Date: Mon, 18 Apr 2005 14:44:37 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 35

Aurora Tapestry is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead),
events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2005 by John Ellison

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or
by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief
quotes used in reviews.

WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting
adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are
offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this
type of story is illegal where you live.

WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive
language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.

I apologize for the length of time it has taken to publish this
chapter. The pressures of work, and I admit, a major funk, set me back a
little.

I wish to thank all those who wrote inquiring after my health. I am doing
well and am gaining more weight than I want to. I am now old, grumpy and
fat!

My thanks, as always, to Peter who, as always, edits my scribbling and
makes it better than it was.

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 35

	The young man engaged to play the piano at the Investiture entered
the ballroom, gaped and took a step back. The hotel manager had not told
him exactly what was happening in the ornate room and he had expected, from
the few hints dropped, that it might be a wedding of sorts, and the room
had been set up for a religious ceremony, or so the young man thought.

	At the far end, on a raised dais, was an altar, or what looked like
an altar. The young man did not know that the heavy chest was actually a
huge, 16th Century Belgian wedding chest, a huge wooden box, every inch
carved with saints and angels, cherubs and symbols of fecundity and
fertility, various renditions of fruit and whatever the carver could think
of to prove to a prospective bridegroom's family that the bride came from a
family of position, and that the linens and clothes, lace and silks filling
the chest would reflect her father's wealth. Until this morning the chest
had seen duty as a storage cabinet for the Catering Manager's liquor
supply.

	On the makeshift altar were two items, a small, bare, slightly
battered chest, uncarved and unadorned, and a neatly folded piece of blue
and white striped tasselled cloth, the tassels slightly frayed.

	At right angles to the altar were set dainty, gilt ballroom chairs,
six to either side. The chairs, like the wedding chest, were antique, and
had once adorned the gold and mirrored ballroom of a Hapsburg Princeling.
	Set perhaps six feet from the altar was a small kneeling bench. A
single kneeling bench, which did not seem in keeping with any wedding
ceremony the young pianist had ever heard of.
	Ranged down the room were more ballroom chairs, arranged on either
side of what was obviously a wide, centre aisle. The aisle suggested a
procession of some sort, just what the young man did not know. Had it been
part of a wedding the chairs lining the aisle would be adorned with
flowers, or swags of coloured cloth, even garlands of flowers in the brides
"colour", usually and unfortunately a particularly taxing shade of pink!
	Scratching his head, the pianist was considering which pieces in
his repertoire would be suitable - he normally played for afternoon tea and
in the evenings in the hotel bar, show tunes for the most part, and lots of
Sinatra - when he heard the squeal of a service cart being wheel into the
ballroom.
	Turning, the young pianist almost strained a muscle trying not to
break into hysterical laughter at the apparition standing before him. The
man, while obviously of military background by his posture, demeanour and
haircut, was dressed in the most outlandish costume the pianist had seen
this side of "The Pirates of Penzance". Or was it "Iolanthe"? The young man
had never been able to get his Gilbert & Sullivan right, even at the Royal
Conservatory.
	The man was dressed in black silk, white lace and medals. At his
side hung a gold court sword and in hand he held a sheaf of papers, which
he promptly waved at the pianist. "Were you not told to dress?" bellowed
the apparition, in a voice that brooked no nonsense and set the pianist to
quaking.
	"I . . . I . . . thought I had," exclaimed the young man. He looked
down at his tuxedo. It was what he always wore and until now no one had
ever questioned him. He was also somewhat miffed at having his attire
questioned by a man dressed in black knickers and lace!
	The Major glanced pointedly at the two men accompanying him. One, a
handsome Chinese male, was dressed in full evening dress. The other, a
military type and if anything even more handsome than the Chinese, was
wearing a deep blue, silver-buttoned uniform. The pianist took the Major's
point. "Perhaps I could change."
	"I wish you would," replied the Major in an offhand manner, then he
added, "and you've been told that you shan't be needed during the ceremony
itself?"
	The young pianist nodded. A short, rather handsome, and very
earnest young man - some sort of security official it seemed - had
emphasized that not only was the pianist to "retire" immediately he
finished playing, he was not, under any circumstances to linger in the
corridor or anywhere near the ballroom. "I've been told," the pianist said
flatly.
	"Good, and you know that you will be required afterwards?" asked
the Major as he motioned for Patrick and Laurence to continue. The wheels
of the service cart, which was piled with large, square boxes, squealed and
rumbled on the polished wood floor as it was wheeled down the aisle.
	The Major returned to the pianist, handing him one of the printed
programs. "The service is somewhat long, and you needn't worry too much
about the music. Something grand for the processional, and something for
the recessional afterward. Perhaps some light classics while the lads are
waiting?"
	The pianist opened the program, glanced at it, and paled
slightly. There would be a procession and he had no idea what music to
play! He probed his musical memory for something, and realized that his
repertoire of show tunes and semi-classical "mood" music, which he played
from memory, would never do. Then he remembered that in his trunk, which he
had stored in the Left Luggage Room, contained his sheet music from his
days as a student at the Conservatory. As he hurried off to find something
appropriate to play, and to change, the pianist did not hear the Major
bellowing for the manager, complaining that another table was needed!

******

	The doors leading from the corridor opened and at a nod from the
Major the pianist, now "properly" dressed for an Investiture, wearing as he
was a barrister's waistcoat, plain neck tabs and a white bow tie, and an
academic gown hastily borrowed from the hotel's Lost Items closet, began
the majestic, almost regal introduction to "God of the Prophets, Bless the
Prophet's Sons", which was usually reserved for ordinations and would have
sounded much better on an organ, with all stops pulled out. However, the
pianist made do with what he had and pressed the bass pedal with his foot.
	Led by Logan and Patrick, the procession made its way down the
aisle. Surgeon-Lieutenant Bradley Smith, as Prelate, followed the two
ushers. The Major, his ebony and gold-tipped Staff of Office resting on his
right shoulder, followed the young doctor. Behind Major Meinertzhagen,
Laurence led the candidate knights and soon to be Companions.
	First came the new Companions, Sandro, Peter, Nate and Eion. Behind
them, in keeping with the old Naval tradition of "last in first out", came
the youngest in age and rank of the new knights: Randy and Joey. The
Leading Cadets, then the Petty Officers and finally, the Chiefs followed
them. Directly behind them were the officers, Commander Stockman, Andy, and
Kyle.
	As the procession passed, the pianist glanced over at the young men
and smiled inwardly. You could always tell the boys whom the sisters had
schooled. They all seemed to have a serious look on their faces and for
some reason assumed a prayerful position with their hands, their thumbs
always position according to dogma, the right thumb firmly over the left,
their orthodoxy no doubt instilled through the efficacy of a good, wooden
ruler!
	As the first rank of cadets reached the first row of chairs, Logan
and Patrick directed traffic, indicating where the boys were to sit. When
the last of the long line of candidates had taken his seat, and the last
chord of the hymn played, the pianist flipped a page in his binder and
began to play the unfamiliar, to him, notes of a march, the music for which
had been thrust into his hands by a huge, black-haired cadet who had
growled, "Play this when Phantom comes in, or else!"
	What significance the music held for the cadets, the pianist did
not know. Obviously, given the vehemence of the cadet, who was now wearing
a black, gold-embroidered Drum Major's sash, the music meant something. The
pianist's eyes quickly scanned the notes before them and his fingers moved
to the ivory keys and the first notes of "Garb of Old Gaul" filled the
silence of the ballroom.
	Feeling very much the odd man out, The Phantom tried to keep a
straight face as he followed Bertie Arundel and Joe Hobbes, who were
walking backwards, into the ballroom. Bertie and Joe had only the line of
chairs to guide their passage down the room and while both tried to keep
pace with the music, it was apparent that Joe had a longer step.
	"Steady up," The Phantom whispered to Joe when they were halfway
down the aisle, "you're ahead by a nose!"
	Snickering at The Phantom's horsy comment, Joe shortened his step.
	Behind The Phantom, and accompanied by Gabe and Pete Sheppard, both
looking uncomfortable in morning coats and striped trousers, was Colin, his
starched, white uniform gleaming in the light from the chandeliers, his
peaches and cream complexioned face beaming brighter than the chandeliers,
a splendid, magnificent specimen of Canadian male.
	As The Phantom approached the altar Bertie and Joe broke off and
led him toward the row of seats set to the left of the altar. As he took
his seat The Phantom saw that behind the chairs was a table on which were
laid in glowing sparkling panoply collars, of gold and silver and set with
jewels and wondered what significance they had.
	When the candidates were seated there was a lengthy pause and then
alone and attended by his fellow knights, Michael Chan, Sovereign Grand
Master of the Sovereign and Most Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of
Acre began his slow walk to what he hoped would be the resurrection of his
Order.

******

	As the last notes of the anthem still lingered in the quiet of the
ballroom, the Major thumped his Staff three times against the
carpet. "Extra Omnes," he declared loudly.
	Logan Hartsfield, Patrick Tsang and Pete Sheppard walked in front
of the Major, bowed, and then returned down the aisle. As he passed the
pianist, who was somewhat in awe of what he had just witnessed, Patrick
gave a slight jerk of his head. Rising, the pianist followed the "Extras"
through tall doors adorned with carved wood and gilded trophies.
	In the long, quiet corridor outside the ballroom two of Pete
Sheppard's men, dressed in dark suits waited until the four men had passed
and then slowly closed the doors.

