Aurora, before the Order or the Navy, The Phantom had lusted after Jeff,
who was the devilishly handsome, dark haired son of Harry Jensen, Tom
Lascelles' best friend and also a cop with the Comox Police Department,
almost from the first moment The Phantom had been capable of lust!
	Jeff had been the quintessential jock, the Golden Boy of Comox, who
had been given an athletic scholarship to UBC. As a football jock, Jeff had
excelled for the UBC Thunder Birds, and his prowess was such that he had
been drafted by the BC Lions. So far as The Phantom knew Jeff was enjoying
life in the big leagues, in Vancouver.
	The Phantom did not, could not, tell his father that there had been
a time when he and Jeff had come close to having a relationship. The
Phantom had wanted it, desperately and, if the signs were right, so had
Jeff. One night, after a Sunday barbecue, he and Jeff had sat by the pool,
drinking beer. Jeff, who never wore underwear, had opened his legs to
expose his magnificent upper deck fittings. The Phantom had almost "gone
for a Coke" with Jeff, but something held him back. He and Jeff had never
exchanged so much as a mutual jerk off. Later The Phantom learned that Jeff
was having sex with his younger brother, Robbie, a venal, insatiable,
amoral brat who used his control over his brother blatantly. The Phantom
had seen Robbie in action and had backed away. He had not seen either Jeff
or Robbie in at least a year.
	"When you were boys, you and Jeff were friends," Tom Lascelles said
bluntly.
	Again The Phantom started. What was this . . . interrogation about?
What in the hell was going on?
	"Dad, I've known Jeff all my life! I knew his sister! He was always
over here, as were his parents. We were never close, really." For some
reason The Phantom did not remind his father that Jeff and Brendan had been
close. Before Brendan had gone off to Regina he had coached Jeff and for a
time they had always seemed to be together. The Phantom doubted that
Brendan and Jeff had played more that touch football. Brendan had confessed
to two liaisons when in high school, and afterward, but he had never
mentioned Jeff Jensen as being one of them. In any case, now was not the
time to suggest anything untoward had happened.
	"I go to UVic, Jeff was at UBC," The Phantom continued. "I did see
him at some of the games, but let's face it, Dad, I was never a jock, and
jocks always stick together. He was into partying hearty, which I don't
do. He wasn't a part of my world at all."
	Once again The Phantom had told the truth. He had a very good idea
of what Jeff's world had been like when he was in college. It was a world
of jocks and rah-rah college boys who preferred the company of their own
kind, other jocks who thought of nothing but football, booze and broads,
determined to drink as much beer as they possibly could and scoring as much
pussy as their dicks could stand.
	That had never been The Phantom's world. He had moved out of his
freshman dorm as soon as he could, living off campus in a bed-sit for a
while. When Colin, finally, managed a staff appointment in Esquimalt, they
had rented the flat in Mrs. Randolph's house. The Phantom's friends were
all more or less Navy types, his fellow UNTD cadets, and junior Naval
Officers from HMCS Naden, the local Reserve Division. Closer were the Boys
of Aurora, who still formed a very large part of his life, especially Todd
and Cory Arundel, and Matt Greene, who lived with the Twins. Jeff Jensen
had never been, nor could ever have been, a part of that special world.
	At first, Tom did not reply to his son's comment. As The Phantom
watched he muttered something under his breath, something about "in my
house!"
	Again, The Phantom was troubled. "Pardon?" he asked.
	Tom Lascelles took a deep breath, the iron discipline that had kept
his temper in check dissolving. "I said," he began coldly, deliberately,
"that I had him in my house!" The veneer of civility shattered as Tom
roared, "In my HOUSE!"
	"Dad?" The Phantom began, rising from his chair. "What . . . for
Christ's sake, what is wrong?"
	Tom's roaring anger had brought his wife from her kitchen. She
stood in the doorway, wringing her hands. "Tom?" she asked.
	Chief Lascelles ignored both his wife and his son. He flared at
them, "I had Jeff Jensen in my house! I had a dick sucking, ass fucking
FAGGOT IN MY HOUSE!"
	Kate had no idea what her husband was on about. She had not really
spoken with him for several days, and in fact was not too interested in his
cause of grief. She had long ago learned that when Tom was in one of his
moods it was best not to probe too deeply and to leave him stew. However,
with the neighbourhood celebrations fast approaching, and her mince pies in
the oven needing her attention, she wanted peace and quiet! "Tom, I have no
idea why you're in this mood, but whatever it is, there is no reason to
take it out on Phantom!"
	"I am not taking anything out on him," returned the Chief with a
low growl.
	"No, you're just interrogating me," thought The Phantom. He said
nothing, however. He looked at his mother, who gave him her "Don't look at
me because I have no idea what the fuck his problem is!" look.
	"Well, whatever it is, you should not yell at Phantom!" insisted
Kate.
	"I am not yelling at him! I'm yelling about that queer Jensen kid!"
	"Jensen kid?" Kate looked confused. She knew that Robbie, the
younger boy, had a reputation. The local biddies whispered that he was deep
into drugs and alcohol, and spent far too much time at Harkness Bay, the
local "clothing optional" beach, and the beach where gay tourists
gathered. As for the daughter, Amy, well, she was a tramp, pure and simple!
Why the little bitch had even tried to put the moves on her Phantom and the
less said about her the better!
	But, Kate thought, Jeff . . . Jeff had been a wonderful young man,
and so far as she knew no scandal had ever been attached to him. Why, when
her Phantom was younger, Jeff had been his idol.
	Tom Lascelles saw the look exchanged between his wife and son. He
growled low as he said, "I just came from Harry Jensen's place. His kid was
arrested early this morning."
	Both The Phantom and his mother gasped. Kate had no inkling as to
why Jeff could or would be arrested. The Phantom, who remembered the sight
of Robby and Jeff together, wondered if their relationship had finally been
exposed. He would not, however, speculate. "What happened? Was it drugs?"
he asked his father.
	Chief Lascelles snorted. "Look shocked, because it's worse than you
think!"
	"Well, perhaps you might tell us what happened," Kate temporized.
	"And why you're calling Jeff a `faggot'!" interjected The Phantom.
	"I call 'em as I see 'em!" snapped Chief Lascelles. "I call a dog a
dog and a fag a fag!"
	"But, Tom whatever . . ." began Kate.
	"Last night the Vancouver PD finally got off their asses and
cracked down on all the faggot bath houses!" snarled Tom. "Raided 'em, six
of them! The boys kicked over a real rat's nest of drugs and booze and
queers!"
	"But what has that to do with Jeff?" asked The Phantom.
	Chief Lascelles all but breathed fire at his son. "Because one of
the fags the Vancouver boys arrested was Jeff Jensen!" He looked, almost
triumphant, as he continued. "Yeah! Jeff Jensen, the Golden Boy, found in a
private room, getting it up the ass by a buck nigger!"
	Not for the first time, Chief Tom Lascelles revealed his bigotry
and prejudice. His father was a man filled with unspeakable hate.
	"Dad! Please, don't use that word!" demanded The Phantom.
	His mother echoed his sentiments by nodding her head. Then her hand
clutched her breasts. "Poor Margaret," she whispered, referring to Jeff's
mother. "She must be frantic!" Then she added, "Poor Jeff."
	"Poor Jeff?" roared Tom. "Poor Jeff? The son of bitch was getting
fucked by another guy! God knows how many he'd taken on before the cops
found him!" He returned to the drinks cabinet.
	"We had him in this house," Tom snarled. "He swam in our pool; he
ate our food at our dining table." He glared at The Phantom. "He sat beside
my pool drinking my beer with my son!"
	The Phantom could not let this go on. He returned his father's
glare. "He came here at your invitation," he stated firmly.
	"He abused my hospitality!" returned Tom. Then he looked sharply at
his son. "Did he also abuse my son?"
	The Phantom was so shocked at what his father was alluding to he
could not at first reply. Then, recovering, he said coldly, "Jeff never
tried anything with me, never hinted at doing anything with me!"
	"Well, that's something!" snapped the Chief. "But then again, God
only knows how long he's been trying to convert kids!"
	"What? What did you say?" snarled The Phantom.
	"You heard me! Queers are always trying to convert innocent boys to
their way of life!" responded Tom. "He wasn't hitting on you, but that
doesn't mean that . . ."
	The Phantom was flabbergasted. "Convert?" he yelled. "What in the
hell do you mean by that?" His anger was rising and his green eyes
flashed. "You can't convert anyone! You're either born gay, or you're not!"
	Tom's face grew red. "Mind your mouth, boy!" he snapped. "You might
be some big ass college boy, but you don't know squat!"
	The Phantom really did not want to argue with his father. It was
Christmas, but Jeff had been his friend, and while he had never approved of
Jeff's relationship with Robbie, something deep within The Phantom would
not allow his father to speak ill of them.
	"Dad, I am not an expert, okay?" The Phantom began, calmer now,
although he was maintaining his calmness with difficulty. "I do know that
Jeff never tried anything with anybody. I grew up here, remember, and if
anything was going on, I would have heard about it!"
	"Oh?" asked Tom doubtfully.
	The Phantom took a deep breath. "Dad, kids are kids and they talk!
Nobody ever accused Jeff of trying to put the moves on them!"
	"Which is more than can be said of Amy, Jeff's sister!" The Phantom
thought. He also thought that this was not the time to spread gossip, or
remind his father of the truth behind the rumour that Amy Jensen was
renowned for taking boys up to the reservoir and giving them a blow job.
	"Where there's smoke there's fire!" countered Tom. "The kid was a
faggot back in the days!" Then he added, "He deserves everything he gets!"
	"Oh, Tom, don't say that," said Kate. She had known Jeff from
almost the day he'd been born. She had held him up as an example to her
youngest son. She was a close friend to Jeff's mother. She looked at her
husband. "You can't mean that!"
	"I mean every word!" returned Tom. He chuckled evilly. "Right now
the little fruitcake is in the Vancouver hoosegow!" A look of pure venom
crossed his face. "They know what to do with fancy ass, college boys in
there. They know how to treat some nancy boy!"
	The Phantom paled. He knew his father, and he knew what he was
capable of. He also knew what Harry Jensen did in the dank cellars of the
Comox Jail. "You . . . you'd do that to Jeff?" he whispered, barely capable
of speech.
	Tom glared at his son. "What do you care what happens to that
little faggot?" he demanded harshly.
	"What are you saying, Tom," Kate demanded.
	"Shit happens in jail!" responded Tom with an indifferent shrug of
his shoulders. "Whatever happens is no more than the bastard deserves! He
had this whole town fooled! Everybody thought he was the cat's ass football
hero when all the time he was going around buggering little boys!"
	"He was not!" yelled The Phantom. "You don't know any such thing!"
	"I can imagine," returned Tom. "And watch your manners, and your
mouth, boy!"
	Suddenly The Phantom became calm, dangerously so. He looked at his
mother. "Jeff will be released into the general jail population," he told
her. "When that happens he'll be . . . at the very least, beaten half to
death. At the worst he'll be a target for every pervert in the joint,
raped, gang-raped, and the guards will turn away and do nothing!"
	Tom regarded his son, but did not see the air of calmness, of quiet
determination that had engulfed The Phantom. "A lot you know," he sneered.
	"I know enough that I can say with confidence that you have friends
in Vancouver. I know enough to say that I wouldn't put it past you to call
in a few markers and make sure that Jeff never leaves the jail alive!"
	Kate gasped. "Tom, you wouldn't . . ."
	"Tell her, Dad, tell how you and Harry Jensen rousted the gays at
Harkness Bay, how you extorted money from them, how you took the ones who
couldn't, or wouldn't pay the price down to the cellars at the jail
house. Tell her, Dad!"
	Tom was near to explosion, but the iron discipline he had
held. "Jeff Jensen is a queer. He has no right to be alive! None of them
do! If it was up to me they'd all be . . ." His voice trailed off and then
he said venomously, "I hope a plague comes and takes them all! I hope that
God sends a disease to them, so that they all die in pain and suffering and
the horror of the Devil himself! The world doesn't need their kind!"
	The Phantom deliberately faced his father. "Kind? Just what `kind'
is that?" he asked, his voice low.
	Tom tried, and failed, to stare his son down. "You know very well
what I'm talking about!" he declared, his voice rising. "I saw them in the
Army! Oh, they tried to hide it but I knew what they were: fags, always
scopin' the real men out in the showers! Well, we knew what to do with
them! I see it all the time in the bars, dancin' together and rubbin' each
other's asses and callin' each other girlie names and prancin' around! They
sicken me, God, how they sicken me!"
	The Phantom glanced at his mother, who had seen this side of
husband before. She had tried to keep it away from her sons, but now it was
all out in the open. She returned The Phantom's look and shrugged.
	A strange, near peaceful calm came over The Phantom. He had known
for years, from the time he first admitted to himself that he was gay, that
this moment would come. As a boy he had been terrified if his parents ever
found out what he was. He had hidden the truth from them, playacting a role
of their making. But now, now he knew that he must end the charade. He was
no longer afraid.
	Shaking his head at his mother, The Phantom spoke clearly. "Dad,
you're a bigot, a hater, and you use your power as a cop to terrorize
people," he said flatly. "You've let something you think happened when you
were in the Army rule your opinions about gay men. You were wrong."
	Tom stared at his son. "Oh?"
	"Yes, Dad, wrong. Just because a man is gay does not mean that he
can't be a soldier, or a sailor, or an air force puke! He can do the job as
well as a so-called `straight' man, and more often than not because he is
gay he does it better! He does it better because he thinks he has to prove
himself to be better than his peers!"
	"Is that so?" snarled Tom.
	"Yes, it is," replied The Phantom. "I've served with gay men,
Dad. None of them are `girlie'! None of them have put the moves on
me. They're my friends, but more importantly they are my brothers!"
	Kate stared at her son. "Phantom, you cannot mean that you approve
of those people! It's wrong. The Bible . . ."
	"Please, Mother, not the Bible!" The Phantom said, exasperation in
his words. "I am so sick of people using the Bible to justify their
hatred!"
	Chief Lascelles heard a different tone, a different meaning in his
son's words. His brows lowered and his eyes darkened. "Are you queer?" he
asked slowly.
	The moment of truth had arrived. "No father, I'm gay," replied The
Phantom.
	Kate sat down slowly, tears starting in her eyes. "You . . . you
can't be . . . you . . ." she managed.
	"Mother, I've been gay for a long time," replied The Phantom. "I
make no apology for it!"
	Chief Lascelles returned to the drinks table, poured a large -
overlarge - drink and downed it. He carefully placed the glass back on the
table. "Did you fuck Jeff?" he asked, his voice knife-edged. "Did you suck
his cock? Did he suck yours?"
	The Phantom shook his head. "No. I admit that there was an
attraction between us, but no, nothing ever happened."
	"But . . . you've slept, had sex with other men?" his father asked,
his voice devoid of emotion. It was almost, to The Phantom, as if his
father were conducting a police interrogation. "You've had sex with other
men."
	"Yes, Father, I have."
	"When? Where?" Tom's tone had not changed. It was still icy cold.
	"That is none of your business," returned The Phantom, his voice as
cold as his father's.
	Tom nodded wordlessly and then . . .
	Without warning, Tom Lascelles's hand flashed out. The blow, while
hard, did little physical damage. The Phantom reeled back and raised his
fist, stunned that his father, who had never, except for some well-deserved
spankings when he was toddler, had never struck him, never!
	The Phantom could not quite bring himself to return the blow. It
would solve nothing, and it would not make him "straight", it would change
nothing. Lowering his fist, The Phantom, his voice low, warned his
father. "You will never do that again!"
	Turning on his heels The Phantom went upstairs to his room. He
began packing. He realized that he no longer had a home, no longer had any
parents. It was time to leave, and to never return.
	The Phantom felt no pain from the physical blow. His heart,
however, was breaking. He tried not to think about what had happened. There
was no use to dwell on it . . . a drop of blood appeared on the white
T-shirt he'd folded and was stuffing into his duffel bag. He turned and
looked at his reflection in the mirror hanging on the back of the door. His
lip was split, and a small river of blood flowed from it, and down his
chin. He wiped away the blood with the already stained T-shirt. He would
have the lip attended to later.
	He heard the door slowly creak open and turned to see his mother
standing in the doorway. She was crying. "Phantom, please, please tell me
you are not . . ." Kate whispered through her tears.
	"Mother, I've lived a lie all of my life. It's time to stop
lying. I am what I am, and if you, or Dad, can't accept that, well then
it's time to go."
	Without waiting for a reply, The Phantom closed the duffel bag and
looked around his room. There was really not all that much to leave behind,
a few books, some pictures of when he was a boy. Then he remembered
something - the remnants of the Admiral's Dining Room that had not been
moved down to Victoria. "I have some boxes stored in the basement," he
said. "I'll arrange to have them picked up. I'll make sure that the moving
men are all straight." He laughed caustically. "I wouldn't want them to
soil Dad's house!"
	Kate reached out her hand. "Please, son, try to understand. Your
father is a good man! He just can't understand how you could allow yourself
to become . . ." She could not complete the sentence.
	The Phantom could not help it. He gave his mother a look of utter
contempt. "He's a good man?" he demanded in a loud voice. "He's been
rousting gays for years, Mother! He just told us that a boy he's known all
of his life, a boy he used to stand up and cheer for, should be struck
down, killed, because he isn't good enough, condemned by God because he's
homosexual! He just hit me, his son! His son, mother, who is now a
disgusting, repugnant, creature! Not his son, a creature that should die!"
	Shaking his head, The Phantom drove the horrible thoughts from his
mind. He reached out to touch his mother's hand. She flinched, and The
Phantom knew now that even she thought as her husband did.
	"Mother, I did not `allow' myself to become anything. I've know
almost forever that I'm gay. I accept it. I've accepted it for a long
time." He stared directly at Kate. "Can you accept it?"
	Kate seemed to pause, and then slowly shook her head. From the
doorway behind her came his father's loud voice. "Don't expect your mother,
or me, to accept it."
	All but ignoring his father looming in the doorway, The Phantom
picked up his duffel bag. "I really don't care if you accept me or not," he
said. "I have tried to be a good son to you, tried to make you proud of me.
	Chief Lascelles snorted derisively. "No faggot is a son of mine!"
	For The Phantom, his father's words could not have hurt more if
they had been accompanied by another blow.
	Kate, torn between her husband and her son, cried, "Tom, no!" She
stood and embraced her son. "He's our son, no matter what he's become," she
said, stubbornly clinging to her belief that The Phantom had evolved into
something she could not approve of. "I don't approve of the lifestyle those
poor things lead! I'll never accept that Phantom is one of them! But he can
get help! He's our son . . ."
	"Not any more!" snapped Tom. He pointed his finger at The
Phantom. "You are no longer my son! I want you out of my house! Don't come
back, ever! Don't write, don't call. I don't want to hear from you, or
about you."
	There it was. The Phantom shook his head. His mother was weeping,
clinging to him, but his father was glaring at him with hate-filled
eyes. He gently pulled his mother away, and looked at his father. "Someone
once told me that a man's real family is not necessarily those born under
the same roof that he was." He smiled ruefully. "I guess he was right."

******

	Leaving the home of his youth, knowing that this was the last time
he would ever see it, The Phantom drove into town. He was drawn to the
Esplanade, the broad, tree-lined pathway that overlooked the empty
harbour. He needed to return to his roots, to the days when he had first
come to understand his feelings. He parked, left the car, and leaned on the
railings, staring into the darkness, staring across the black waters of
Comox Harbour.
	He searched in vain for the bright lights that had once marked the
buildings and parade square that had been HMCS Aurora, gone now for five
years. In the clearness of the night he saw again the dark outlines of the
few buildings that still remained. The Phantom's ship had steamed past the
former Sea Cadet base in the summer and he had seen the near-total
destruction of the place. The barracks blocks were gone. The Wardroom was
boarded up, as was the Petty Officers' barracks, where the twins, and many
of the original Boys of Aurora had lived. As the old destroyer steamed past
Heron Spit, The Phantom had seen through his binoculars that all that
remained of the Mess Hall, where Chef had reigned as a not so benevolent
dictator, were the broad steps. The Ropewalk, built of hand hewn stone,
remained. The Phantom had smiled at the sight of it for here, in this
oldest building on the Spit, many of his "brothers" had found each other.
	The flagstaff remained although, as the base had been deactivated,
no flag flew. A pang of sadness had disturbed The Phantom then. Never again
would the old flag fly from the heights of the mast.
	Memories flooded past again as he stared at the all but derelict
buildings that had been Aurora. North of the Mess Hall had been the
swimming beach. Every day the Twins, the golden, beautiful Twins, Cory and
Todd, had strolled seductively past, walking slowly down the path that led
behind the Mess Hall and to the beach. At first they had worn the briefest,
brightest coloured Speedos they could find. Then they had suffered an
epiphany, and switched to what The Phantom called their "seminarian mode",
dull boring coloured shorts, with boxers to match, including pinstripes for
Cory, who might one day feel the urge to attend church!
	The long, wooden jetty had been dismantled. Here, Stefan Gillan had
expertly seduced Harry, and begun a hot and torrid relationship that
haunted the older young man still. Harry never mentioned Stefan anymore and
The Phantom thought that what they had had together had stayed forever on
Heron Spit.
	A flash of light drew The Phantom's attention to the south. There,
on Goose Spit, was the active base, called HMCS Quadra. It had replaced
Aurora because the older base was too crowded and there was really no room
for expansion, particularly the construction of a new barracks block
. . . to house female cadets.
	Another reason why there would never be a band of brothers formed
in Quadra. Never again would young men find themselves so completely. Never
again would those fine young men find their true love, as Chris had with
Jon, as Ray had with Kevin, or Steve and Stuart, although their love,
sadly, had not lasted, or Nicholas and André, which had.
	More memories flooded back. He thought of the Makee-Learns, Randy
and Joey, and the Litany of the Saints. The Phantom had kept in touch with
all of them and as he thought of Joey his eyes drifted to Quadra. He had
hoped that his ship would drop anchor in Comox, but the captain had kept to
his training schedule. The Phantom had wanted to visit the training
establishment to see Joey, the least likely to be voted "Most Valuable
Cadet".  Both Joey and Randy had continued a career in the Sea Cadets. Joey
had become enamoured with drill and ceremonial, and had attended more and
more courses. This summer he had been named Parade Chief Gunnery Instructor
of Quadra, where he had excelled. The Phantom had wanted to see his young
friend, slim and trim, on the Quadra parade square, strutting his stuff,
and the Lord knew that Joey could strut!
	The Phantom was not surprised that Joey had attained such high rank
and prestige. He'd had good teachers. Nobody could hold a candle to The
Gunner when it came to drill and ceremonial. He'd been Whale Island
trained, and he passed on his knowledge to his young charges. Cory and Todd
were almost as good, but The Gunner had no peer, even if he was an officer.
	It was a pity, really, The Phantom thought. The boys of the new
base would never know it as a place of confirmation, a place of
discovery. They would never know it as a place where, through a bonding
rite of passage barely seen and seldom understood, they would change from
boys to young men. They would never know it as a place where that rite also
confirmed that love came in many guises, and that boys, who will soon be
men, can love each other unconditionally.
	A different set of lights drew The Phantom's attention. He saw the
twinkling red and white and green and blue pinpoints and smiled. High atop
what remained of his old place of discovery, was a small cluster of
multi-coloured lights. Someone, probably one of the old caretakers, most of
whom were ex-Navy, had followed an old tradition and hoisted a small
Christmas tree to the top of the mast.
	He was crying now, tears filling his eyes and coursing down his
ruddy cheeks. For a long time The Phantom stared at the old base. Then he
whispered, "Merry Christmas, Phantom."