******

	" . . . To All Lords Spiritual and Temporal and All Other Our
Subjects whatsoever to whom these Presents shall come Greeting. Know ye
that We, Michael the Fifth Alexander, Grand Master and Count Palatine,
having determined the need for an Investiture of Knights and Companions,
now calls all candidates to present themselves for Our Scrutiny."
	The Major's booming voice filled the ballroom as he read the formal
proclamation making Patent the Letters issued by the Grand Master calling
for the Investiture. "In Witness whereof We have caused these Our Letters
to be made Patent. Witness Ourself at Our Court at Comox this 26th Day of
August in the first year of Our Reign."
	The proclamation read, the Major bowed first to Michael, and then
to Daniel, who turned to the assembled cadets and opened the small book he
held in his hand, "Divine Service Book For The Armed Forces". He had given
much thought as to what he should say, and how he should say it. He was
aware of the Order's reluctance toward religion and had decided to keep his
part of the ceremony as simple as possible.
	Clearing his throat, Daniel intoned, "We ask God's blessings on
these deliberations and ceremonies. May He bless all here, and keep you
safe in the Service, which today you enter. May He keep you ever mindful of
the Oath, which you will today swear before Him and your brothers, and ever
mindful of the Duty and Honour that is given unto you."
	Opening the prayer book, Daniel then asked, "Please rise and join
me in the prayer for our fallen brothers and all who gave their lives for
Queen and Country, and for all who continue go in harm's way on the
oceans."
	With graceful, measured tones, Surgeon-Lieutenant Daniel Dane
Bradley-Smith, de facto Prelate of the Order, led the assembly in the
time-honoured prayer for sailors,

	"O Eternal Lord God, who alone spreadest out the heavens, and rules
the raging of the sea; who has compassed the waters with bounds until day
and night come to an end; Be pleased to receive into that almighty and most
gracious protection the persons of us thy servants, and the Fleet in which
we serve. Preserve us from the dangers of the sea, and from the violence of
the enemy; that we may be a safeguard unto our most gracious Sovereign
Lady, Queen Elizabeth and her Dominions, and a security for such as pass on
the seas upon their lawful occasions; that the inhabitants of our
Commonwealth and Empire may in peace and quietness serve thee our God; and
that we may return in safety to enjoy the blessings of the land, with the
fruits of our labours, and with a thankful remembrance of thy mercies to
praise and glorify thy holy name; through Jesus Christ Our Lord. Amen."

Then he added, "Baruch atah Adonoi elohenu. Blessed are You our God,
Creator of the Universe, who has brought us together as brothers."

With a nod to the Grand Master, Daniel turned and walked to take his seat
to the right of the altar, with the Knights.
	The Major consulted a hastily typed piece of paper and tapped his
Staff of Office sharply on the highly polished floor of the ballroom. "I
call all those who would be Companions of Honour to come forward."
	As there were no precedents, the candidates for Companions, had
drawn high-low on a battered deck of cards to see who would go
first. Sandro, much to his delight and surprise, had drawn an ace. He stood
and walked to the small kneeling bench. On the bench was a small, framed,
form, which Sandro would read.
	As Sandro knelt, Major Meinertzhagen saw that the younger man had a
white kippa hiding his dark, curly hair. As Sandro looked up at him the
Major felt a small tremor pass through his body. He was looking down at
hope, at expectation and at determination. It was a feeling that the Major
had not felt in many years, not since he was a young Subaltern in the
faraway days when the world was ordered, and structured and filled with
honour and thoughts of duty.
	Richard Meinertzhagen had seen the look that filled the young
Russian boy's eyes before, in the jungles of Malaya, on the training
grounds of Lympstone, where fresh-faced, pink-cheeked young boys, English
boys from Suffolk, or Norfolk and Devon and the Midlands, learned their
trade, and in the doing learned that the freedoms they knew could never be
taken for granted, that life and liberty must be defended. They learned
that men must stand tall and fight when the time came, to stand foursquare
and say, "Hold - enough!"
	A new generation, far removed from the training grounds of England
had gathered in this ornate room, young men sure of themselves and sure of
their abilities and sure of what they were and wanted to be.
	They were, in many ways, innocents but in their eyes burned a
brightness that could never be dimmed. Michael, the Major now knew, had
been right in suspending the ancient, archaic Rule. These young men were
more than the future. They were the Order resurgent and militant. In the
eyes of each and every boy and man there was the spark that would ignite
the future. In their eyes was the truth and honesty, and determination that
would take them, and their new Order, into the world with a clarity that
had not been seen since the days when three battle weary men knelt before a
battered altar and found God.

******

	As a Companion of Honour, Sandro was not required to profess, which
made the Major's job all that much easier. He had expressed his doubts
about having the candidates admit, publicly and without reservation, that
they were homosexual. The Major had a wealth of experience when it came to
dealing with the doubts and secret fears of young men. As a leader of a
Royal Marine Commando he had seen those fears and doubts every time a new
boy appeared for training. They were wracked with self-doubt, most of them,
and afraid of failure and its attendant, to them, shame. Some of them hid
their fears with boasts and braggadocio, others simply walked away, unable
to come to grips with themselves or their fears.
	The Major had also learned over the years that men were beset with
outside influences, influences that told them that certain things, certain
modes of conduct, were good, and acceptable to their peers. They were also
told, coldly, bluntly, profanely or in the most sanctimonious of clerical
terms, that other things, dark things that set a boy's soul to writhing in
agony, were condemned, abominations before God and man, to be reviled and
denigrated without reservation. The young men the Major had known had kept
their fears and secrets hidden from the world and, understandably, went to
great lengths to keep their secrets, secret. Smugly, the Major thought that
he knew the measure of the young man kneeling before him.
	Sandro was about to shatter all of the Major's illusions. He had
given much thought to what was about to happen. Sandro, although thankful
that a very great exception had been made for him, was under no
illusions. As a Jew, he expected that there would be some reluctance, some
hesitation, to his being a part of a Christian Order. That, he thought, was
to be expected. He also thought that as a member of the Order he would be
asked to pledge his life, and his honour as a man, to the betterment of
mankind, specifically, gay mankind.
	The Vigil, at least according to what he had been told, had been an
opportunity for Sandro to think about what he was doing. The Order had
never forced itself on anyone, and well understood the need that some of
its candidates felt for secrecy. Sandro had considered that if a candidate
knight was required to profess, that is, declare before witnesses, that he
was homosexual, why then would not a Companion? Their goals were the same,
after all, were they not?
	The more he thought about it, the more Sandro determined that if a
man were gay, and if a man were being asked to help rebuild the Order, he
might as well be on an equal footing with his brothers. Sandro knew how he
felt, and knew that when he was with Nathan, his first boy, he had never
felt anything but wonderful contentment. He had felt more than contentment
with Chad, whom Sandro had also had sex with, and their time together had
been different. Nathan had been sex on the hoof, raw, emotionless,
gratuitous sex! Chad, however, had been something Sandro had always thought
would be denied him. He was a "Golden Boy", and Golden Boys never knew true
love. Or so he had thought and now he knew differently and he was not
ashamed of being madly in love with the stocky Canadian.
	Sandro also wanted to be sure that there would be no
discrimination. He was a Companion in name, but a Knight in spirit and he
had decided that he would make everyone, including the Grand Master, know
exactly how he felt.
	Before Major Meinertzhagen could ask Sandro if he would make his
oath, Sandro spoke loudly. "I wish to profess."
	Taken aback, the Major stared at the young Russian and then
muttered, "It is not necessary." He tried to stare down Sandro, failed, and
repeated, "It is not necessary."
	Sandro was not to be deterred. "Is for me," he announced coldly. "I
profess."
	Michael, who was sitting barely three feet away, heard every
word. He glanced at Bertie Arundel and Charlie Hazleton, who were sitting
next to Doc Reynolds. Bertie shrugged slightly, smiled a small smile, and
raised an eyebrow. Charlie shot a glance at Michael who, as the Grand
Master could intervene or not - his choice.
	Frowning slightly, Michael was about to just let the Major handle
the obstinate Russian when he thought, "Well, why not?" After all, they
were really winging the whole ceremony. Nobody knew what was right and
proper, and there were no manuals or instructions, at least none that
Bertie Arundel had managed to find, and who knew, perhaps what happened
today might become the basis, no, what happened today would be the basis
for all Investitures that Michael was sure were in the Order's future.
	Rising slowly, Michael walked the few short steps to the kneeling
bench. He looked down at Sandro, taking in the calm, serene face and dark,
intense eyes of the Russian. In Sandro's eyes Michael saw what the Major
could never see, the intensity of Russia, and the faith of a Ghetto
Jew. This intensity and faith had caused men to rise against the Nazis in
Warsaw, and turn back the tidal wave of Arab bigotry in Palestine. Sandro
would never back down, would never turn and run, and would stand at the
gates and growl, "They shall not pass!"
	Michael gently moved the Major to one side and then held out his
hands. When Sandro reached out and clasped the Grand Master's hands he
smiled. "I profess, yes?" he asked.
	Nodding, and leaning down, Michael murmured, "In you, Alexandr, son
of Effim, rests the spirit of your Fathers, and the courage of all your
brothers who have gone before. You may profess, as your manhood and your
heritage demand you to profess. There are no words, no formula for you to
speak."
	"I speak from heart," responded Sandro. He gently squeezed
Michael's hands. "I know what I do."
	"As you wish it, Alexandr, son of Effim," replied Michael. "Deus
Vult."
	Sandro suddenly realized that he had not a clue what to say. On the
arm of the kneeling bench was the small, framed copy of the Oath that he
would take. He had declared that he would speak from his heart, so he did.
	"I Alexandr, son of Effim, declare to you, my Sovereign Lord, Grand
Master of the Order, that I am of the universal brotherhood that knows no
strangers. I say that I am what man says is 'homosexual'." Here Sandro
stumbled a little, and then he squared his shoulders and continued. "I am
lover of my brothers, who are brothers of my flesh, and of my spirit. They
are of my heart, as I am of their heart. I am not ashamed of what I
am. Please, accept me as brother."
	As the tears welled in his eyes Michael released Sandro's hands and
gently caused him to rise. "With all my heart."
	Beaming, Sandro asked, "We do kiss of peace, now?"
	Before Michael could respond to Sandro's question the Russian boy
soundly bussed the started Chinese man on both cheeks and then, in the
Russian manner, kissed him on the lips! Blushing slightly, Michael gasped
quietly, "It would seem that we will!"
	As a titter of laughter rippled through the assembled candidates,
the Major, his eyes dancing with laughter, coughed delicately. "Will you
make your oath?"
	Nodding happily, Sandro replied. "I make Oath." He turned and saw
Gabe Izard standing behind him. Gabe gave a small neck bow and with his
left hand indicated the Altar.
	Wordlessly, Sandro walked to the ornate chest and saw the neatly
folded Tallit resting on the highly polished wood. As Gabe approached with
the framed oath, Sandro placed his hand on the rough, historic cloth. He
glanced down at the glass-protected words and declared in a loud, firm
voice,

	"I, Alexandr Effimovitch Signaransky, do solemnly swear, upon my
Oath and upon this symbol of my Faith, that I will bear true allegiance to
my Brothers, that I will defend all our Brotherhood, and that I will in all
things conduct myself in a chaste manner so that no dishonour will I bring
upon the Order. I swear to succour the ill and destitute and I vow to love
my life according to the precepts of duty and honour. This I swear before
God and my brothers."

	Gabe then led Sandro back to the kneeling bench where Michael was
waiting, a long, crimson sash in his hands. As Sandro bent his head,
Michael draped the sash over his right shoulder and arranged it across the
Russian's chest so that the small, decorative medal attached to the end
hung against Sandro's left hip.
	"Welcome, dear brother, as a Companion of Honour, to the Order of
Saint John of the Cross of Acre. Receive this insignia of your rank and
position," said Michael formally. "Deus Vult!"
	Smiling, Sandro took Michael's outstretched hand. "Baruch atah
Adonoi Elohaynu!" he declared, true to his Faith.
	Michael returned Sandro's smile and leaned forward. "I think you
have just started a new tradition, dear brother. Go now in peace."

******

	When Sandro returned to his seat, Peter Race stood and walked to
the kneeling bench. Michael saw the uncertainty in Peter's eyes and
whispered, "One day you will learn the truth, dear brother. At the moment
you wonder what the truth is, and if you are worthy to return to the Faith
of your Fathers. Do what is in your heart, Peter with no middle name. You
are loved as a brother."  Relieved, for he was not certain that he was
either Jewish or gay, Peter smiled shyly. "One day, when I am sure, may I
return?"
	"As God wills," replied Michael. "Make your oath, Peter, and
welcome." He took a step back. "Deus Vult!"
	Peter made his oath and returned to his seat. Jérémie Cher rose
slowly and looked into the Grand Master's eyes. "I do not wish to profess,"
he whispered.
	"Nor shall you," replied Michael. He regarded Jérémie a moment and
then continued. "In you, Jérémie Stephane, of the house of Larouche, I see
a warmth and kindness that few men possess. Your heart is full with the
love you feel for your brothers, and full with the decency of your
character. You are much loved, and in you resides the true spirit of
brotherhood."
	Somewhat awed at the Grand Master's words, Jérémie Cher took his
oath, his body was draped with the insignia of his new dignity, and he
returned to his seat, where he silently prayed that he would be worthy of
the praise heaped upon him, and that he would never give the lie to such
praise.

******

	Eion came forward. Like many young men he was filled with
questions, questions about himself. He had never been with another boy,
although he admitted to checking out his messmates, and admiring their
attributes, such as they were. He also admitted that sometimes, when he was
masturbating, his thoughts turned to boys from time to time. He often
imagined what it would be like to have another boy's hand on his erection,
stroking and fondling his balls until he exploded with rapture. Eion had
heard that few, if any girls, could give a proper blowjob. He reasoned that
he was a case in point there, having been the recipient of a blow job from
a girl, whom he now knew was named Amy. While the end result had not been
all that bad, the getting there had been somewhat painful as the girl more
often than not failed to cover her teeth and he had the fading scars to
prove it!
	That having been said, Eion reasoned that he was not gay. He had no
real desire to bed anyone, well, maybe Jérémie, who had a dick to die for
although Jérémie's skin-covered dickhead was a little off-putting to Eion's
way of thinking. And only once, just to see what it would be like. Or
Peter. Peter was a nice guy, very slim, and had a killer smile. Peter's
dick matched the rest of him, and he would never win first prize for
size. His dick ended in a wrinkled tube of flesh, again off-putting to
Eion, but what the hell, Peter was cute. And only once, just to see what it
was like!
	Eion, after much thought, decided he would not profess and as he
had heard the Major say it was not necessary for him to do so, Eion knelt
and held out his hands. Michael took Eion's hands in his and spoke softly.
	"You are beset, I think, with doubts. One day, when you are ready,
you will put your doubts aside. Until that day, know that your brothers
will stand by you, and be with you always." Michael smiled. "It is not a
bad thing to be, Eion Patrick, of the house of Reilly. In your veins runs
the blood of Hibernia. You are the scion of Eire, and the son of brave and
courageous men. Welcome, dear brother."
	Eion did not know if the Grand Master was referring to his doubts
and fantasies, or to joining the Order. He took his oath and returned to
his seat, more confused than ever.

******

	After swearing his oath, and adding, as Sandro had done, the Hebrew
blessing, Nate approached the kneeling bench without reservation. He would
not profess because he was not in any way homosexual. He had seen his
brothers naked, he had seen his classmates naked, the members of his
basketball and baseball teams naked, and not once had he felt a twinge of
desire, or a hint of lust. He could, and did, admire the naked male, and
saw nothing wrong in complimenting his peers on the beauty, length and
girth of their fittings. Nate was returning the favours, so to speak, for
he possessed a classic set of parts, neat, clean and streamlined.
	Secure in his sexuality, Nate was not beset with the doubts and
fears of adolescence. He was a Jew, no more, no less. Jews before him had
waged war, and he would do the same if called upon. What Nate could not
understand was his strongly felt need to be a part of this Order. He could
not shake the nagging feeling of rightness that had crept into his soul,
the feeling of acceptance by the boy cadets of Aurora, and more
importantly, the strange, inspiring awe he felt whenever the boy everyone
called "The Phantom" looked at him, or spoke to him in the warm, firm tones
that now seemed so comforting and familiar.
	Nate had no desire to be anything more than a friend, or at least
he was halfway convinced that was all he wanted. It was all so strange,
these feelings that coursed through him. He could not understand . . .
	Michael leaned forward and smiled kindly. "They will pass, the
doubts you feel."
	"They will?" came Nate's whispered return, the boy awed that the
Grand Master might know what he was thinking.
	"You are about to begin a small journey," replied Michael. "It is a
voyage of discovery and perhaps maturation. Some of the things you will
find on that journey will seem strange to you, and you will, at times, meet
those who do not understand the true being that is Nethanyu. Do not be
afraid, and do not pause. Remember the rallying cry of your people: 'Next
year in Jerusalem'." Michael nodded. "You will soon make your oath and say,
'Never Again!' Remember that, Nethanyu. Always remember that cry."
	Somewhat unsteadily, Nate returned to his seat, his eyes brighter
now with a strange feeling of hope.

******

 	The Major, miffed at Michael's chattering, when he should have been
lending the dignity of his office to the affairs, stood before the Altar
and read another proclamation, which called for those candidates for
knighthood to come forward. He looked balefully at Randy, the first of the
candidates, and tried to keep his discomfiture from his voice. The boy was
very young and the doubts that he had expressed to Michael about the ages
of the candidates, returned. Could this handsome, red headed young boy
truly know what he was about to do? Still, Michael had decreed that all the
candidates would be accepted and the Major, ever conscious of his role and
duty, had no choice in the matter.
	Any further doubts the Major might have had were dispelled when
Randy said, in a loud, firm voice, "I wish to profess."
	"You do?" croaked the Major, taken aback by Randy's tone.
	Looking at Joey, who was blushing furiously, Randy nodded his head;
he was not at all intimidated by the blustering Major. "I profess that I am
what I am, that I love another boy with all my heart," he declared without
hesitation. "I further profess that I am what man calls 'homosexual'." He
frowned slightly, even at his young age not caring for the labels attached
to him, or his friends. He recalled the Gospel as related by Cory and
added, "What man calls me is unimportant! It is what God thinks that
matters."
	"And that is?" asked the Major dryly, frankly taken by the fiery
redhead.
	"That I am a man!"
	A smile broke on the Major's face and he indicated the Altar as he
spoke loudly, "Randall Dodson Ramseur Lowndes, Candidate, come forward and
make oath!"
	Randy, a little embarrassed at hearing the pretentiousness of the
names he had been given at his christening, grinned impishly as he walked
to the Altar. He placed his hand on the box containing the piece of the
True Cross, and made his oath:

	"I, Randall Dodson Ramseur Lowndes, do solemnly swear, upon my
Oath, and upon the symbol of my faith, that I will bear true allegiance to
my Brothers in Knighthood; that I will defend all those of our Brotherhood,
and that I will in all things conduct myself in a chaste manner, so that no
dishonour will I bring upon the Order. I swear to succour the ill and
destitute and I vow to live my life according to the precepts of duty and
honour."