******

	When he left Comox, The Phantom followed the Inland Highway, 19a,
south toward Vancouver. He could have taken Highway 19, but it was usually
too well travelled for his liking. Besides, on a sunny, summer day the view
of the strait that separated the island from the mainland was magnificent,
although in the night the waters looked bleak and forlorn.
	Not that in later years The Phantom remembered too much of that
long drive. He did remember that when he made the turn past Nanaimo onto
Highway 19, which had morphed into the Trans Canada Highway, it had started
to rain. Winter on the island could be brutal, and it was almost always,
wet. Snow was rarity.
	After negotiating the streets of Victoria, The Phantom finally came
to the huge, stern, Edwardian house where he had lived since his sophomore
year. The house was set on almost an acre of land, most of it a rose
garden, lovingly cared for by Mary Randolph, who had inherited the house
from her father.
	The Phantom and Colin rented the top floor of the house, which was
still owned by Mary Randolph. The flat was large, with two bedrooms, two
baths, a kitchen and pantry adjoining a formal dining room, and a huge
living room. While the place was grandly formal, it had a comfortable,
lived-in look. It was firmly a "bachelor" flat, clean, but not too clean,
and sometimes, as it was now, cluttered with boots and forgotten bits and
pieces in the foyer, the bed unmade, and dirty dishes in the kitchen
sink. The Phantom loved the place.
	Not only was the house convenient to the dockyard, where Colin
worked, but also to UVic. The rent was surprisingly reasonable. The Phantom
knew that Mary lived on her "Widow's Mite", the small pension paid to her
by the government. Her housemate, Mabell Airlie, who had rooms on the
second floor, was also a war widow, and together they had managed to keep
the house going. However, prices were rising and Mary was more than happy
to take The Phantom and Colin as tenants. She was also secretly pleased
that they had. Having two young men, vibrant, exuberant and handsome (one
never knew when one would need an "extra man" at table), seemed to breathe
new life into the old barn of a house.
	The only drawback was parking. Every house on the street, and in
the surrounding university campus, swarmed with undergrads, all of whom
seemed to have their own cars. There was a small coach house on the
grounds, but it was filled with gardening equipment and there was barely
enough room for Mary's ancient Daimler.
	Still in a fog, The Phantom parked two blocks from the house and
was soaked when he walked to the house. He could not remember the drive at
all. He knew that he had left Comox, but could not remember seeing oncoming
headlights, or the lights of the small towns that he passed through. He
could not remember stopping along the way, pulling over to side of the
road, his eyes filled with tears and his body gripped by agonizing
hurt. Yet he must have stopped somewhere, for the tall case clock that
stood on the first landing of the staircase leading upward was chiming 2:00
a.m. when he entered the wood-panelled foyer of the house.
	The daze that hid his fears and sorrow did not allow The Phantom to
see the tall, ornately decorated Christmas tree that dominated the
foyer. Nor did he see that the French doors that led to Mrs. Randolph's
sitting room were open.

******

	Mabell and Mary were enjoying a glass of sherry. There was a fire
on the grate, and the room was bright with lights. The ladies were dressed
for church. They had attended Midnight Mass at the Cathedral, together with
Mary's nephew, Blake, who had driven them to the Cathedral. Mary no longer
drove her Daimler if she could help it. Her eyes were getting weaker, and
she had no patience with other drivers on the road. She was also from an
era when ladies did not go out in public unescorted. Blake, barely out of
short pants, had filled the role of escort for his aunt for years. Now,
their Christmas duty to Canterbury done, they were enjoying a restorative
drink before retiring for the night.
	Both of the ladies heard the key in the latch and then saw The
Phantom as he passed through the foyer and up the stairs. "Why, Phantom's
back," Mabell exclaimed.
	"So he is," returned Mary briskly.
	"But he's supposed to be in Comox, with his people," responded
Mabell.
	"Well, he's not; he's here, and I think something has happened,"
said Mary, rising from her chair.
	"Perhaps he had a motor accident," suggested Mabell.
	"Perhaps," agreed Mary. "However, we shall never know unless we
ask. He seemed . . . upset."
	Groaning a little, Mabell rose to her feet. "Shall we go up?"
	Mary put her glass aside. "Yes, we should," she said. "Mind you, I
really must have someone see to the lift! I am getting much too old for
those stairs!"

******

 	Weeping silently, The Phantom sat in the darkened living room, the
only light coming from the pale street lights outside of the house. He at
first did not know what he should do. His whole life seemed pointless. He
had loved his parents, but now they had rejected him. He loved Colin, but
he was back east, spending the holidays with his family. The Twins, Matt
Greene and Sean Anders were in Vancouver, close by, but the ferries had
stopped running and they were as far away as if they had been in the Gobi
Desert. Chef and The Gunner were Ottawa, and the rest of the Boys were
scattered across the Dominion.
	The Phantom could not quite believe what had happened, and he had
never felt so alone before.
	Still encased in grief, The Phantom did not hear the soft knock on
his door, nor did he hear it open as Mabell and Mary entered. The first
sign of their presence was when Mary switched on a table lamp.
	Staring at her young tenant, Mary's face fell. She saw the stricken
look on his face, and the tears that flowed down his cheeks. She said
nothing as she glided to where The Phantom was sitting. She sat beside him
and took his hand in hers. Mabell sat on the other side of The Phantom and
gently placed her hand on his shoulder.
	"What has happened, Phantom?" Mary asked softly.
	The Phantom moaned desolately and then collapsed in Mary's
arm. Everything that had happened spilled out, all of his fears and
self-loathing filled the cluttered room. Between sobs he told the ladies
everything.
	Neither Mary nor Mabell were all that shocked. They had been
associated with the Order for years, and knew that Colin and The Phantom
were partners. Mary knew that Blake was still having a torrid affair with
Matthew Chan, one of Michael Chan's seemingly innumerable "Cousins". She
also knew that Matthew's parents, while not pleased with his love affair
with Blake, could say nothing, in fact dared not say a word. Matthew had
Michael's support, and that was all that mattered. She suspected that The
Phantom's parents would not be influenced by Michael at all, no matter how
much The Phantom was much beloved of Michael Chan.
	Mary did not know what to say. She thought it best to wait until
The Phantom had cried himself out. When his sobbing stopped, and his body
ceased to heave, she said, "I am so sorry, my dear boy. Please know that
Mabell and I shall always be here for you. Whatever we can do to help, we
shall!"
	Drawing away, The Phantom replied, "I know and I am grateful,
Mrs. Randolph, but you cannot do anything. My father is what he is. To him,
I'm dead."
	"Don't say that!" interjected Mabell. "He'll come to realize what
he has done and in the realization he will know what it is to lose a son!"
She sighed heavily. "I know, Phantom, I know."
	The Phantom knew of her loss. Mabell's son had died in the loss of
HMCS Esquimalt, in the waning days of the war. He also knew that while she
had adopted one of the boys rescued during the Crusade in Toronto - Albert
Edward, who was away in England, at school - she still felt the loss
deeply.
	"There is always Michael . . ." hinted Mary.
	The Phantom shook his head slowly. "No. He'd use all his influence,
all his power, if I let him. But no."
	"Why?" asked Mabell.
	"Because my father is a vicious, hating man! He's a policeman and
he has friends. He will use his power, his influence, against anyone,
Michael Chan included, who dares to try to protect me." The Phantom sighed
heavily. "I will not embarrass Michael in any way, and I will not allow him
to be the object of my father's hatred." He rose slowly from his seat. "I
appreciate the thoughts, I really do, but Michael cannot help me." He
walked to the side table where the telephone sat. "Please, I would like to
make a telephone call."
	Mabel and Mary exchanged glances. "Of course, dear," said
Mary. "When you are finished please come downstairs to my sitting room. I
shall make some tea."

******

	As they slowly descended the stairs, Mabell turned to Mary. "Who
would be calling at this time of the night?"
	"Michael Chan, of course," replied Mary.
	"But I thought that he said he wasn't going to talk to Michael,"
said Mabell, confused.
	"Mabell dear, Phantom did not say that at all. He said that he
would not allow Michael to help him." Mary stopped briefly. "He is not
asking for help for himself. He is asking Michael to help that poor
unfortunate young man, Jeff Jensen."

******

	Patrick Tsang was snuggled against the warmth of Laurence Howard,
his lover. Patrick was half asleep, dreaming of their recent
love-making. It had been, as it always, brilliant, and a wonderful ending
to a perfect evening.
	Michael had been in his element, urbane, suave, and dispensing
hospitality with an open hand. They had driven down to Christ Church
Cathedral for Midnight Mass, and Michael had been in such a good mood that
he even rode in one of the "hearses", albeit the oldest car in the Mews, a
1950 Phantom IV.
	They had met the Arundels who were with the Twins, Matt Greene, and
Sean Anders. Bertie had insisted that Michael and Major Meinertzhagen share
their pew. The music, the choir, the rubrics of the mass, had been so
enthralling that Michael had beamed. He had also insisted that everybody go
back to his house for something to eat and drink.
	Michael enjoyed Christmas, and delighted in giving gifts. His house
was decorated from the roof to the undercroft and in his drawing room a
natural pine dominated. Gaily wrapped gifts were piled on several of the
side tables and Michael had insisted that his guests open their gifts from
him then and there. Michael's gifts were always discreet, always
well-thought out, and always tasteful. Bertie and Caroline had expected
Michael's largesse, as had the Twins. Michael loved the giving, and there
was always something for them. Matt and Sean were surprised at the small
boxes with their names on them. They were even more surprised to find that
the boxes contained Faberge shirt links and studs.
	The small group of friends had partied until near two in the
morning. Caroline Arundel had then gathered what she called her brood and
insisted that Michael have Christmas lunch with her family.
	After the guests had gone, Michael had retired. He never stayed up
late if he could help it. To Patrick, Michael seem over-tired, much more so
than normal. He suspected that his friend and patron was ill, but Michael
stubbornly refused to see a doctor and made half-hearted excuses.
	Patrick and Laurence had gone to their rooms where they made
love. Laurence, after his euphoria had worn off (he was a cuddler of the
first water, before and after the act of love) and then rolled onto his
side and fell asleep.
	Now Patrick was wondering just how asleep Laurence was. He was
about to reach around and fondle Laurence's flaccid genitals when the
telephone started to ring.
	"Damn!" Patrick muttered as the double-ring disturbed the
moment. Then he frowned. It was his own fault, really. He had ordered the
duty switchboard operator to put all calls through to him. He picked up the
receiver. "Yes?"
	"Mr. Tsang, I have Philip Lascelles calling," the operator told
Patrick. "He wishes to speak to Mr. Michael."
	Patrick sat up abruptly. The Phantom never called unless it was
important, and only if it involved the business of the Order. That he had
asked to speak to Michael meant that the call was important.
	When the connection was made, Patrick said, "Pax tecum, frater."
	"Et cum spiritu tuo, frater," The Phantom replied. "May I speak to
the Grand Master?"
	While Patrick was Private Secretary to Michael Chan, he was not
privy to everything that affected Michael's life. While a member of the
Order, Patrick was not on the Great Council and therefore, as the Prince of
the Order wished to speak to the Grand Master of the Order, Patrick put The
Phantom on hold, pulled a robe over his slim, naked body, and went off to
wake Michael.

******

	Michael was not sleeping when the knock came. He hadn't been
sleeping well for quite some time, and was experiencing discomfort and
pain, particularly in his lower torso. He knew that something was wrong,
but he had no time for doctors, or their tests, or a stay in a hospital, no
matter how private or well-appointed. He had too much to do, too many fires
to fight.
	He heard the knock on the door and bade Patrick to "Come". He
listened to what Patrick had to say, and then picked up the
telephone. "Hello, dear Prince," he said.
	"I apologize, Your Majesty," The Phantom replied formally. "I know
that it's very late but, well . . ."
	"Nonsense," responded Michael, unconsciously waving his free arm in
a deprecating gesture. "Now, what is the problem?"
	"I have a friend . . ." began The Phantom. He told Michael
everything that his father had told him.
	When The Phantom was finished speaking, Michael asked, "There were
no children involved, no minors?"
	In Victoria, without quite realizing it, The Phantom shook his
head. "No, none that my father mentioned. If Jeff had been in the company
of a minor my Dad would have screamed even louder than he did."
	"It would seem that the police are undergoing a periodic fit of
morality, no doubt urged on by the local MP, who is up for election. Don't
worry; I shall take care of it."
	"Please, Michael, Jeff is in the lockup. You know what the other
inmates do to gays in there!"
	"Sadly, I do," replied Michael with a sad shake of his head. "I
shall make arrangements. Your friend will not be harmed and will be
released a soon as I can arrange it."
	"Jeff is a football player, he plays with the Lions. This will ruin
his career," said The Phantom.
	"Is he any good?" asked Michael, who did not follow the game at
all.
	The Phantom heard the humour in Michael's question and chuckled
softly. "Yes, I think he is. If he keeps going the way he is I would not be
surprised if he's named QB next year."
	"Ah, then," began Michael, who understood, "we shall have to see
that his career continues unimpeded by something as mundane as his
sexuality."
	"The newspapers . . ."
	"Shall print nothing," interrupted Michael firmly. "I shall see to
it that not a word of this unfortunate incident appears in print." He
paused, and then he asked, "And what of you?"
	"I, um. I'm fine," replied The Phantom.
	Michael shook his head. The young man was lying. He was calling
from his home in Victoria, when he should have been with his family in
Comox, celebrating Christmas. There was also an underlying sadness in The
Phantom's voice.
	Michael did not pursue the matter. He had known The Phantom since
1976 and knew that the boy would tell him what was troubling him, or not
tell him. The Phantom was a very private person, and until now had never
asked for anything, at least not for himself. Michael asked, "Are you
alone?"
	"No. Mrs. Randolph and Mrs. Airlie are downstairs. They've invited
me for tea," replied The Phantom.
	"Well, enjoy their company, and the tea. And Phantom . . ."
	"Yes?"
	"Merry Christmas, dear brother."

******

	When The Phantom rang off, Michael immediately dialled a
number. When the mumbling voice answered the ring, Michael recognized that
it was Cory who had answered.
	"Umph," complained Cory. His mouth felt as if he'd been sucking on
flannel for a week.
	Before Cory could say another word, Michael spoke. "Our brother,
Phantom, is in pain and suffering."
	Cory, who was still feeling the effects of the large whiskeys that
Michael had poured at his small reception, sat up with a start. "Wha
. . . What?"
	Beside him, Sean, who was a very light sleeper, awoke. "Who is it?"
	Cory waved his lover to silence and listened as Michael
explained. From time to time he nodded his head. "We'll leave on the first
ferry," he said. Then he swore quietly. "Damn, it's Christmas Day. All the
boats will be on holiday schedule."
	Michael was aware of what day it was. "There will be a light
aircraft waiting for you at the private section of the airport," he told
Cory. Then he hung up.
	Sean, awake now, watched as Cory rummaged through the drawers of
his clothes press, looking for clean underwear. "Are you going to tell me
what is going on?" he asked, his voice raspy and dry from sleep.
	"Phantom has some trouble," Cory replied. He quickly pulled on his
pants and then reached for some trousers. "Michael wants me to go
Victoria."
	As he rolled from the bed, Sean asked, "What happened?"
	Shrugging, Cory pulled on his shirt. "All Michael said was that
Phantom needed his brothers." He looked at Sean, who was bent over, feeling
around under the bed. "What are you doing?"
	"Looking for my underwear," Sean replied. He straightened and held
up a pair of white boxers. "Found them." He pulled on his underwear and
said, "It's rather stormy out there. Will a plane be able to fly?"
	Cory smiled ruefully. "We'll fly in a howling gale if we have
to. It's Phantom! He needs us, so we're going."
	"Us?"
	"Yes, us! Wake up Todd and Matt."

******

	"More tea, Phantom dear?" Mary Randolph asked her guest. The
Phantom, calmer now, still looked devastated.
	The Phantom, lost in thought, shook his head. "Thank you, no," he
said quietly, his innate politeness governing his reply.
	"Perhaps a drop of rum?" Mabell Airlie offered. She ignored Mary's
disapproving look. "It can't hurt, and who knows, it might help!" Mabell
said brightly.
	Mabell left the room and returned holding a bottle of dark rum. "A
good snort every now and then does wonders." She poured a large dollop into
Mary's half-empty cup. "It also does wonders for your rheumatism!"
	Mary did not demur.
	Mabell poured some rum in The Phantom's cup. "Now, drink up," she
instructed. "My husband always swore by a good nip to help make the world
look better."
	The Phantom did not mean to be rude. "Mrs. Airlie, I've lost my
family. My father hates me and my mother has denied me . . ." he said
sharper than he intended.
	"You have, perhaps, lost your biological family," countered Mary
Randolph. "You still have your brothers and, if I may, two old aunties who
love you dearly." She gave the young man a hard look. "Life goes on,
Phantom. You have much too much to offer. You will get through this." She
deliberately drained her cup. "Mabell, your brothers in the Order, we shall
all help you."
	Before The Phantom could respond they were interrupted by the tinny
jangling of the front door bell. Mabell and Mary exchanged a look. "Whoever
can that be?" asked Mary. "It's ever so late!"
	"Well, we won't know until I answer the bell," replied Mabell
briskly. She hurried from the sitting room.
	Presently The Phantom and Mary heard muffled sounds of
talking. Then they heard Mabell exclaim, "Come in! Good Lord, look at you,
you are that wet!" Then she added, "Wipe your feet, young man. You're
dripping on the rug!"
	Chuckling, The Phantom turned to look at the door. He was surprised
to see the looming hulk of his brother fill the doorway. "Brendan?" he
whispered.
	"Yes, Brendan," replied his brother. He looked dishevelled and
bedraggled and smelled of wet wool, which was not surprising as he was
wearing his red serge jacket.
	"What are you doing here?" asked The Phantom, thoroughly surprised.
	"Is that tea? Is that rum?" Brendan asked, sitting down beside his
brother.
	Mary quickly poured a cup of tea and added the rum. "You're soaked
through," she said needlessly. "Perhaps you'd like to change?"
	Brendan shook his head, drained the offered cup, and held it out
for a refill. "Later, thank you." He looked at his brother. "You sure
stirred up the sh . . ." He paused abruptly. "Sorry," he apologized to the
ladies.
	Mary waved away the apology. "You are quite right. Your brother has
certainly stirred up something!" she said, smiling.
	Brendan regarded Mary a moment, and then asked, "You know?"
	Both Mary and Mabell nodded. "We know," Mary replied, her voice
low.
	The Phantom coughed and asked, "Brendan, what in the hell are you
doing here?"
	Grimacing, Brendan replied. "Phantom, I just slogged from Comox in
a rental car with no heater, and one wiper not working! I'm cold, I'm wet
and I'm hungry! Now hush and I'll explain everything."
	Mary nodded to Mabell, who returned the nod. "I think we can help
with one of your complaints," Mabell said. She instinctively liked Brendan
Lascelles. "There is some chicken in the ice box," she said.
	As Mabell left to fetch the chicken, Mary regarded Brendan. She had
met him in 1976, when she had accompanied the young Knights to Quebec
City. "You seem thinner," she observed tartly.
	"I have lost weight," acknowledged Brendan. "Dawson City is not the
ideal place to grow old and fat!" He laughed softly. "When you're the
senior constable of the RCMP Detachment you also don't have much time to
eat properly.
	The Phantom also looked at his brother. Brendan was thinner, but
still muscular, and still as good looking as he remembered. "Where's Emmy?"
he asked, referring to Brendan's wife.
	"Regina, I think," Brendan replied abruptly. "She announced that
she wasn't about to move to Dawson and live with Eskimos, so she stayed
behind.
	The Phantom knew that Brendan's marriage had always been rocky,
even after the birth of their first son. Emmy was a shrew, who had seduced
Brendan, got pregnant, and refused to stir from her comfortable house if
she could help it. "Is the marriage over?" he asked pointedly.
	"Yeah," replied Brendan as he attacked the plate of chicken that
Mabell had handed him. "Father was chuffed when I told him." He
grinned. "The SOB does like to be proven right."
	"You've been home?" asked The Phantom.
	"Yep. I caught a mail run from Dawson to Nanaimo, rented a car and
went to Comox," said Brendan. He waved a half-eaten chicken leg at his
brother. "You might have given people a hint that you were coming out!"
	"How could I?" demanded The Phantom. "I certainly didn't plan it!
It just sort of popped out!"
	"Well, you started a war!" responded Brendan. He nodded to
Mrs. Randolph. "Thank you, ma'am, that hit the spot."
	"Brendan!" growled The Phantom.
	"Keep your shorts on," growled Brendan. He offered his cup to
Mrs. Randolph. "I thought Dawson City was cold but I'm here to tell you
that Vancouver Island in the rain and wind beats it all to hell."
	"We're spoiled by the temperate weather," said Mrs. Randolph as she
refilled Brendan's cup. "More rum?"
	Nodding, Brendan said, "Anyway, I drove home and at first I thought
nothing had changed. The neighbours were carolling, the booze was flowing
and Mother was running around like a mad thing, feeding anything with a
mouth!" He shrugged. "I noticed that you weren't in attendance, Phantom, so
I asked Dad where you were. He dragged me into the kitchen and started
ranting about his queer son!" Impulsively he leaned forward and kissed The
Phantom's forehead. "Pissed me off, little brother, so I told the old
bastard what I thought of him, and of Mother Dearest, and left. Couldn't
let you be alone at Christmas so I cranked the car and drove down here."
	The Phantom smiled wanly. "He'll hate you, now," he observed.
	"So?" asked Brendan with a shrug. "You're my brother. You needed
me, so I came as fast as I could."
	The Phantom embraced Brendan, and began to weep softly. "I'm sorry,
Brendan."
	Returning the hug, Brendan said, "Don't be. Mom and Dad don't
realize it, but they're the losers, not you."
	Mary regarded the two brothers and then waved her hand to
Mabell. "It is very late, and I think you both want to be alone. You have
much to discuss, I think."

******

	The Phantom led his brother upstairs to his flat. As he closed the
door he nodded toward the bathroom. "You need to shower, a long hot one, to
get the cold out."
	Brendan agreed. He began to remove his jacket. "I'm soaked
through!" Then he added, "I don't have a change of clothes!"
	"Colin has some things that might fit you," replied The Phantom. He
held out his hand. "I'll take your things and hang them up to dry."
	"Great!" Brendan said. He unbuckled his belt and dropped his
trousers. Stepping out of them he stripped off his shirt and tie.
	The Phantom took one look at his brother and started to
laugh. "Brendan, what are you wearing?"
	Brendan was wearing a suit of long underwear and thick, woollen
socks. "What? It's winter in Dawson City! I can hardly wear Bermuda
shorts!"
	Still laughing, The Phantom said, "But long johns? You always hated
them!"
	"Yeah, well, it was either wear long handled undies or freeze my
balls off!" returned Brendan. He quickly stripped the underwear off. He was
wearing tightys under the long johns.
	The Phantom had a brief look at his brother's well-stuffed briefs,
then quickly turned his head away. They were translucent, or near to it,
from the rain that had soaked Brendan.
	Seeing the look on his brother's face, Brendan pushed down his
briefs. "Phantom, we're brothers." He unconsciously fondled his
genitals. "You've seen me naked before!"
	"Not for years," replied The Phantom as he gathered up Brendan's
clothing.
	"Well, I don't have anything you don't have!" said Brendan with a
laugh.
	The Phantom could not help smiling. "No, you haven't," he said,
sniggering. "Damn, Brendan," he asked as he regarded his brother's
pendulous, thick penis and testicles. "What do you feed that thing?"
	Sniggering, Brendan replied, "Not much! Dawson City is hardly the
sex capital of the world."
	"There's still Emmy," The Phantom said.
	Brendan snorted. "Phantom dear little bother, Emmy and me might
sleep together, but that's all we do. Besides, she's been in Regina since I
was posted to Dawson City. I sleep alone."
	"Will you sleep with me?" asked The Phantom suddenly. "I need
. . . I want you near me."
	"I didn't intend to sleep anywhere else," said Brendan. "Let me
shower, and then we'll talk, okay?"
	The Phantom watched as Brendan walked into the bathroom. He had no
inkling of what was about to happen.

******

	While his brother showered, The Phantom went into the bedroom, took
off his clothes, and turned down the bed. He left his boxers on
though. While he waited he looked through Colin's things and found a set of
sweats that would fit Brendan. Then he waited.
	Brendan, a towel wrapped around his waist, appeared. "So, little
brother?" he asked as he sat on the bed beside his brother.
	"I . . . found you something to wear," The Phantom said. "They
might be a little tight, but . . ."
	"Hey, man, I don't mind sleeping . . . nekkid!" Brendan replied as
he gave his brother a nudge. Then he paused. "Unless you don't . . ."
	Shaking his head, The Phantom said, "No, it's fine." His eyes grew
bright as he looked at Brendan's heat-flushed face. "Dressed in full
regimentals, or nekkid as a jay, I'll take you any way you are." He
impulsively hugged Brendan. "I just glad you're here with me!"
	As he wrapped his arms around his little brother, Brendan said
quietly, "Phantom, I'm your big brother. I know that for a long time I
wasn't really acting like it, and that I should have been there for you
when you needed me. I need to be here now."
	Warm in his brother's arms, The Phantom said, "I need you here,
Bren. I feel so alone!"
	"I know," said Brendan. He continued to hold his brother
close. "I'm sorry I let all those years go by . . . years when I should
have been there for you, helped you deal with what . . ."
	"Being queer?" asked The Phantom. He began to weep again.
	"Phantom, when we talked in Quebec, I told you the way things
were."
	The Phantom nodded. "I remember you told that you love me . . ."
	"More than a brother should," interrupted Brendan. "You left that
part out."
	"It doesn't matter, Brendan. I love you too! I've always loved
you!" responded The Phantom.
	"I know, I know," whispered Brendan. "But I was a terrible
brother. I was never there for you!" He now started to cry. "God, Phantom,
please forgive me!"
	The Phantom drew away and then nodded back toward the bed. "When I
was little, there was one thing I always wanted to do. I always wanted to
sleep with you, in your bed, and cuddle. Can we now?"
	"Cuddle?"
	"Yes," replied The Phantom. He reached out and pulled Brendan to
his feet and then pushed him onto to the bed. "Get in. Just leave room for
me!"