	Ignoring the shocked little gasp that escaped Joey's lips when he
had heard the words, "In a chaste manner," Randy knelt on the bench and
looked up at Michael Chan, his eyes twinkling.
	Michael, who could not help smiling at the fiery haired,
pink-cheeked young man, took the court sword from Laurence and deftly
tapped Randy on each shoulder. After returning the sword to Laurence,
Michael gestured for Joey to rise and held out his hand. "Welcome, dear
brother, to the Order."
	Randy squirmed. "Uh, thanks. Am I really a knight?"
	"Oh, yes," replied Michael. "You are also my brother." He winked at
Randy. "I am told that your temper is as fiery as your hair."
	Knowing where that came from, Randy looked villainously at Chef,
who smiled sweetly in return. "Sometimes," admitted Randy.
	"Good," returned Michael. "We need young men of temper!" He leaned
down to give the young boy the "Kiss of Peace", actually just placing his
cheek against either side of Randy's face.
	Randy, who had seen Sandro's uninhibited bussing of the Grand
Master, drew back and grinned. Then he leaned forward, "Watch out for
Harry, sir. He really likes to kiss!" Randy cautioned in a fierce
whisper. "On the lips!"
	"I stand warned," deadpanned Michael.

******

	Calvin Hobbes barely felt the sword as it touched his
shoulders. His eyes were sparkling as he rose and took the Grand Master's
hand.  "Are you as tempestuous as your companion and fellow knight?"
Michael asked as he looked at Calvin's red hair.  Snickering, Calvin shook
his head. "Only when it comes to Mikey," he blurted without thinking, and
then blushed.
	"Ah, yes, the middle of the Hobbes brothers," replied Michael with
a knowing smile.
	The colour drained from Calvin's face. "You . . . um . . . you know
about Mikey?"
	"I know that you defend your honour with great vigour," said
Michael without any inflection. "Your brothers look upon you askance. I do
not. I see in you, Calvin of Hobbes, a man struggling inwardly to attain
the respect and love of his elders." He leaned forward and touched Calvin's
cheek. "You already have it, Calvin. If you did not you would not be a part
of the tapestry, nor would you have stood beside him who will be your
Prince. Your destiny has been foretold."
	Confused, Calvin released Michael's hand and was about to turn away
when the Grand Master's voice stopped him.
	"Soon you will come to me and ask a great favour. He whom you love
waits for you, and together we will speak about him, and you."
	"Simon," breathed Calvin as he walked slowly back to his seat. As
he lowered his body to the chair he closed his eyes. "Simon."

******

	Chef sat quietly, nodding from time to time as he listened to
Michael's quiet voice. Chef was pleased that Michael had thrown away the
Major's formal, structured program and was allowing the young men who were
the hope of the new order to basically set their own ways. This, to Chef's
thinking, was exactly what was needed. There would be formal ceremonies,
when the Latin books would be brought out, when the organ would thunder,
and the collars and chains of office would be draped over shoulders.
	But not today.
	Today informality with a hint of discipline and order was
necessary. The boys, for that is what they were, would feel more
comfortable, less intimidated by the goings on. And that is exactly what
Chef had wanted. The old cook, for all his faults, was a student of
mankind. He watched, he listened, and most often had the measure of a man
long before anyone else realized it.
	Very early on Chef had learned that a cook on board a naval vessel
more often than not turned out to be mother, father confessor, mentor, and
tyrant, all rolled into one. This was particularly true on the small ships,
the corvettes, the frigates, and the wartime destroyers where the galley
was on the upper deck, just at the break of the foc'sle, and every man and
boy who inhabited the forward mess decks passed the duff locker and the
galley every time they came up top. In the old days, before "General
Messing" and cafeterias, the Cooks of the Mess would wander up, fannies in
hand, and loiter about the cookhouse door, waiting for the rations to be
ladled out. They would smoke, chat, and sometimes play grab ass and just be
what they were: frightened boys far from home.
	This was particularly true of the younger boys. They were strangers
to a strange new world, not quite formed into men, and very lonely. They
needed, from time to time, a shoulder to cry on, a warm voice to murmur
that everything would be all right, and a father figure to confide in.
	Usually they came some time toward the end of First Watch, the time
for Kye. They were always young, the youngest and least experienced of the
sailors who manned the ships. Chef always had a pan of sticky buns in the
warming oven, or a loaf of fresh baked bread and a can of jam - strawberry,
for it seemed to be the only type available at any given time - set
out. They always started shyly, as they carved long, thin, lathes from the
heavy, dark brown slabs of unsweetened chocolate with their clasp
knife. They talked first of home. Always home. Then of how life was
treating them, of what it was like living in a steel compartment where the
sides and bulkheads wept condensation, of having to keep the scuttles
closed lest the sea pour in and give you a cold bath unexpectedly, of the
funk and rankness of sharing space with thirty or more other males, of
having to sleep in a swaying hammock, and how the term "Swinging Dick" took
on a new meaning when the Bosn piped "Wakey-Wakey".
	They talked as they loaded the chocolate into the huge pot, added
the evaporated milk and sugar and stirred and stirred the thick sludge into
a smooth, soothing drink. Chef passed the buns, listened, and offered
sympathy and advice. He learned the vagaries that beset man, and in time
others came to him, the Master-At-Arms, the Buffer, the Chief, senior rates
who knew that the lads trusted the hefty cook.
	For Chef, the late night sessions in the warmth of the galley were
a learning experience. In time he could tell who was shamming, who had
their own self-interest in mind.  He could tell who was lying, and not
worth the space they occupied. And he could tell who was truly worth
helping. Chef's quiet voice, spoken into the right ear, had helped more
than one young lad to get ahead.
	Chef had used his knowledge wisely. He looked upon his role as one
who was there to help, not hinder, the careers of the sailors who confided
in him. The old man had early decided that while yes, there were shirkers
and barrack stanchions, their own conduct would betray them and he did not
see any reason to go out of his way to hurry their predestined early
departure from the Naval Service. He firmly believed in giving a man
sufficient rope.
	What changed Chef's perceptions was his promotion to Officers'
Cook. He would stand at the serving hatch and absently listen to the
chatter from the Wardroom. The officers never seemed to understand that the
men serving them their dinners, cooking their dinners, washing their soiled
bed linen, making their beds, had ears.
	Thinking of his past service Chef snickered silently. The Phantom
had learned, as Chef had learned, that all too often those who served were
never seen. Just as the cadets ignored the presence of The Phantom as he
bussed their tables, or Joey or Randy as they served out their food, and
chattered and gossiped unconcernedly, so did the officers in their sanctum
sanctorum.
	Chef heard many things, learned many things, and honed his talents
at assessing an officer's character to a razor edge. He could tell, just by
listening, which officer was an arrogant twit, which a martinet, which
would fail and which would succeed, if only because of his hitching his
career to the "Book".
	He learned which officer had no common sense at all, such as a
Supply Officer who, after finding some potatoes that still had some skin on
them boiling away, opined that the potato peeler needed cleaning. Chef, not
in a good mood at the best of times, had retorted that while the potato
peeler cleaned himself every day if the officer wanted to do it he could go
ahead, although Chef did think that the potato peeler might squeal and
giggle when his extended bits were washed!
	Chef smiled at the memory, even thought he had been shopped for
"Rude and Insolent Conduct". At the end of the day he'd only been given a
warning (not to be recorded) and the Coxswain had offered "Gulpers" when
their tots were issued.
	Chef's mood changed abruptly, however and he frowned when he
thought of the others, the self-serving, back-stabbing others, little men
who thought nothing of the real reasons for their being where they were,
men who thought more of their comfort and the cut of their hand tailored
uniforms, men who would panic in any situation. He had learned which
officer would cut and run, and Chef had learned whom never to trust. Chef
could point out without hesitation those officers the hands would follow
out of curiosity, and those officers the hands would follow without
hesitation. Sadly, the former far outnumbered the latter.
	Since Unification and the politicization of the Service, far too
many officers became little more than highly paid clerks, shuffling paper
from point A to point B. Knowing that they would never succeed in private
life, many officers slavishly followed the "Green Machine" in Ottawa, never
questioning, never drawing attention to themselves for fear of censure and
frowns of disapproval. They would stab each other in the back without a
backward thought, and the hands, well, they were there because they had to
be there and who cared, really, about them. They were there to do a duty so
let them get on with it and not bother their betters.
	Chef's attitude toward officers had coloured his relationships with
them. He ignored them when he could, and never failed to express his
disdain for those whom he considered to be "Commissioned Idiots". Chef
would go to the wall for a Lower Decker oppressed by some Wardroom Wally,
using his connections when he felt it necessary. The old cook had no use
for officers and while he could have used those same connections against
the shallow, little men he had grown to despise, he had only done so once,
and he slept the sleep of a babe at night after he had done it.
	The officer, his name was not then, or now, important, had once
made the mistake of expounding in the Wardroom how it was his "duty" to
report "queers". Or suspected "fags". That the officer's actions and
reports to the Commanding Officer might destroy the men he accused,
bothered him not at all. It was, after all, an officer's "duty" to expose
deviants.
	Chef had seethed, but remained silent. He had raged in the privacy
of his tiny cabin and then Chef had made notes. He recorded every instance
of bigotry and hatred. And then he acted.
	As he sat, watching his young cadets walk forward, their backs
straight and their heads held high, Chef wondered if that officer ever
questioned why he never rose above the rank of Lieutenant-Commander, and
why, after being passed over twice, his career had been abruptly
terminated.
	There were no men of character left, thought Chef grimly, save the
small group of men gathered in this ornate room. He could recall with
relish the happy times when the Navy was the Navy, filled with men who
fought hard and played hard, men who rolled from their bunks and hammocks
and fought enemy E-Boats in their underwear and tin hats, men who had done
handstands on the wardroom table and lowered their heads to drink from the
punchbowl, and then had come crashing down to destroy the buffet lunch! He
recalled the days when an officer went out of his way to find out what the
lads were thinking, and understood that the men and boys who lived in the
lower deck messes had wives, and children, and were people, not numbers or
rates.
	It was all gone now. And Chef realized that he had played his part
in the destruction of the old ways. His failure to recognize that he should
have helped the younger officers had been demonstrated when he had refused
to help Dave Eddy become a better man and a better officer. Chef had
allowed his prejudices to influence his thinking and a bitter sigh escaped
his lips. Dave should be here, the old cook thought. But the young man was
not. In time Chef knew that he would need to make amends.
	One who did not need to be here, and would never be here, was
Greg. Chef had listened, had watched, and had determined that Greg would
never give of himself. In many ways Greg was a selfish man. He wanted sex
with another boy, true, but refused to acknowledge in any way that what he
wanted was a natural thing. Greg was torn between his natural feelings and
desires and fears. Chef did not need photographs or tape recordings to know
what had gone on in the Ship's Office between Greg and Jimmy Collyer. The
difference between Jimmy and Greg, however, was that Jimmy, if confronted,
would cheerfully acknowledge his preferences and predilections. Sex with
another boy was as natural and necessary to Jimmy as breathing.
	Greg, on the other hand, if confronted, would procrastinate,
obfuscate and lie. He would never admit to anyone under any circumstances
that he had had a relationship with Stephen Tyler, or that he had been with
Jimmy Collyer. Greg's refusal to admit the reality of his homosexuality
made him dangerous. To protect himself and his own reputation Greg would
betray friends and family if he had to.
	Shifting uneasily in his seat, Chef knew that he had to make The
Phantom understand this. Chef knew that The Phantom was a kind and gentle
young man who held friendship close and dear. The Phantom was too kind at
times, and Chef was not about to let the young man learn the same bitter
lessons he had learned. He would help The Phantom come to see common sense
where Greg was concerned. Chef nodded to himself as he decided to retrieve
the volume of notes that he had prepared for Michael to use during the
Investiture.
	The binder, each page written with black ink in Chef's flowing
hand, held the secrets of the new knights of Saint John. Chef was
meticulous in his snooping, and paid heed to the not so confidential
nattering he overhead in the galley and the Mess Hall. Just as The Phantom
was, so too was Chef privy to many secrets. Only two people other than
himself would ever know what the binder contained: The Grand Master, and
The Phantom. Both would put the contents of the binder to good use, the
first to judge and plan for the future of his new knights, the second to
better understand the uniqueness of each of his friends and, as Chef had
not recorded, lovers.
	The Gunner had started it. He had provided the names. As Proctor
Chef had weighed each in the balances. The scales were level. It only
remained to be seen if a small weight would be added to one brass paten or
the other, to be seen who would stay the course, and who would fall by the
wayside.

******

	Michael's sword flashed in the light of the overhead chandeliers as
he tapped first Ray's right shoulder, then his left. Ray stood and took
Michael's proffered hand. Michael knew of Chef's great love for the thin,
handsome young man standing before him. He smiled and nodded. "There will
be a great pride in the humble cottages of Erin this night, I am thinking,"
said Michael softly, imitating Chef's habit of exaggeration.
	Giggling, Ray nodded. "And all the Pipers of Monaghan shall raise a
great noise!" he answered.
	Trying, and failing, to keep the smile from his lips, Michael spoke
quietly. "Raymond, you have the love of a father. You are blessed in many
ways."
	"I know," replied Ray. "I hope that I will always have that love."
	Michael leaned and touched his cheek against Ray's. "I think you
will, my brother. I think you will."

******

	Again Michael's sword flashed. He held Stuart's hand firmly. "The
great loyalty of Scotland flows within you, and you bear the name of a
Royal House. God has removed the distance between you and one who loves you
dearly. Cherish him, as he cherishes you, so that together you may walk the
path of life as one."

******

	Seeing the stunned look on Stuart's face when he returned to his
seat, Steve asked in a heated whisper, "What happened? What did he say?"
	"He knows about us!" declared Stuart, still awed at Michael's
knowledge of his affair with Steve. "He said that I should cherish you as
you cherish me, and that we'd walk together as one!"
	Steve's jaw dropped, and then snapped closed. "Not a bad idea," he
muttered with a snicker. He saw Gabe Izard gesturing for him to come
forward and rose from his seat. Placing his hand on Stuart's shoulder he
gave it a gentle squeeze. "Not a bad idea, at all!"

******

	Phillip Adean, called the Assistant, sat with his face buried in
his hands, weeping silently, as the Grand Master's words echoed. "Phillip,
all that has gone before is as a Watch in the Night. It has passed, and the
way lies open for you. Let the great strength of the hand that holds yours
be your strength. Let him hold you close, and let your heart be filled with
the love he feels for you."

******

	Mike Sunderland could not hear Phillip's whispered question. He
smiled serenely as he recalled Michael Chan's quiet words.
	"For too long you paid service to external features. You made
yourself a caricature, and suffered in consequence. You did not recognize
the beauty that dwells within you, Michael of Sunderland. The mark of a man
is not the façade he presents to the world, but the inner depth of his soul
and the breadth of his character."
	Mike glanced obliquely at The Phantom, who was sitting a few feet
away and met his friend's steady gaze.
	"You knew," Mike thought. "You knew when you came to me in the
night and showed me that I was just as much a man as any of these sitting
here. You knew when you stood at the side of the parade square and willed
me to be myself, to make the others see me as I truly am! You knew!"

******

	"The past is gone, and only the future lies ahead," said Michael to
Brian. "You have lost much, but found more. You are fortunate."
	When he returned to his seat, Brian thought of the calm, handsome
face of Logan, and smiled confidently. He had lost Dylan, but he had found
Logan, and he was content.

******

  	"Kevin Patrick, of the house of Berkeley, some might say that you
have taken up a great burden." Michael glanced pointedly at Chef, who
wondered what the man was up to. "In the coming days you will hear much
bluster and thunder. You will walk with his son, I hope in the sunlight. Do
not let the black clouds that will from time to time roll over the horizon
deter you," Michael warned. "The fury will pass, the anathema of religious
bigotry will be as nothing compared to the love of your brothers and of him
who holds you dear."

******

	Matt reached up to touch his cheek, feeling the warm skin, almost
feeling the gentle heat of Michael's Chan's fingertips as they touched
him. "Matthew, you have shown a bravery that belies belief. You have
rejected the discredited, sadistic ravings of a maniac who would have been
The Conqueror of Man, but ended a mere suicide, and determined to be your
own man, in your own way. You have suffered for your bravery but with God's
help, and the help of your brothers, your suffering has come to an end."

******

	"You were the first to be chosen, Edward Tyler," murmured
Michael. "You are destined to go down to the sea in ships, and occupy your
business in great waters. I cannot promise that the stormy wind will not
rise, and the waves be lifted. I can only promise that you are much
beloved, and that a safe haven will always be yours."

******

	Rob started when Michael said gently, "You are a man of great
heart, Robin of Wemyss. Your heart led you, once, down the wrong
path. Later your head caused you to lead a friend to the place where he
should be. Your place is assured in the Tapestry that is Aurora, and while
your heart will tell you one thing, your head will keep you true."

******

	"How could he know about Ryan?" Rob asked himself as he resumed his
seat. "And what did he mean by my head keeping me true?"

******

	Michael held Fred's hand closely. "You have known hatred and
rejection," he said quietly. "From this day forward, and for the balance of
your years you will know the love of a family that will be constant and
never change or judge. Welcome, dear brother, to the family of Knights."

******

	"I am told that you would be a healer," Michael told Chris with a
smile. "It is a noble calling. We must see to it that every opportunity is
offered you."
	Chris' eyes widened. For the life of him he did not know what to
say. But then Michael did not give the young seaman an opportunity to say
anything.
	"For a service, a service is demanded. In your case, two," said
Michael somewhat firmly.
	"Two?" asked Chris, his eye's as round as two saucers.
	Michael nodded. "First, you must study long and hard. Your marks
will determine your eligibility. Only you can work for that which you
desire." Michael pretended to sigh. "And even I cannot influence the
Queen's University Board of Regents if the student presenting himself
prefers a gentlemanly 'C' to a scholarly 'A'."
	Chris gulped and nodded. "I'm getting 'Bs'." He grinned. "I can do
better!"
	"I know you can," replied Michael.
	"And the other service?" asked Chris, agog that he no longer had to
worry about gaining entry to medical school.
	Michael rubbed the side of his nose and spoke, deadpan,
"Christopher, it might be a good idea not to use the members of the Fort
Henry Guard as lessons in practical anatomy!"