******

	When they were settled, The Phantom cuddled close to his
brother. He raised his hand and placed it gently on Brendan's broad, warm
chest. Brendan rolled on his side and gently kissed his brother's
cheek. "You okay, little brother," he asked.
	The Phantom, who could feel the warm firmness of his brother's
manhood pressing against his boxers covered thigh, said, "Not quite."
	"What?"
	Giggling, The Phantom wriggled under the covers and pushed down his
boxers. Once he had disentangled them from his feet he pushed them down
toward the end of the bed. He rolled slightly and took Brendan in his
arms. He could feel Brendan now, truly feel him.
	"When I was little," The Phantom said, "I wanted to be just like
you. I wanted to be big, and strong, like my big brother! I wanted to do
everything you did." He paused and chuckled. "When I found out that you no
longer wore pyjamas to bed, I stopped wearing them. When I saw that you'd
stopped wearing tightys and wore boxers, I bugged mother to buy them for
me."
	"Wow! I never knew," Brendan whispered. "I thought you were just
being a brat!"
	"Nope, you wore 'em, so I wore 'em. You were my ideal,
Brendan. Sometimes, I would lie in bed and wonder what would happen if I
went into your room and crawled into your bed."
	"You did?"
	"Yeah, I did. I wanted to cuddle with you, to be with you, to smell
you! You were my big brother! I wanted you to hold me, to whisper secrets,
to laugh with me."
	"Oh, Phantom," wept Brendan.
	The Phantom gently stroked his brother's cheek. "I wanted you to
teach me how to be a man, teach me the things a big brother teaches a
little brother." He laughed delightedly. "I also wanted you to teach what
made you make all those noises at night!"
	Brendan laughed through his tears. "Phantom!"
	"Well, okay, I figured that out by myself, but you know what I
mean, don't you?"
	Sighing, Brendan nodded. "All those wasted years, Phantom."
	The Phantom struggled closer to his brother. "Let's pretend that
those years never happened. Let's pretend that we're little again," he
whispered. "I'm your little brother; you're my big brother, and you love
me, and I love you."
	Without reply Brendan leaned his head and gently kissed his
brother's lips. "I love you Phantom, I have always loved you, and I always
will."
	The Phantom returned the kiss, only his was deeper. "Hold me, Big
Brother, we're little again, and nothing matters but us."

******

	When Cory, Todd, Matt and Sean arrived, Mrs. Randolph met them and
offered breakfast. Cory asked where The Phantom was, and how he was.
	"He's still abed. He's with Brendan," she replied.
	"Brendan's here?" asked Todd.
	"Oh yes, he drove down as soon as he learned what had happened."
She held up her hand to forestall any questions as to what had
happened. Telling his friends was up to The Phantom. "They've been upstairs
for hours."
	Cory, curious, decided to go upstairs. He was gone perhaps five
minutes and when he returned he had a knowing smile on his face. He did not
tell the others that he had peeked into the bedroom and seen the two men in
bed, obviously naked, entwined in each other's arms. Being a proper
gentleman, and taught his manners in his crib, Cory closed the door and
returned downstairs.
	In the kitchen, where the others were gathered, Mary and Mabell
were cooking a superior breakfast: bacon, eggs, sausages, fried bread,
toast, and gallons of steaming tea. As Cory sat down at the table, Todd
gave him an enquiring look.
	Cory returned the look. "They're still sleeping," he said with a
slight smirk. "Let's let them sleep."
	"They had a hard night," offered Mabell unknowingly making a double
entendre.
	Cory, who had just started to sip his cup of tea, almost
choked. When he recovered, he smiled. "Yes, a very hard night it would
seem." He raised his cup to Todd, who looked amusingly back. "Merry
Christmas to all and God Bless Us, Every One!"

******

	Brendan and The Phantom never repeated that night. Still,
Christmas, and the traditional greeting took on a new meaning for them. In
later years, Brendan would crook his first finger and, his face glowing,
rub it gently against his brother's cheek as he whispered, "Merry
Christmas, Little Brother."
	The Phantom would repeat the gesture, his green eyes sparkling with
the love and knowledge of the rebonding of two brothers. He would repeat
the words, "Merry Christmas," and add, "Big Brother." Then he would smile.

******

	With the lights of the domed Hospital twinkling a welcome at the
far end of the Long Walk, The Phantom plodded along, the snow crunching
under his feet, he smiled at the memory of that night. Then he frowned
slightly. Brendan's marriage had failed, as it was destined to do. A
marriage built on a lie was doomed to self-destruct, sooner or
later. Todd's marriage had crumbled because he did not love his late wife,
and she had never loved him. Theirs had been a marriage of money and names,
not love, a dynastic coupling, nothing more. But Todd had found love, in
Matt Greene, which was fated to happen - as Todd finally came to realize.
	Brendan, on the other hand, was still alone. He had come to realize
his true inclinations, but thus far he had never found anyone he wanted to
spend the rest of his life with. The Phantom loved Brendan, but did not
interfere, or try to help him find "the" person. The Phantom would not be a
yenta! When, and if, Brendan came to him and told him that he had found
that person, The Phantom would rejoice, and help his brother in any way he
could.
	As he walked past the houses, not seeing the lights as they began
to blink out, The Phantom wished that Chef were still around. Chef, who
could be an officious, overbearing old poop, had an uncanny knack for
knowing when the right man came along. He knew instinctively when there was
an attraction between two men, and if that attraction would last. But Chef
was not here, unless one counted his presence in the ornate crypt in the
chapel, and The Phantom could only hope that Brendan would find the love he
needed to make his life complete.

******

	It was The Phantom's habit to walk the circuit of the Long Walk,
past the main building, and return down Rotten Row, so named because the
riders of the school enjoyed a morning canter on that side of the parade
square. The snow began to taper off - finally - as The Phantom passed the
high, semi-circle of stone that fronted the Hospital building (and was used
as the reviewing stand at the morning parades the school cadets held every
day). The clouds began to clear as well, revealing a full, milky-coloured
moon.
	The Phantom always enjoyed his walk. He was always alone, except
for Sergeant Porter - Damian - who accompanied him everywhere. So it was
The Phantom was surprised to see a figure sitting on one of the benches
that lined the snow-covered Row. As he approached the man, The Phantom saw
that it was Jérémie Cher! He smiled and, knowing Damian, swept his hand
behind him. "It's all right, Damian, he's one of our own."
	Jérémie Cher smiled and rose as he saw The Phantom approach. He
gave his old friend a neck bow. "Phantom, I mean, Sire, whatever are you
doing here?"
	Laughing, The Phantom gestured for Jérémie to sit down. "I could
ask you the same thing, Jérémie Cher!" returned The Phantom. As was his
custom when meeting one of the original Boys of Aurora, The Phantom bussed
Jérémie Cher's cold, rosy cheeks, first the right, and then the left.
	Once he was settled on the bench, The Phantom smiled and observed,
"You will freeze your fundamentals, Jérémie!"
	Laughing, Jérémie nodded his head. "Chef would order me to report
to the galley and pour me some medicine, to `take the cold from me
bones!'."
	"I miss him," said The Phantom softly. "As I have missed you, my
dear brother." Then he looked at Jérémie and frowned. "Now, what in hell
are you doing out in a blizzard, sitting on a bench, with the wind blowing
up your Jockeys, at midnight?" he asked.
	"Actually, I'm wearing Haines' boxer briefs," responded Jérémie
Cher with a grin. "As to why, well, I had some thinking to do, and while my
`fundamentals' have shrunk considerably, I have made up my mind." He placed
his hand on The Phantom's. "I'm not cold at all, really, and I wish to
speak with you, please?"
	"Of course, although we could go inside," replied The Phantom.
	Damian, who heard the exchange, moved slightly down the path. He
never eavesdropped if he could avoid it.
	Jérémie saw Damian move away. "He looks familiar. Wasn't he the
young man that The Gunner found lurking at the back of the brothel?"
	The Phantom nodded. "Yes, he was. Damian had decided that he was in
love with Little Big Man . . ." He felt Jérémie shudder at the mention of
the name of their old enemy. "Fortunately, he got over that," The Phantom
said quickly. "The Gunner took pity on him and arranged with Rick Maslen -
you remember him? - and Damian helped to break up that nest of neo-Nazis
that Paul was involved in."
	"He never `rekindled' his relationship?" asked Jérémie.
	Shaking his head, The Phantom replied, "No. When Paul left Canada,
and after his father was arrested, he stayed in Germany. Damian was not at
all pleased to find out that Paul was deeply involved in selling drugs and
making porno movies."
	Jérémie stared at The Phantom. "Porn?"
	The Phantom nodded. "Hard core gay porn," he said, unable to keep
the disgust from his voice. "He starred in several `productions', if that's
the proper term for what I unfortunately saw." He could not help
laughing. "You know, Jérémie, porn can be so boring!"
	Having seen his share of pornographic movies, Jérémie nodded and
chuckled. "A dick is a dick, and there are only so many holes you can stick
it in!"
	Laughing, The Phantom gave his friend a slight hug. "Anyway, Damian
remained with the Army, and when the time came, he was seconded to me, as
my detective. He's quite efficient, really, although a little
standoffish. He's also very professional and sadly, a walk in the moonlight
to him is just a walk in the moonlight!"
	"You remember!" Jérémie exclaimed.
	"That night, when you told me that the only person you would take
Little Jérémie for a walk in the moonlight with was me? Of course I
remember." The Phantom laughed. "You were quite yummy back then, Jérémie,"
he sniggered.
	"I should have taken that walk," responded Jérémie. "But I didn't!
Just as I should have taken long walks before tonight. Things might have
been different, very different."
	"Deus Vult!" murmured The Phantom.
	"Yes, as God wills it," nodded Jérémie. "Somehow, though, I wish he
had `willed it' a heck of a lot sooner than now!"
	"Would you have accepted His will if He had?" asked The Phantom.
	Jérémie leaned forward and clasped his gloved hands
together. "Probably not. I was young, and not at all sure of what I wanted,
or what I needed."
	"Or if the feelings that you felt for Jergen were genuine, or what
you really wanted?" asked The Phantom.
	Once again Jérémie stared at The Phantom. "You knew?"
	"That you and Jergen had experimented back in the original
Hospital?" The Phantom nodded. "You both looked very happy after that first
night together!" Then he could not help adding, "Of course, dear Jérémie,
you were hardly, shall we say, as quiet as a mouse!"
	"What?"
	"Don't worry, no one else knows, and those who did have probably
forgotten all about it." He paused. "Except for Alex Grinchsten and Jake
Guildenhall. They were in the next room . . ."
	"Oh God," Jérémie moaned softly.
	"Not to worry," said The Phantom with a slight chuckle. "Alex and
Jake were very understanding, as was Chef."
	"Chef knew?" yelped Jérémie.
	"He did indeed. Of course, he understood what happened. He expected
it. He was a trifle disappointed that you never, shall we say, pursued your
first love."
	"Phantom, there were many things I didn't pursue!" began Jérémie.
	The Phantom raised his hand, stopping Jérémie. "You did what you
thought was best for you, and for your future. You have no reason to
apologize for anything."
	"I think I do," insisted Jérémie. "I know that you love me, and
that you went to Chef and told him that if I, and Peter Race, were not
accepted by the Order, you'd refuse knighthood. You loved me so much,
Phantom, and I . . ."
	"Jérémie, I loved you then, I love you now," said The Phantom
gently.
	"Which made the knowledge of that love for me so difficult for me
to do what I did!" Jérémie shook his head.
	"What did you do?" asked The Phantom. "You were barely a teenager!
You had fears, you lived in a culture that condemned everything about the
Order, and those who were members. Chef understood, as did The Gunner, and
as I did!"
	"But . . ."
	"No `but', Jérémie. You had one experience with another boy - a not
uncommon occurrence, I assure you. You enjoyed what you did, and thought
about it afterwards. Again, a not uncommon occurrence. You thought about
what had happened, and asked yourself if you were `gay'." The Phantom
thought a moment. "When you returned home to North Bay you never
experimented again, did you?"
	"No," replied Jérémie with a shake of his head.
	"Were you tempted?" asked The Phantom quietly.
	In the darkness, The Phantom could not see a blush creep up
Jérémie's face. "Well . . ." Jérémie coughed in embarrassment. "Yes, there
was a boy." Then he added, "But I wasn't in love with him. I liked him, I
liked him a lot. He filled my thoughts, because he looked a lot like . . ."
His voice trailed off, not quite ready to admit his feelings for Jergen.
	The Phantom knew who Jérémie was thinking of. He said nothing,
however.
	"Anyway," continued Jérémie, "nothing happened between . . ." He
sniggered loudly. "Except in my fantasies!"
	"Ah, night-time fantasies," chortled The Phantom. "What would a boy
do without them?"
	Jérémie could not stifle his snickering. "They certainly made the
time pass!"
	Sobering, The Phantom asked, "You said you had some thinking to
do?"
	"Yes."
	"You are trying to determine which path you will now follow. You
returned to that night with Jergen, and now you are wondering if you want
to follow this path, yes?"
	The Phantom knew! Jérémie could not believe it! He and Jergen had
more or less avoided each other at the Order Ceremony, and at the reception
and parties afterwards.
	What Jérémie did not know was that The Phantom had been made aware
of what was going on almost from the moment Jérémie had lain in Jergen's
bed. Years before, The Gunner had accused The Phantom of having an
intelligence network that rivalled the CIA, the FBI, MI5 and 6, and the
Mossad, all rolled into one! He seemed to know everything that went on in
Aurora!
	The Phantom still knew what was going on. Randy and Joey,
inveterate gossips, and born snoops, knew everything that happened in the
Hospital, in the houses and on Bachelor's Row, the town of Arnprior and, or
so The Phantom thought, for at least ten miles around in any direction.
	Jérémie's embarrassed silence spoke volumes. The Phantom considered
this, gathered his thoughts, and said, "I am aware that you have spent much
of your time with Jergen." Before Jérémie could say anything, he
continued. "Now you are asking yourself what will follow. Will you continue
in your relationship, or will you ring up Jamie Kenyon and ask if the
irascible Malachi can drive you back to Ottawa . . ."
	"Not a good idea, if the weather and road reports are true,"
returned Jérémie.
	"They are," said The Phantom, a veteran of many winters in the
Ottawa Valley. "I'm afraid that you're stuck here for at least a day,
perhaps two."
	"Phantom, do you remember your dream, when Sylvain came home, when
you saw the Tapestry for the first time?"
	"As if it were yesterday," whispered The Phantom.
	"I want to come home," said Jérémie earnestly.
	The Phantom nodded. "What of your wife, and your son?" he asked
presently.
	"My marriage is a sham," responded Jérémie. "I wanted to fit in, to
be just a normal, `straight' schlub, living the Canadian dream, a house, a
car, a white picket fence, a good job and a dog!"
	"Do you have a dog?"
	"No! My wife, Cecile, is allergic to pet hair." A huge sigh escaped
Jérémie's lips. "She is a wonderful woman, but wasted in North Bay. She
hasn't quite come out and said it, but she wants to return to practicing
medicine. She wants to return to Africa."
	"Will she?"
	"Yes, I think she will. She's bored, and she's
frustrated. Motherhood is not something she enjoys." He sighed again. "As
for our relationship, well, let's just say that Little Jérémie gets more of
a workout in the shower than he ever had, except on our honeymoon."
	"Have you spoken with your wife? Will she give up her son?"
	"Armand is collateral damage, a mistake," admitted Jérémie. "Cecile
never wanted to get pregnant. She wants her life back, her life before I
came along."
	"You must speak with her," said The Phantom. "You must be sure that
she wants to end it all. You must also be certain that your new path is the
one you wish to walk. Only then can you truly `come home'."
	"I am determined, Phantom. Cecile is going to leave me, one way or
the other. She needs to, what did you call it, `walk her path'? I
understand that. I also understand that for too many years I was walking a
path that I should not have been on! I know now what I must do."
	"Which is?"
	"Come home," replied Jérémie simply. "I want my son to grow up in a
place where he doesn't have to fear what he is." Looking out across the
parade square, Jérémie continued. "I want him to be in a place where if a
look comes into his eyes, and I've seen that look all too often, someone,
if not me, then one of my brothers, will be there to help him understand."
	"The look of incomprehension?"