******

	According to Chef's notes, the next to be knighted was an
enigma. Jon, Thomas Jonathan Jackson according to his birth certificate
was, according to Chef's snooping, quiet, dependable, and amenable. "Like a
poodle," Michael thought snappishly.
	But there was something about Jon, something in Jon's eyes that
attracted Michael's attention. He recalled reading in Chef's notes Jon and
Chris were partners, and that there had been an argument of sorts between
them when the cadets had been in Victoria for the British Columbia Day
Parade. Chef, firmly ensconced in the motel restaurant, had not heard what
was said, but from the looks on the faces of the two young men, Jon had
conveyed a firm, strong message to his lover. Jon Jackson was no pushover,
and perhaps not quite so puppyish as Chef, or the other cadets, imagined.
	"You are capable of great loyalty," Michael said suddenly. "You
also know what you want, and demand what you want with firm conviction. You
also demand total honesty from all with whom you come in contact, and all
to whom you give your love and trust."
	Jon blushed and ducked his head, knowing just what, and whom, the
Grand Master was referring to.
	"These attributes will serve you well in the future, dear Brother,
for you know now to temper your convictions with the love that resides deep
within you. Not a bad thing, I am thinking."

******

      Michael stared into the almond-shaped, deep brown eyes of Roger Home,
called, as Michael knew, "Two Strokes". The eyes that returned Michael's
stare were clear, and unwavering. Chef's notes had made it plain that this
young man had come from a community that condemned everything the Order
stood for. Yet he was here, begging a boon, making his oath and, much to
everyone's surprise, if the collective gasp that had escaped so many lips
had been anything to go by, professing his homosexuality.
	Of the cadets, only Cory and The Phantom knew of Two Strokes'
relationship with Thumper. Two Strokes was, to many of the cadets, the same
pain in the ass he had always been. Cory, because he lived with him, had
seen the gentle side of Two Strokes slowly emerge. The Phantom, because he
was The Phantom, had seen the subtle changes in the once red-necked,
unforgiving Regulating Chief Petty Officer. Roger Home was changed, true,
and no longer saw life in blacks and whites. Life was a kaleidoscope of
colour, of ever-changing hues, each different from the other, and no longer
a pastiche of incomprehensible nothing. Roger Home no longer stood in
judgement of his fellow cadets.
	"You have come a long way in a short time, Roger of Home," Michael
said softly. "You now know that what you see is different from what others
see. Your eyes have been opened to a new world. You have accepted a part of
yourself that you once denied. Others will condemn you, for that is your
heritage. You, however, will reject the condemnation for the bigotry and
hatred that you now realize it to be. Take care, my brother, to always
remember that each man is capable of change, as you were."
	"I will," came Two Strokes' whispered reply. "I made a lot of
mistakes, made a lot of bad judgment calls. I only hope the guys can
forgive me."
	"They already have," replied Michael. He reached out and gently
touched Two Stroke's cheek. "You are a part of them, Roger, and they are a
part of you. You have seen them in their true light, as they will see you
in your true light. You are welcomed by them, and by me."

******

	"Are you all right?" asked Thumper out of the corner of his mouth
as Two Strokes, visibly moved by the Grand Master's words, resumed his
seat.
	Two Strokes, who could feel a tear slowly working its way down his
flushed cheeks, nodded and gave his lover a winning smile. He could not
form the words he needed to express his feelings. He could only grasp
Thumper's outstretched hand and squeeze it gently, for the first time in
his young life feeling truly accepted and loved.

******

	Casting a quizzical glance at Two Strokes, Thumper pulled his hand
away and walked purposefully to kneel before Michael Chan. The Major looked
at Thumper and asked, "Will you profess?"
	Thumper's body grew stiff. He knew that he would be asked the
question, and he knew that he would have to answer truthfully. Yet
. . . the question had been direct, was he or was he not willing to admit
that he was homosexual?
	Opening his mouth, Thumper hesitated. Then he remembered that night
on the beach, when he had taken Two Strokes' into his mouth, when he had
deliberately shown his friend and messmate what being with another boy was
like, what pleasure it could bring, what delights awaited. Thumper could
not deny that he had initiated the first act, or that he had with a clear
conscience followed Two Strokes from the Gunroom when he asked.
	Thomas Matthew Vernon, called Thumper by all who knew him, and
loved him, nodded. "I will profess," he whispered.

******

	"The gift of gold is as old as man," Michael Chan told Val. "Gold
is constant, and never tarnishes. In many traditions it is a sign of true
faith and honour." He smiled at Val. "You have kept the traditions of your
people, and honoured the traditions of others. Such are the ways of a true
knight."

******

	"Nicholas, you live in a city with two cultures," began
Michael. "Since 1759, over two hundred years, these cultures have existed
side-by-side, in many ways merely tolerating each other. They share, in
some ways, the same moral values, the same prejudices, the same
bigotry. You, however, have made a bridge - a small bridge, to be sure -
but a bridge nevertheless. This, dear brother, is one of the reasons the
Order exists. We build bridges for we have no concerns that one is this,
and one is that. Our founders made no barriers between the cultures of
Acre, and the Order accepts all who come to it for succour and aid. Keep to
this path, dear Nicholas, and strengthen the bridges."

******

	Michael's beaming smile seemed to fill the small room. He leaned
forward slightly and gently brushed his hand against Cory's pink
cheek. "You are the son of a dear, sweet lady, Cory of Arundel. In you I
see so much of her. I see her beauty of spirit, her love of others, her
courage and her determination. You have faced adversity in many ways and
yet you refused to allow the bigots, and the haters, to deter you. I see a
thin line of unbreakable steel in you, Cory. You believe in the honesty and
integrity, both attributes you have in abundance. I am proud to know you."
	Cory blushed deep red, the colour accenting the blondness of his
hair and the sparkle of his eyes. "You have returned us to hope, Grand
Master," he whispered.
	Shaking his head, Michael answered emotionally, "No, Cory, it is
you, and those like you, who have begun the return. I will not see the end,
the bright, golden sun. You will, with your brothers, keep to the Rule, and
in you, and your brothers, lies the future."

******

	"I have told your brother that in you, in him, in your brothers, is
the future," Michael told Todd. "In the past you proved your love for your
brother and your bravery. You have known adversity, and struggled to
overcome prejudice. You have taken a stand more than once, with your
friends and brothers, against the Antichrist. You will do so again, Todd of
the House of Leveson-Arundel."
	Then Michael did something that surprised the assembly. He pulled
Todd to him and held him close. "There is one who cares for you more than
life itself, my son," Michael whispered earnestly. "Beware that what you do
does not cause you to lose him, forever."

******

 	Michael watched the visibly shaken Todd return unsteadily to his
seat. "You will lose him, young Todd," he thought. He glanced at obliquely
at Patrick and a rueful look came into his eyes. "As I have already lost."

******

Harry's booming voice as he took the oath broke Michael's reverie. He
smiled fleetingly and then tried to look stern. He had not forgotten
Randy's warning.

******

	"There is great pride in you," said Michael. He immediately
regretted his choice of words, given Harry's ownership of the Pride of the
Fleet. The small ripple of snickering that past through the small gathering
did not help at all.
	Clearing his throat, Michael continued. "There is also a great
honesty in you. You have declared your love and never wavered. Your bravery
will become legend, I think."
	All pretence of humour left Harry's face. "I was wrong . . . " he
began tentatively. He knew that the Grand Master knew about Stefan.
	Michael held up his hand. "This is not the time for recrimination,
Harold of Hohenberg. What some might consider a great sin others call a
moral lapse. You are young, and in many ways unable to control you
emotions."
	"I never hurt him," Harry whispered as he slowly sank to the
bench. "I never . . ."
	"And you never will," said Michael kindly. "You must put aside the
feelings of guilt you still have. You committed no sin, my brother, and
today is a time of renewal." He reached out and with his finger slowly
wiped away the tears that coursed down Harry's ruddy cheek. "Accept, dear
brother, the kiss of peace."
	Despite his tears, the true Harry again came to the
fore. Hurriedly, he wiped his eyes and smiled broadly at Michael
Chan. "Yum, yum, yum!"

*******

	It was time for the Americans. This time it was Joe Hobbes who made
his neck bow to Mark and with his hand extended indicated that it was time
for the tall, blond cadet to make his oath.
	The Major symbolically barred Mark's way. "Mark James van Beck," he
proclaimed, "you come before us as a Candidate Knight. Will you profess?"
	Mark glanced back at Tony and then regarded the Major, his eyes
clear and level. "I profess before God and this company. I am of the
universal brotherhood."
	"Will you make Oath?"
	Nodding, Mark walked to the altar and placed his hand on the
ancient wooden box containing the remnant of the True Cross. "I Mark James
van Beck, do solemnly swear, upon my Oath, and upon this symbol of my Faith
. . ."

******

  	Michael Chan was very much aware of the blatant hypocrisy that was
the United States Armed Services. On the one hand Article 125 of the
Uniform Code of Military Justice proclaimed that "homosexuality is
incompatible with military service" and that homosexuals would be
"separated". On the other hand, as had happened in Viet Nam just recently,
in Korea, and World War II, so long as the Army, or the Navy or the Marines
or whatever needed dicks and balls, the powers in the Pentagon were
prepared turn a blind eye. When the conflict and the crisis were over, it
was off with their heads.
	Michael was loath to encourage any young man to pursue a career in
the military, most particularly as an officer. The so-called investigative
services seemed to spend most of their waking hours pursuing "deviants" and
"queers", who were much more amenable targets in that they normally didn't
shoot back, as drug dealers and pimps did. And the agents seemed to take
great delight in apprehending officers, the higher the rank, the
better. While ratings and Non-Commissioned officers could, and normally
were, simply given an Undesirable Discharge in the United States, or
declared "Not Advantageously Employable" in Canada, and quickly shown the
door, officers were subject to court martial, and prison time. Once again,
the higher the rank of the officer, the more certain a court martial was
looming on someone's horizon.
	What galled was that the U.S. Navy had known, as far back as 1956
that in and of itself homosexuality was no deterrent to good order and
discipline. In fact the report had stressed that homosexuals had served
honourably and well, and recommended that discharges no longer be mandated
for gay personnel and that the Navy in particular should keep abreast of
social attitudes and bring its policies in line with prevailing social
mores. The "Crittenden Report" was promptly marked "Top Secret" and never
circulated.
	Sighing, Michael regarded Tony Valpone, who smiled winningly
back. Michael felt that his position demanded that he exercise one of his
rights. He had the right to be consulted, the right to encourage, and the
right to warn. Should he warn this handsome, curly-haired, dark eyed young
man that he was sailing in harm's way? One false step, one wrong move, and
Tony would be on his way to Leavenworth.
	The Order was non-existent in the United States. Michael had
contacts, very high contacts in government, and he would use them if and
when he had to. Would his power be enough, he wondered? Tony was now one of
them, one of his brothers.
	Another sigh escaped Michael's lips but before he could speak Tony
held up his hand. Tony was no fool and he had worked too long and too hard
to gain appointment to Annapolis to risk everything on a misstep. "I'll be
careful," he said confidently. He glanced at Mark. "I owe it to him."
	Michael smiled softly. "We will be at your side. No matter what, we
will be at your side," he said, wondering if he would have to one day make
good on his promise.

******

	Michael sighed inwardly as Nathan knelt slowly onto to the
bench. He had no idea what to say to the young American. What troubled
Michael were Chef's notes. The old man had devoted one or, at the most, two
pages to each candidate, listing in his perspicacious and frankly
suspicious way, the pros and cons of each young man. For Nathan, however,
Chef had written page after page and while it was never put in writing,
Chef's opinion of Nathan Michael Berman was clear: he was not trusted!
	Chef's muted warnings set off a jangle of alarm in Michael. Could
it be that Chef had allowed his feelings for Cory, whom Nathan had, in
Chef's words, "betrayed", to influence his opinion of the handsome young
American? That would not be in character and Michael had read in Chef's own
report that Cory had decided that his affair with Nathan would end. That
Nathan had promptly taken up with Sandro, and then with Fred, could be
dismissed as teenage promiscuity.  Michael had only to look at the conduct
of his cousin Joel when they were in school, surrounded by randy
teenagers. Joel had cut a wide swathe through the mildewed halls of
St. George's College, leaving a trail of happy, half-naked boys behind and
never given them, or what he did to them, a second thought.
	Michael could not dismiss Chef's misgivings out of hand. Michael
relied on his Proctor to provide concise, careful reports, and to never
allow his personal prejudices to cloud his judgement. Chef, as an astute
observer, had been influential in refusing several candidates - none of the
boys of Aurora - and Michael had never regretted following Chef's pithy
observations.
	Chef's report had caused Michael to delve just a little deeper into
the background of one Nathan Michael Berman, and his family. What he found
was, really, an American success story. Nathan's forebear had appeared in
Seattle penniless. A German Jew, he had denied his heritage and become an
ardent Lutheran. This in itself was hardly earth shaking. Many had done so
before and after, and risen thereby. It was so much easier to be a German
Protestant than a German Jew.
	Michael was not troubled by Nathan's apostasy. The boy more than
likely knew of his roots, but hardly knew them. Unlike Peter Race, who
needed to find out about his past, and his heritage, Nathan was quite
content in his present status, although, as Chef pointed out somewhat
snidely, Nathan did seem to go to extremes in denying his Jewish past.
	The Bermans were wealthy, thanks to the fur trade, and later to
astute and clever manipulation of the stock market. Banking was their forte
now, and they had ties to the great merchant banks in London. As Chef put
it, the Bermans did not have to worry about where their next meal was
coming from.
	Successful in business, the Bermans were even more successful in
the rough and tumble of Democratic politics. And this intrigued
Michael. Nathan's people were no fools, and recognized lying, conniving,
hypocritical Lace-Curtain Irish adventurers when they saw them, as the
brothers Kennedy and their scheming father had learned to their regret. The
Bermans had supported Kennedy - gently - and gained a measure of
power. Their connections in Washington were impeccable, and reached into
the White House.
	The Bermans were seasoned pols that knew how to manipulate and
this, Michael realized, was the basis for Chef's objections to Nathan. Chef
prized honesty above every other virtue. Michael doubted that the old cook
had told a lie in his life. Chef might exaggerate, he might stretch the
truth until it sang with protest, but Chef would never lie. Chef might also
plot and scheme to gain what he considered to be just ends, but he would
never turn on a friend, or betray a brother.
	Michael realized that he should not have been surprised at Chef's
viewpoint. He recalled, vividly, the evening when he and The Gunner had
spoken about the rise of the Order. The Gunner had railed at the wheeling
and dealing, the political giving and taking, the mutual back scratching
that had ended, fortunately, in the strengthening of the Order. Chef was
very much like The Gunner in many respects. They both despised politicians,
as did Michael, and they both refused to participate in something they
considered dishonourable. Michael was not quite so innocent.
	As his eyes drifted toward the King's ransom of jewels and gold
that rested on the side tables Michael smiled inwardly. Dealing with
priests and politicians had brought the Order much wealth, and much
authority. Just as the Bermans had never trusted their so-called political
allies in Washington, or Seattle, or wherever their tentacles had reached,
so too had past Grand Masters taken the measure of their opponents, and
acted. The Order had never involved itself in the intrigue of European or
Papal politics. It had kept a low profile, never, as the Saint had decreed,
"raising great temples". Indeed, the priories of the Order in Europe were
usually nondescript compounds in unfashionable neighbourhoods. Chapels were
bare, and devoid of gold statues and silver vessels. The old Grand Masters
had realized that the true wealth of the Order lay not in tangible things,
but in the discretion and honour of its knights.
	Smiling, Michael told himself that there was more than one way to
kill a cat, and the Order had long found that butter did the job just as
well as poisoned meat. The Order had used its influence, yes, and given
much. It had also gained much keeping to the shadows. It had not lent money
to kings or popes, had not paraded through the streets of Berlin, or
London, or Vienna on High Holy Days, had not advertised its presence. That
the Order was there everyone who counted knew. That the Order had influence
everyone also knew. Few knew that the Order had wealth, and the Grand
Masters had gone to great lengths to ensure that their secret remained
secret. That the Order had no political ambitions, did not desire great
power, or even greater wealth, had been understood and while the Order
never lost in any of its dealings with Emperor or Satrap, neither had the
Order trumpeted its successes.
	Discretion in all things, Michael thought, or to put it another
way: when you are shearing a sheep, take great care to ensure that the lamb
never sees the shears!
	Michael's eyes looked across the assembled candidates, stopping
first at Tony, and then at Andy. The Order had influence in the United
States, but not much. Michael glanced down at Nathan. Here was a young man
who could be led down the proper path, a young man whose family had
influence and power and a young man who would, Michael suspected, not be
afraid to use that influence.
	As he thought Michael felt a strange, warm feeling creep across the
back of his neck, setting the close-cropped hair to rising. He looked out
and saw The Phantom's green eyes boring into him and nodded. Chef might
have his misgivings, but the eyes of the young man who would lead the Order
into the future told Michael something different. He looked down at Nathan
and smiled.
	"Welcome, dear brother," he murmured, "to the Order."

*******

	As Nathan received the kiss of peace, many of the watchers assumed
that The Phantom would be next. They were mildly surprised when the Major
called for Commander Stockman to come forward and be welcomed into the
brotherhood of the Order.

******

	"For Valour". The small phrase seemed to echo through Michael's
mind as he looked at the array of enamel and gold and silver arranged in a
single line across the dark blue uniform jacket that Commander Stockman
wore.
	Hanging from multi-coloured ribbons was the military career and
history of the man. Each star, circle and cross represented a turning point
in Frank Stockman's career as a Naval Officer, each medal and decoration -
arranged in strict Order of Precedence - a testimony to his personal
bravery, or luck.
	Unlike the Americans, who seem to send up a pretty little ribbon
with the rations, the Brits were, as Michael knew, downright parsimonious
when it came to recognizing personal valour of their serving men and
women. To anyone who knew it was more than evident that Frank Stockman had
served his Queen and country well.
	On Commander Stockman's chest, suspended from a red, blue-bordered
ribbon, was the gold, white enamelled, cross pattée convexed, of the
Distinguished Service Order. Beside the DSO was suspended, from a Navy blue
and white ribbon, a cross similar to the DSO, only in silver, the
Distinguished Service Medal, which Michael knew was a uniquely Navy medal.
	His courage established, there followed a short, concise heraldic
display of where the Commander had served: battle stars, each the same
except for the minute, all but indecipherable letters denoting the
campaign. First in priority was the 1939-45 Star, its unwatered, equal dark
blue, red and light blue stripes representing the RN, the Army, and the
RAF. Next came the shaded and watered blue, white and sea-green ribbon of
the Atlantic Star, which represented days and weeks and months of pounding
seas and exploding ships as the corvettes and frigates of the RN and the
RCN battled the seas and U-Boats and kept England's lifeline open. Affixed
to the ribbon was a small silver bar. "France and Germany". Frank Stockman
had been wounded as his destroyer dodged Luftwaffe Stukas and Kreigsmarine
E-Boats, her guns bellowing defiance at the shore batteries of Normandy.
	The wound had obviously not been serious for beside the Atlantic
Star, its dark green, red-edged ribbon with a central stripe of yellow
edged with dark and light blue (the green and yellow representing the
forests and beaches of the Pacific, the other colours representing the
Armed Services) was the Pacific Star. On the ribbon was a bar that said,
simply, "Burma."
	Somewhat indicative of the scarcity of men and ships, of losses
that could not be replaced in time, was yet another Star, the five equal
stripes of its ribbon, red, white, green, white, red, indicating service in
the Mediterranean, in Italian waters. The Italy Star.
	After the decorations came the medals: The Defence Medal, the War
Medal, 1939-1945 with a small silver oak leaf affixed to it, which denoted
a "Mention in Despatches", followed by the next phase of Commander
Stockman's career: The Korea Medal, beside which hung a somewhat pathetic
and bland United Nations Medal, the dull patina of the "Korea" bar giving
witness to the base metal from which it had been cast, and finally, almost
as an afterthought, a poor relation in comparison to the glitter and gilt
of its companions, the silver-gilt decagon of the Canadian Forces
Decoration, all too often dismissed as an award for "Twelve Years of
Undetected Crime"!
	"How do I honour this man?" Michael asked himself. "How do I
welcome him, a man who every day for years stood by the Crown, offered his
body in defence of what he believed in, faced terror and death and utter
destruction with phlegmatic acceptance. How do I honour him?"
	Weeping silently, Michael gently tapped his sword on Frank
Stockman's shoulders and then reached out to hold him close.