	Jérémie nodded. "I'm a teacher, yet all I do is teach from
books. For years I saw the looks that boys gave over boys, saw the look
that told me that the boy was frightened, frightened of the way he felt,
frightened of the things that he was feeling."
	The Phantom had seen the look, and said, "But did nothing about."
It was a statement, and not a question.
	Leaning back, Jérémie said, "For years I denied my brothers, and
refused the love they offered me. I stayed snug and smug in North Bay,
living the life of a `normal' man, and never thinking about what I should
have been doing. I saw my students going through turmoil and did nothing to
help them, fearing that if I did someone, their parents, their priest,
would accuse me of trying to . . ." He almost spat, "Now I know what our
officers went through back in the days. They didn't dare open their mouths
when it came to sex, and God forbid gay sex! They were all afraid, so
afraid that The Gunner had to give the senior cadets a lecture on
masturbating!"
	The Phantom laughed. "I wasn't there, but I heard about that
lecture."
	"So did I!" Jérémie snickered. "That was a lecture that could never
be given anywhere else. If anyone were to lecture teenage boys to take care
of business themselves, and use a shot mat . . . if I told my boys that,
I'd be run out of town on a rail, after I'd been tarred and feathered!"
	"North Bay is not alone, Jérémie. Even today, in the so-called
`modern' world we live in, when they teach sex education in the schools
nothing brings out the bigots like the news that the students are being
made aware of homosexuality and lesbianism. The mob gathers and takes up
torches and pitchforks and some poor teacher, who is trying to do good,
ends up with his or her butt in a sling!"
	"It's worse in the Catholic school system," said Jérémie. "I know
because I teach in a Catholic school. Boys don't jerk off; girls don't have
sex with boys, oral or otherwise." He laughed bitterly. "Yet they act like
little sluts! They all have to wear a school uniform and as soon as they
leave the building they hike up their skirts until you can see their
panties! And no one does anything, or says a word!"
	"You sound angry, and frustrated," offered The Phantom.
	"I am! I am angry at myself for deliberately denying who and what I
am! I am frustrated with a system that denies the basic humanity of all
men! I am tired of the rules imposed on the society in which I live by the
priests and politicians! I don't want that for Armand! I want him to learn
how to be a boy, to revel in being a boy! I want him to follow the path I
was too afraid to follow!"
	"You did, for a while," The Phantom replied.
	"Yes, but I remember the stories, about the parties and guys
bonding, of a sailing trip where a group of boys, disparate, and with
different viewpoints, went away from Aurora as a gaggle of Sea Cadets and
returned as a Band of Brothers! That is what I want for my son!"
	"What do you want for Jérémie?"
	"I want him to be happy, with someone who cares for him, who
understands him, who will love him and who will never deny him!"
	"You are determined? Your mind is made up?"
	"Yes. When I return to Ottawa I will talk with Cecile. I will give
her what she wants: her freedom to be a `free woman', and she will
unknowingly give me my freedom, the freedom to be what I am. Then I will
return to North Bay, settle whatever needs settling, and return home."
	"Does Jergen know?" asked The Phantom.
	"Not yet. I talked with him . . ."
	"Well, don't you think it might be wise to tell him?" asked The
Phantom. "It might come as shock when you show up at the door with your
trunks piled around you and your infant son in your arms! He might not want
to be father!"
	"He'll love it!" exclaimed Jérémie. "He loves being here. He loves
the boys. I know he'd love Armand as much as . . ."
	"As he loves you?" finished The Phantom.
	Once again Jérémie blushed in the darkness. "So, may I come home,
Grand Master?"
	"When you feel the time is right, yes."
	"I'm a good teacher, Phantom and I think, no, I know, I have much
to offer."
	The Phantom had a sudden thought. "Unfortunately, the staff roster
is full." He paused deliberately. "However, I do have a job in mind. It
doesn't pay a whole lot, but it comes with a nice house . . . and if you
take the job it will shut Colin up!"
	"Colin? What has Colin got to do with it?"
	"He's an annoying twit at times!" exclaimed The Phantom. "He's been
on my case for months to appoint a Private Secretary to help me with the
paperwork and help me with some of the problems I face. He can't do it,
because he's the Champion of the Order, and he oversees the Cadet
programs."
	Jérémie stared at his friend. "Me? Private Secretary?"
	"Why not?" asked The Phantom. "You have a brain, you can read and
write, you don't have too many bad habits and so far as I know you're
house-trained and . . ."
	"Phantom!"
	"Okay, sorry, I was just having some fun," said The Phantom,
pretending innocence.
	"Just pulling my pisser, huh?"
	"Yes." He regarded Jérémie and asked, "So, Jérémie Cher, what is
your answer?"
	"I'll do it," responded Jérémie. Then he frowned. "I'll need a
month, perhaps more."
	"Take your time," said The Phantom. "There is no hurry and I want
you to be sure."
	"I am already sure!"
	"Good. There is just one caveat."

	"What's that?" asked Jérémie, curious.
	"Once you're settled, and Jergen and you have settled into your new
house - it has two bedrooms, which you'll need - and the boys come to love
you as I do, think about a sailing trip, think about taking some of them to
wild places where they can run around naked - you too - and bond together!
Add another page to the story of the Boys of Aurora; help weave a few more
panels of the Tapestry."
	"I wish someone had written the story," said Jérémie, rising to his
feet. "I heard so many stories; saw a lot of things that I wondered about
. . ."
	"Some things are best left untold," said The Phantom as he too
stood up.
	"I know, but would it not help to know what has gone on before?"
	"Perhaps," conceded The Phantom. "Unfortunately, no one seems to
have the time, even for an expurgated version!"
	"That would suit me," said Jérémie as he drew the lapels of his
coat together. "I'd better be off. Jergen is waiting."
	The Phantom looped his arm through Jérémie's. "If I may, I shall
accompany you," he said as they began walking toward Bachelor's Row. He
leaned and murmured, "I know where he keeps the good stuff."
	Jérémie had a lascivious thought. He knew where Jergen kept "the
good stuff" but did not think that The Phantom was referring to that! Then
he said, "Phantom, do you know a good mohel?"
	"A good what?" yipped The Phantom, stopping abruptly.
	Laughing, Jérémie said, "I mean to lead the life I was meant to
lead. That means I am making a formal request for knighthood. I want the
`orlah' between my brothers and me to be removed." He feigned great
sadness. "Poor Little Jérémie will be most upset."
	When The Phantom stopped laughing, he said, "Well, while I do know
a mohel - several in fact - talk to Chris Hood. Not only is he an Honourary
Surgeon to the Queen, he is very experienced. I'm told he's a master of the
art and never leaves an ugly scar." Then he added, "And for heaven's sake,
don't let the Twins know! Cory will definitely demand a `grand unveiling'!"
	"As they did with Sandro?"
	"Yes. When he was healed after his bris, there was a huge party at
his house in Saanich, and of course he invited the Twins. The first thing
they did was drag him into his bedroom and pull down poor Sandro's trousers
and pants!"
	Jérémie laughed delightedly. "I heard that Cory also checked out
Colin, when you and he first met, to make sure that he was `acceptable' for
you."
	"Oh, it's quite true. Cory decided to make sure that Colin was good
enough for me."
	"But the public toilets at the park in Comox?"
	"Well, where else?" returned The Phantom. "Colin was not given to
exposing himself in public - still isn't - so the loos were the only place
Cory could check Colin out!" The Phantom laughed. "I had warned Colin that
Cory would do it, and he decided to make a show of it. I wasn't there. But
Colin told me that Cory came mooching into the toilets . . ."

******

	It was just past 1:00 o'clock in the morning when The Phantom, and
Damian, returned to Flagstaff House. The house was very quiet, much too
quiet with the absence of the twins, and the triplets. Not that the house
was empty - far from it. Joey and Randy, and Phil Thornton, would be
upstairs, with the former brats more than likely making life miserable and
happy (all at the same time) for their protector.
	The Phantom always viewed the arrangement between his Chief of
Security, Master of the Household and Chief Steward with veiled
amusement. Colin, less prosaic, always maintained that they were just three
horny buggers, but then Colin did not know all the details - and The
Phantom did.
	When in Aurora's YAG Squadron, Phil had been an arrogant,
overbearing, smug jock who knew that he was attractive, and never hid his
endowments under a bushel basket. In 1976, while attending the End-of-Year
barbecue, Phil's firm, tanned, muscled body, black curly hair, flashing
white teeth and prominent basket in his gym shorts, had drawn the attention
of Louise Metcalfe, a member of the "Fishing Fleet", waitresses and steam
line attendants from the Highland High School, where the cadets took
classes. Louise had taken one look at Phil and decided that he was the main
course on the menu.
	She invited Phil to take a walk in the moonlight with her. Being
horny, and hoping that he was finally going to lose his virginity, Phil,
panting, allowed himself to be led down the garden path, and a safe
distance from the beach where the barbecue was being held.
	The last person Phil needed to notice that he was missing was Chef!
Chef, in addition to a firm conviction that tighty whiteys were bulwarks of
morality, also believed in eternal vigilance, lest one of his lambs be led
down the path that led to deflowering by unscrupulous females.
	Having safely eluded Chef's notorious eagle eye, Louise and Phil
settled in the brambles. Louis had pushed down her shorts and kicked them
aside (she was not wearing panties) and Phil, salivating, had pushed down
his shorts and boxers. With his heart pounding, and his erection throbbing
mightily, Phil had sunk to his knees, and leaned forward to consummate what
he and many of his peers considered to be the first step on the road to
Nirvana.
	Unfortunately, Phil hit a road block. He had not even inserted
himself when there was an almighty explosion from his nether regions. Like
so many teenage boys, he had been so excited that he could not control his
libido, or his testicles. His premature ejaculation left him with a
screaming, invective-filled tirade from Louise and the nickname "No
Strokes" from Harry!
	Randy and Joey, bored, had left the barbecue and were strolling
along the path on their way back to their barracks when they quite
literally stumbled across Phil, who was lying more or less naked, in the
bushes. They took one look and immediately decided to restore Phil's
self-esteem.
	Dazedly, Phil found himself being led to the Boat Shed where he was
taken down the road to a different Nirvana and was also cured of his lack
of self-control.
	When he staggered from the shed the next morning Phil had fallen in
love. From that moment on he was devoted to the two "Makee-Learns". He
loved them, chastised them and, from time to time, gave them a
well-deserved swat on their well formed behinds.
	Phil never looked at, or even considered, another boy or man. His
relationship with Randy and Joey was delightfully sexual, which Phil
admitted. But it was also transcendent by love in its purest form.
	For Randy and Joey, Phil was lover, baby sitter, mentor, and big
brother, all rolled into one. They teased him unmercifully, but they loved
him, and more importantly they respected him for the man he was. To them
Phil was the ultimate male and they never felt the need to go looking for
another.

******

	Flagstaff House was an all male preserve. The maids did not live
in, and were bussed very morning from Arnprior. The footmen - there were
four of them, all young graduates of Thanet Catering College, and English -
were housed in comfort on the fourth floor of the house, each having his
own bedroom and bath, and sharing a common sitting room. Randy, as Chief
Steward, ruled them with a heavy hand and a ready, if never used, wooden
spoon that he had stolen from Chef when they left Aurora.
	The footmen were a clannish lot, and while they worked long hours,
gave every appearance of enjoying their work. They knew that both Randy and
Joey had only their best interests at heart, and, as one of them put it,
were always good for bail money.
	For large parties Joey relied on a pool of young men, all living in
Arnprior or on one of the surrounding farms, who were hired on an hourly
basis to serve at table. What none of them knew, and no matter what
position they were hired to fill, each had been carefully vetted and
investigated, as were the members of the Personal Security Detail.
	Phil Thornton was a careful, meticulous man. He considered each
member of the staff, and the Security Detail, very carefully. He preferred,
so far as the Security Detail was concerned, ex-service members. When a man
was hired Phil was certain, beyond any doubt, that they were professional,
loyal and, more importantly, understood the special bonding of boys and
men.
	Phil drew on two "Manpower Pools". One was Michael and Alistair
Chan's "Security Force". Phil had spent a considerable time working with
Pete Sheppard, the overall commander of the force, watching the men
recruited, weighing them in the balances. The same held true for the men
recommended by Rick Maslen, who for many years had commanded "Special
Branch", the ultra-secret intelligence service of the Canadian Forces. Like
Pete, Rick evaluated each man and only when he was sure of them, would he
send them out on missions, or into private service.
	Two such men were part of the Security Force assigned, more than
employed, to the Hospital and the Knights of the Order.
	Damian Porter, The Phantom's bodyguard, had come from Special
Branch. He lived in a comfortable suite, which he shared with Colin's man,
Heath Bookman, who had been Pete Sheppard's man, and had worked for
Alistair Chan, the successor as "Emperor of Chinatown" to Michael Chan. In
time, and in accordance with Order procedures, both men would be offered,
in Damian's case, knighthood. Heath would be offered a Companionship, with
a knighthood if he decided to conform to Article 24 of the Rule. There
would be no pressure, no coercion. Each man would have to make his own
decision.
	There were other security staff members, all of whom lived in
comfortable rooms at the far end of the Hospital grounds, who patrolled the
house and manned the CCTV console in the Main Security Officer, located in
the basement.

******

	With his sons away, sleeping in their houses, Flagstaff House was
not lonely, but it was quiet and sometimes The Phantom felt like hiring a
band just to sit in the main foyer and make some noise.
	On the other hand, the quiet helped The Phantom to think, and
work. Which, he sighed as Damian helped him off with his heavy coat, he had
neglected. After bidding Damian goodnight, he walked down the corridor that
led to his office where, to his surprise, he found David sitting in his
underwear in front of the fire, warming his curled toes and sipping on
Scotch.
	Chuckling, The Phantom observed that his son might be a little
warmer if he'd put on some clothes, or at least a robe.