******

	Unlike the Commanding Officer's medals, which were court mounted,
Andy's gongs were swivel mounted and clanked tinnily as he knelt before the
Grand Master. Michael glanced down and saw that Andy had been equally as
brave as the old Commander. He had suffered in the jungles of Vietnam and,
as the heart-shaped medal hung from a deep purple ribbon attested, had been
wounded. Andy's bravery was evident as well, the Purple Heart joined by a
Bronze Star and a Silver Star.
	What made Andy's medals even more important however, was what had
happened after he had returned home. Commander Stockman had returned to a
Victory Parade through London, his King and Queen on the Reviewing Stand
alongside Winston Churchill, and memorial services on Portsmouth
Parade. Andy had returned to blind ignorance and hatred, his service
denigrated and spat upon by his peers and family.
	Michael knew well the ignominy anyone who had service in that
unfortunate Asian land called Vietnam faced when they came back. He
recalled the television news clips, and the horrible name calling that the
Peaceniks and cowards who had remained behind had heaped upon the returning
veterans. Andy Berg had done an honourable thing, and been excoriated for
it!  Michael's heart seemed to beat faster. In his mind he felt that he
owed Andy some peace, some appreciation of what he had done. Impulsively
Michael reached down and gently placed his hand against Andy's embarrassed,
flushed cheek, the words failing him, determined to use whatever means at
his disposal to ensure that Andrew Frederick David Berg would never again
know shame.

******

	Kyle's face was serene as he knelt before the Grand Master. He had
professed without hesitation. Deep within his soul Kyle knew what he was
about to do. He had no doubts at all. He was deeply in love with Andy, and
would go where the young Marine officer went. He would be a part of Andy's
life, support him, love him and, no matter what happened, when Andy came
home, Kyle knew that he would be there to welcome him.

******

	"The Gieves man did a good job," thought Michael as he tapped Colin
on each shoulder. "A very good job considering that the lad's uniform was
off the peg."  Colin's stocky, well-muscled body seemed to ripple as he
rose slowly. He was a magnificent creature. His new uniform, sewn with the
zigzag twin stripes of a "Wavy Navy" lieutenant glowed deep and lush in the
overhead lighting. The double rows of four buttons sparkled. At his side
the gilt head of his new sword was lush in his broad, firm hand.
	"Colin Charles Edward Thomas of Arnott," began Michael
slowly. "Welcome to the Order."
	"It is a great honour," replied Colin emotionally. "Perhaps more
than you realize."
	Michael shook his head. "You are welcomed with great joy, my young
friend. Your selection was no passing whim on the part of a cantankerous
old man."
	Colin glanced quickly at Chef, who was scowling at
Michael. Cantankerous old man, indeed!
	Colin tried, but failed, to stifle a snicker. He sobered as he
said, "I will do my best. I realize the importance of the 'great gift' I am
allowed to hold close."
	"As you should," said Michael with a thin smile. "The gift was not
entrusted to your care lightly." He leaned forward. "There dwells in you,
dear brother, a gentleness of nature, together with a firmness of will. You
are young, but you have a wisdom that belies your years. You are not afraid
to speak your mind, and you are not afraid to stand up for your beliefs. A
firm hand was, and will be, needed, for the gift is wilful, and at times
more of a pestiferous brat than a Prince of the Order!"
	Colin broke into a broad smile. He knew where "Pestiferous Brat"
came from. "He can be . . . difficult at times," Colin admitted carefully.
	Nodding his agreement, Michael continued. "Yet his stubbornness,
which many consider to be firmness of purpose, has led you to walk with
him, to risk the wrath of gods should you displease him."
	"Or them," countered Colin. "And there will be times when I will
displease him." He shrugged demonstratively. "I will never lead him. I will
guide him, to the best of my ability."
	"Which is why you were chosen," returned Michael. He reached out to
give Colin the kiss of peace. "And also because you are just as stubborn as
he is, and have an attribute beyond measure."
	"Which is?" asked Colin, curious, as he drew back.
	"The lip of a Belfast Tinker!"

******

	"In Scripture we are told that from time to time God gives unto us
a man who is 'a certain trumpet', a man whose message is firm and clear of
purpose. You, Philip Andrew Thomas of the house of Lascelles, are a certain
trumpet."
	The Phantom's emerald green eyes never wavered as he stared at
Michael Chan, who seemed to tower over him.
	"The timbre of your clarion call is clear, dear brother," Michael
continued. "Your courage cannot be disputed, and your firmness is
legend. Unlike so many of your peers you, dear Phantom, refuse to accept
without question the shibboleths that your culture attempts to inflict upon
you. You also see, as so many do not, that the Tapestry of your life is
woven of many threads and many colours, some bold, some muted, some of
vivid hues and some so faint that they are barely seen."
	Michael reached down to take The Phantom's hands in his. "In the
great Tapestry of your life that is continuing to be woven some figures,
now bold with purpose, will fade into obscurity, and others, pale and
indistinct, will grow in colour and strength. You will give your love and
trust to many who now form a part of your Tapestry, just as you will give
your love and trust to others not yet a part of that Tapestry. You must
also, dear brother, remember that some of the threads are broken, and
cannot be repaired." Michael smiled warmly. "The loom cannot weave a broken
thread, Phantom."
	A look of great sadness came across The Phantom's face as he
realized the import of Michael's words. The small thread that was Greg was
gone, a frayed bit of wool that would never join the other threads of the
Tapestry, turned to dust.
	"In you, Phantom is a seriousness that few possess. This character
is also tempered by the folly of youth. You are not, dear brother,
infallible, nor are you without your faults. Yet you have the ability,
given to so few, to inspire, and to lead. And for this reason we welcome
you, dear brother, into the Order of Knights."
	Michael's sword flashed and The Phantom felt a light tap on each of
his shoulders. As Michael turned to hand the sword to Laurence, The Phantom
began to rise, expecting to receive the kiss of peace. Michael stopped
him. "We are not quite finished with you, dear brother," he said with a
smile. His face took on an almost euphoric look.
	"Dear Phantom, few have come to mankind such as you, for you
epitomize the spirit of the words I hear echoing still, words spoken to
schoolboys, but meant for men:

	'Never give in - never, never, never, never, in nothing great or
small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honour and
good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently
overwhelming might of the enemy.'

	"Another great man, a man who never gave in, no matter what the
cost, spoke these words. Like you, he rallied his people and led them to
victory," continued Michael. "He might have been speaking to school boys,
but take heed of Winston Churchill's words, Phantom. Never forget them, and
never give in."
	Reaching out, Michael took The Phantom's hands, helping the youth
to rise to his feet. "It is time, Phantom. Tomorrow you begin your
journey. Remember, in you the Order places its future. We have given you,
without hesitation, a heavy burden. At your side will be your brothers. I
give you a motto: 'In Our Strength, There is Hope'."
	The Phantom's green eyes sparkled as he swore a new oath: "I will
never fail you. I will never fail my brothers."

******

	And so it was done. A Tapestry of immeasurable strength had been
woven. The threads were now joined.

******

	The tall doors of the ballroom opened and, as Logan, Patrick and
Pete walked toward the Altar, the pianist slipped onto his bench. He
reached for his music and stopped. Something had changed. He could not
understand it, but somehow the room had taken on an aura, a feeling of such
wonder, and filled with . . . greatness?
	The pianist glanced back at the shining faces of the boys who
filled the room and suddenly he knew what needed to be played. His hands
shook slightly as his slim, talented fingers touched the ivory keys and
with a reverence and greater passion than he had ever felt before, began
playing as he had never played before, not in the Conservatory, not in the
cathedral church, the opening notes of the triumphant hymn.

******

The Boys of Aurora, now the Knights of Saint John of the Cross of Acre
slowly began their walk into the future.
	As they walked the soaring notes of "Jerusalem" rose high and The
Phantom, who had heard the hymn many times in celebration and praise,
hummed the haunting melody. As the words of the hymn swirled through his
mind The Phantom resolved that his sword would not sleep until he, and
those he walked with, had built a new Jerusalem, a city of golden domes and
shining towers for all his brothers, no matter their station, in a green
and pleasant land.