	Smiling at his father, David patted the wing chair that flanked the
fireplace. He knew, although his father would never admit it, that
squatting before the fire like a Red Indian was quite beyond The Phantom's
abilities. His leg still bothered him, and had a tendency to stiffen in
cold or wet weather.
	As The Phantom settled into the chair, David rose, hiked up his
boxers, and poured his father a drink. He held up the glass of amber
liquid, and said with a grin, "This is good stuff, Pops. Randy make it?"
	While Randy would admit to the illicit brewing of beer, he had
never been accused of operating a distillery in the boiler room. Taking the
glass, The Phantom replied with a grin matching his son's, "No, Randy did
not `make' it! It's 25 years old and the distillery in Scotland only
produces 100 bottles a year! Ten are reserved for special clients and the
rest is auctioned to the highest bidder."
	David returned to the floor before the fire and then, knees akimbo
and ankles crossed (and a delicate portion of his anatomy peeking out of
the hem of his boxers), asked, "Can we talk now, Papa?"
	The Phantom nodded slowly. He knew that he was about to, in a way,
disappoint his eldest son. "I have thought about you request, David, and I
would like you to return to England and enter the Officers' Commissioning
Course at Sandhurst."
	David's face fell. He had been expecting, hoping, for a far
different answer. "But Papa . . ." he began.
	The Phantom shook his head. "David, it is only 44 weeks. During
that time not only will you learn how to lead, you will make friends that
will prove invaluable in the future. As will the friends you make if you
pursue a career in the Royal Army. Alternatively, there is the Royal
Marines. Their course is only 32 weeks, at Lympstone."
	"Not to mention months of training before I can be appointed to a
Commando!" complained David.
	"Well, yes," admitted The Phantom. "The training is long, and
arduous, but produces the finest fighting men in the world."
	"I commend your admiration," said David sourly. "But maybe I don't
want to be a Marine."
	"David, I want the best for you, but I will not pressure you in any
way. I will tell you what I think, what I know, and you can then make up
your mind," The Phantom promised earnestly.
	"I still think that I would be better employed in the States. Too
many of our brothers are discriminated against! Something must be done!"
returned David. He drained his glass of Scotch and scowled into the
fire. "Something must be done!" he repeated in a whisper.
	"David, come and sit beside me, please?" asked The Phantom.
	Years before, when David was a little boy, and traumatized and
terrified at the loss of first, his father, and then his mother, would find
solace in sitting on the floor beside his new "father's" chair. He would
lay his head on The Phantom's leg, just at the knee, and wrap his arms
around The Phantom's lower leg, his fingers playing with the dusting of
hair there. He would cry, and sometimes, he would laugh and gently pull out
a hair or to. David never did this with Colin. He loved Colin, but somehow
he needed to bond with The Phantom.
	When he was settled on the carpeted floor, David returned to his
childhood. He laid his head on The Phantom's knee, and wrapped his arms
around his father's legs. "I am sorry, Papa, but I just feel so useless!"
	"I know," replied The Phantom slowly. "I felt the same way, once. I
knew the feelings of anger and frustration that you feel now."
	"You don't feel that way, even now?" asked David. He rubbed the
side of his face gently against his father's legs. "I want to help them,
Papa, so much! I want . . . I promised Dawg when I was with him in the
Chapel of Rest that never again would he have to be ashamed of being what
he was, for me being what I am. I promised him, Papa!"
	"I shall help you keep that promise, son," The Phantom
replied. "All I am asking is that you listen to me."
	David nodded. "Okay."
	"David, I was young and brash once. I would throw caution to the
wind, and sometimes, lose my temper because I did not understand that the
entrenched powers do not respond to brashness and anger, particularly if
there is no power behind them!"
	"So what did you do?"
	The Phantom answered, "I listened to people like Chef, The Gunner
and Michael Chan. I learned to study my enemies, to understand them, to
recognize their power and to know their weaknesses." He gently placed his
hand on the back of David's head, and his fingers began to play on the
close-cropped hair on his son's head.
	"First, we must study our enemies."
	"The Americans?"
	"In many ways, if one is gay, yes," replied The Phantom. "On the
one hand they are a very noble, generous, driven people."
	"And on the other?"
	The Phantom snorted. "They are bigoted, hate-filled, easily led by
demagogues and rogues. They are also influenced by the religious
ethic. Their religions tell them that homosexuals are deviants, have no
purpose in good, Christian moral terms; that gays are a threat to so-called
`family values' and so on."
	"Are you saying that a `crusade' in the United States is doomed to
failure?"
	The Phantom shook his head. "Not at all, seeing as it has already
begun."
	David started. "It has?"
	"It started the moment that Andy Berg established the priory in
South Carolina in the very heart of the bible belt. Chef was opposed
because he was of the opinion that the Americans were a people with no
bottom. They are all fat and sassy when the going is good, but let their
little adventures turn sour and they cut and run. The nutters come out of
the woodwork, the political appeasers and collaborationists climb on to the
anti-whatever band wagon and the media stand in the wings, a Greek chorus
of naysaying talking heads, and more than willing to spread the doctrine of
the Democratic Party far and wide."
	"Chef despised them, didn't he?" asked David.
	"Yes, deep down Chef despised the Americans. He saw them cut and
run in Viet Nam. He saw their political leaders fold their tents and steal
away into the night, as they did in Lebanon and Somalia."
	"They why was the Priory established? If Chef believed it was a
lost cause . . ."
	"Michael disagreed. The Gunner disagreed," replied The
Phantom. "They studied the situation and while they both thought that it
would be a long, hard row to hoe, they decided to do it. They realized that
trying to influence a large portion of the American public was useless, the
politicians even more so." The Phantom shrugged. "They also realized,
however, that it was possible to influence the young, and to use the
Americans own laws against them."
	David could not help snorting disdainfully. "Politicians! The
Supreme Court?"
	Nodding his head in agreement, The Phantom continued. "Both Michael
and The Gunner realized that there was no use at all in trying to influence
the Republican Party."
	"No surprise there!" observed David with a grimace. "George W. made
it plain that he wasn't about to pander to gay problems, or address
them. He's a religious man, is George W., and reads the Bible every day!"
	The Phantom chuckled. "I believe he does! He is also a politician
who depends on that most powerful of electors: the Religious Right, the
born-again Christians, the Evangelicals who think that every word in the
Bible is the proven word of God! George W. believes with all his heart that
gays have no standing, no rights. God has condemned them - the Bible says
so - and so does he."
	"The Democrats?"
	"Ha!" snorted The Phantom. "All they are interested in is
power. Look at the present Congress. You have a bunch of stumblebums who
nearly have a majority, and could block their opposition, yet still they
screw it up! The Democrats are hungry, like wolves eyeing a fat lamb. They
will do anything; say anything, to gain a majority, to grab power and to
rule. Only they know what is right for the American people. They'll be very
happy to tell you that." He regarded his son a moment. "Politicians cannot
be trusted, period. The Kennedys made a pact with the Devil to gain
power. Then they reneged. Bill Clinton promised to address gay rights. The
Kennedys, John and Robert, ended up dead. Clinton ended up with the `Don't
Ask, Don't Tell' policy. As for the present crop of likely presidential
candidates . . ." He paused and grimaced and then pronounced, "Losers all."
	"Hillary Clinton is giving indications that she will run and the
press is already calling her the front runner. She must have influenced her
husband's policies!" postulated David.
	"Ah yes, the `two for the price of one' gambit." The Phantom
laughed. "It didn't work. The American people elect one person to be
president and they resent his spouse when she interferes in national
policies. To the American mind the `First Lady' is there to run the White
House and espouse noble causes."
	"But Hilary is a senator!"
	"Somehow, dear David, I fear I must express my doubts about a
legislator who is elected from what is essentially a `Rotten Borough' where
the electors will put in office a three-legged pig if it ran under the
Democratic banner."
	"So, no hope in Hillary?"
	"No. I do not say that because I think she will not do the job, or
that she is not sympathetic. At heart she's a bleeding heart Liberal, but
she has studied the terrain and there is no way in hell that she will queer
her pitch by taking up gay rights."
	"How so?"
	"Well, David, she learned by her husband's mistakes. Billy Boy
Clinton waltzed into the White House thinking he was Commander-In-Chief. He
was, but he wasn't the man he thought he was. He underestimated the
opposition of the military to changing the Pentagon's anti-gay
policies. Hillary is not about to go against the powers in the Pentagon, or
antagonize the very people she needs to help her become President."
	David nodded. "Okay, but the American military has always been in
the forefront of change, of redressing civil rights grievances."
	"When it was politic for them to do so!" replied The Phantom. He
sighed. "David, the American military is by nature and tradition
conservative and reactionary. It is said that 95% of the American Officer
Corps vote the Republican ticket. They consider themselves patricians,
keepers of the flame, and despise homosexuals, foreigners, and
liberals. They are also continuing a tradition set in stone by Washington
himself!"
	"Yeah?"
	"Yes. The first recorded `Dishonourable Discharge' given to a gay
was signed by General Washington. One of his officers, an Ensign, I
believe, was found in bed with his batman. Both were drummed out of the
Army. From that day to this, it doesn't matter how valuable a man is, how
expert he is, how professional he is, he's out. No gays allowed and the
Constitution and the Bill of Rights have no standing - the Supreme Court,
which is increasingly larded with Bush conservatives that think the way he
does, see to that."
	David shook his head and sighed. "So, we're screwed," opined David
morosely.
	"In a way, yes," replied The Phantom. "The generals will not
publicly endorse a policy that allows gay men and women to serve with
dignity and honour, even though they know that the policy is a farce and a
sham."
	"They do?"
	"They do," repeated The Phantom. "Study after study has shown that
a gay man or woman can do the job just as well as a so-called `straight'
soldier, more often than not better. The generals know this to be true, and
privately they are prepared to look the other way, but publicly,
officially, not one of them has the balls to admit the truth." He growled
low. "However, when it is expedient, when they are desperate for manpower,
for swinging dicks to fill the ranks, they sing a different tune!"
	"They do?" asked David, curious.
	"A general's whole purpose is to wage war. To do so he needs
firepower, weapons, and men, boots on the ground to hold what is gained. He
can't do that without men and when he realizes that fact he takes steps."
	"Such as?" asked David sceptically.
	"Such as looking the other way when one of his men is revealed to
be gay. The generals in the Pentagon are Neanderthals, troglodytes, with
views supposedly set in stone."
	"However . . ." interrupted David.
	"However," replied The Phantom with a nod. "Suddenly, a gay man
finds himself gainfully employed, even though his sexuality is well
known. Suddenly the inept investigative services, NCIS, CID, and so on,
have backed off. Being gay is no longer an impediment because it is in the
interest of the government to ignore such a petty little problem."
	"You're kidding!" exclaimed David.
	"Not at all," replied The Phantom with a small smile. "In the
latter years of the war in Viet Nam, when there were draft dodgers
scampering for the Canadian border in hordes, when the collegiate activists
were burning their draft cards on the Capitol steps, when the disreputable
great unwashed filled the streets, well, suddenly gays in the military
weren't so bad. Heads were turned, homophobes were told to shut up and get
on with the program, do-dah, do-dah."
	"But that war ended," returned David.
	"Yes, it did," replied The Phantom. "But there is a new war and
suddenly someone in the Pentagon realized that there 75,000 or more gays
and lesbians in the military! If they were all turned out, where would
their replacements come from? None of the branches of the military can
reach their recruitment quotas as it is. How in the hell will they be able
to fill the empty spaces on their Tables of Organization? Where will they
find 75,000 additional bodies to replace the ones they've tossed out?"
	David nodded. "They can't, and they know it."
	"Quite so, which means that the Pentagon, in its wisdom, has turned
a collective blind eye. You might be gay, but once in, and as long as you
conform to the normally expected norms of behaviour, you will stay in until
the bugles sing truce."
	"And then?"
	"As in Viet Nam, as in Iraq. You will be quietly discharged, with
all rights and pension. No muss, no fuss, you've done your duty."
	David laughed. "Until the next time."
	"Yes. Some will be retained at the `pleasure of the government',
but most will leave, probably starting two or three years from now."
	"Why then?"
	"The anti-war movement is growing louder and larger. Bush is
unpopular, and his policies are bankrupt so far as many of the American
people are concerned. They have seen too many body bags being airlifted
home and they want out of Iraq. The so-called `front runner' knows this and
she is not stupid. She will build on Bush's problems and the people's
antipathy and gather under her campaign banner every anti-war nut bar, from
academics to Hollywood actors, to help get her message across."
	"Which is `peace' at any price, including the loss of honour,"
offered David sourly.
	"Yes. Madam Hillary is not alone, not that it matters." The Phantom
shrugged. "She expects to waltz into the White House in January, 2009. When
she does the first thing she will do is order the retreat from Iraq, and
possibly Afghanistan. She has already promised that. She's running on that!
It's a stupid and xenophobic move, but the country wants it."
	"Even though the terrorists will follow, Papa?"
	"Madame doesn't believe that, any more than she believes that if
given the chance a suicide bomber will truck bomb the White House. Or stand
her before a wall before a firing squad if given the chance. Remember,
David, the Democrats are the party of appeasement and collaboration. If it
costs foreign lives, so what? They are not American lives. If it costs
money, so what? The American electorate wants it, so let them pay for
it. There are plenty of legislators who agree with her, so long as they can
attach self-serving `bookmarks' onto every money bill to pay back their
supporters."
	"The President, and the Speaker will have power, the legislators
will be able to fund studies in the sexual habits of the North Dakota
cootie, do-dah, do-dah."
	"Precisely. There will be confusion and anger, which we will use to
our advantage."
	"How? It seems to me that the situation is impossible."
	"David, when you were in Iraq, you were with a platoon of tough,
fighting men, yes?"
	"Yes."
	"How old were your fellow warriors."
	David thought a moment. "Well, the youngest was just past his 18th
birthday. The old man was 27. Why do you ask?"
	The Phantom smiled. "Because, dear David, they are the very people
we can influence. They are young, they are not influenced by the Church, or
the politicos, and are much too busy trying to keep their asses from being
perforated than to worry about you and Dawg getting it on. Dawg was a good
soldier . . ."
	"The best!" interjected David. "I'm not just saying that because I
was in love with him, or that we, um, well, he showed me affection . . ."
	The Phantom laughed heartily. "A delicate and genteel way of
putting it!" He sobered slightly. "The point is, David that nobody
cared. You were a part of them, they were a part of you. Dawg did his job,
you did yours. He watched his `brothers'' backs, and they watched
his. Yes?"
	"That was all that mattered," said David with a firm nod.
	"That is the way all soldiers and sailors think. So, go where your
thoughts and influence make a difference. Forget the politicians, who are
too busy feathering their nests to bother with you, forget the inept
generals and Colonel Blimps who are too busy covering their backs and
justifying their existence. Go where you can at least be sure of a fair
hearing."
	"But Papa," David pointed out, "you want me to become a part of the
Royal Army, or the Royal Marines! Britain already accepts gays in the
ranks."
	"Yes, she does." The Phantom scratched his chin reflectively. "So,
on the surface, sending you back to England is akin to carrying coals to
Newcastle. Why, you are asking yourself, would you not send me to America?"
	"Well, the thought did cross my mind," admitted David.
	"David, your crusade will be long. Every step you take must be
carefully thought out. When your enemies expect you to be logical, be
illogical!"
	Unconsciously David imitated his father. "If I go to America they
will enlist me as a grunt." He nodded his personal confirmation. "While
I'll be a good soldier, I won't be a leader. I'll be too young for my peers
to be impressed, and while I'll make friends, I won't have any influence
with the higher ups." He nodded again. "However, if I go back to England,
gain my commission, do my training with SAS or the Commandoes, I can start
making a reputation." Again the nod of his head. "Having gained the trust
of my superiors I can then take advantage of the exchange programs with the
U.S. Military. If I go back to Iraq, or into Afghanistan, I will interact
with not only the swingin' dicks, but their NCOs, and their junior
officers."
	The Phantom smiled. "I had a friend when I was a boy. He was the
father of my best friend. He taught me many things, how to hunt, how to
fish, how to live in the words. Whenever he went hunting he always came
back with his bag. When I asked him how he came back with a 12-point buck
and everyone came back with bupkas, he said, `Slowly, slowly, catchy
monkey!' When I asked for further explanation he said that if you want to
catch a monkey, you need to become a monkey. You learn his likes and
dislikes, you learn where he lives, how he lives. You learn his habits and
you never rush the hunt. Become monkey."
	David could not help laughing. "So, I become a Brit monkey to
infiltrate a pride of American monkeys!"
	"Yes. You listen, you learn, you plan, and then you hunt."
	"And bring home the gold ribbon," said David, rising to his
feet. He looked at his father. "Would you mind terribly if I joined the
Royal Marines?"
	The Phantom shook his head. "They have an honourable past, and a
determined future." He grinned widely. "They also have a very sharp dress
uniform."
	David returned the grin. "Okay." He leaned down and kissed The
Phantom's cheek. "You look tired, Papa. Why don't you come to bed?" He
sniggered. "I'm really in need of a `sonwhich'!"
	The Phantom reached up and gently caressed his son's cheek. "What
you are about to do will sometimes be difficult. I hope that you will find
friendship, as I found friendship, and the love that can only exist between
men. I hope you will have many adventures, and happy memories."
	"Like yours?"
	"Well, in the expurgated scheme of things," said The
Phantom. "Don't misunderstand. I had a hell of a good time. To be honest I
don't think the world is ready for another sailing trip . . ."
	"That's where the pictures came from!"  David grinned. "Uncle Harry
sure is hung!"
	"David!" rumbled The Phantom, pretending shock.
	David ignored his father. "Uncle Andy isn't too bad, either." He
sniggered. "I sure hope Uncle Cory and Uncle Todd had growth spurts 'cause
. . ."
	"Enough!" ordered The Phantom, laughing.
	"Okay, but one day you really must tell me all about that sailing
trip. I also want to know how you managed to get yourself into their
lives."
	"It's a long story," said The Phantom nervously. "We were boys, and
it was a different world back then. People were adventuresome, and didn't
see evil where evil didn't exist."
	"So, you'll tell me?" asked David. "Please? How did the Tapestry
come to be formed. Why does Daddy Colin call Uncle Cory `The Penis Pope'
and however did Randy and Joey and Phil . . . well, maybe I don't want to
know, but Papa, they all helped make you what you are."
	"Yes, they did," murmured The Phantom. His eyes fell on a
silver-framed photograph sitting on the small table beside his chair. He
knew it well. It was the last photo in every album that Nicholas had
prepared for all the sailing trip participants. It had been taken on
Harwood Island. It was a group picture, with all of the Boys of Aurora
standing tall and proud . . . and naked. They were smiling, happy boys not
yet knowing that their lives would be intertwined forever.
	The Phantom reached out and took up the photograph. "David, why
don't you go and snuggle up to Colin? I'll be in shortly."
	"Okay," said David brightly. "Sonwhich time?"
	"Yes."

******

	When David went off to bed, The Phantom moved to sit behind his
desk. For a long time he stared at the photograph, and then he put it
aside. He found a clean folio sheet of paper and took up his pen. He looked
again at the photograph and then began to write:

 AURORA Heron Spit it was called at first. Later, as the world turned and
others came to view the barren, wind and salt-spray swept bit of land other
names were used. But it was always Aurora. It had always been there, or so
it seemed to the green-eyed boy leaning against his bicycle, staring at the
lights of the long jetty that thrust into the dark waters of Comox Harbour.



The End