Aurora Tapestry

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.

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

Aurora Tapestry is set in a different time and place and reflects the customs, traditions, cultural perspectives and mores of the times. If you don't like to read of these times, or have fallen prey to the latest fads and fancies, tough. Go read something else and don't bother me. There are many very good stories out there by very competent authors who are more than happy to pander to prevailing tastes and fashions. Read them.

The usual caveats apply with regard to censorship.

I urge all who do read my works to remember that the Evil still stalks the world. Modern medicine is great, but there is no cure. Practice safe sex, always.

My thanks to all who take the time to write. I enjoy hearing from my readers, who are the best critics of my work. Please contact me at paradegi@rogers.com with comments, remarks, or criticism of the work. Flames will be, as always, ignored.

My thanks, as always to my editor, Peter, who takes time out a very busy schedule (Okay, he's skiing; I wish I could, but at my age if I fall down things fall off!), to make what I write so much better. His pithy comments and facile brain spot errors that no computer ever could.

This is a two part chapter and Chapter 28b follows immediately.

This, and Chapter 28b, contains an oath, or vow, that some might think is incorrectly presented. I have used, when transcribing the oaths, the "Tudor Style" which is traditional in all Royal oaths and proclamations. I know the sentences all seem to run together, but the style is the style and far be for this cat to look on the Queen.

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 28a

As 1300 approached the Aurora cadets drifted out of the dining room in twos and threes and, talking quietly amongst themselves, walked across the parade square toward the Staff Barracks, and the Gunroom. Chef, with The Phantom beside him, watched them go.

"Will you be going to their meeting, then?" asked Chef as Cory and Todd, the last to leave, went out the doors.

The Phantom shook his head, no. "Whatever they decide I think should be their decision. I don't want to influence them in any way." He smiled thinly. "Remember, Chef, the Rule? No influence of any kind."

"Rules can be broken, bent or changed," replied Chef enigmatically. "Sure, and the Lord knows there's been more than enough of that these days."

The Phantom chuckled. "Chef, some of the Rule is archaic and outdated. I am all for tradition, but sometimes allowances must be made for the times. Sure, and the Lord knows there's been too little of that, what with the priests and the pastors and the rabbis clinging to the Old Testament."

Chef was not sure if The Phantom was mocking him, or serious. "And what is that supposed to mean, may I ask?"

"You may," replied The Phantom without humour. "The religious cling to the so-called teachings of the Bible, even though in today's society much of what is called 'Scripture' has no bearing whatsoever on society, on morals, or on contemporary mores. They won't move with the times, which is why their congregations are leaving in droves."

"Hmm," said Chef thoughtfully. "Then the Order must move with the times, and consider the times, rather than cling to its traditions."

"Yes. It's already happened," said The Phantom as he watched the last of the cadets disappear into the Staff Barracks. "The founders made allowances for men who were not gay, and calls them Knights of Honour?"

"Yes. But they cannot rise above the rank. Remember, the Order was founded for gay men. There were more than enough orders for straight men to go around."

"Most of which are now defunct, nothing more than footnotes in history. I offer the Templars, the Teutonic Knights . . ."

"I am aware of the history of the knightly orders," growled Chef testily. "What are you on about?"

"I am only suggesting," replied The Phantom with heavy emphasis, "that a new Rule be written."

"Pestiferous brat!" thought Chef. He glowered at The Phantom. "This is about Sandro!" he all but snarled. "I have told you, he will be a knight."

"A full, professed, knight, with all rights?" asked The Phantom, one eyebrow arching. "No tricks? Nothing 'ordinary' about it?"

"I have said it!" Chef puffed up and tried to stare The Phantom down. He failed. The Phantom's emerald eyes never wavered. "Sandro will be a full, professed Knight," Chef muttered, defeated.

Gracious in victory, The Phantom smiled. "Good. That's all you had to say!" He nudged the old cook ever so gently. "Now, about Kaddish."

"What? What Kaddish?"

"I told you, Sandro wants to say Kaddish for Sylvain. He can't do it in the synagogue in Courtenay because the rabbi there doesn't approve of Jews honouring Christians."

"So?" asked Chef. "And would the Bishop of Rome be approving a Mass Of The Dead for the soul of a departed Jew in St. Peter's Basilica?"

"I doubt it," agreed The Phantom glibly. "Which does not mean that it shouldn't be done."

Chef threw his hands up. "Lord God!" he half-shouted. "What is it you want now?"

"A nice, respectable little service, complete with a Minyan, for Sandro," replied The Phantom. "I'd ask Mr. Schoenmann, but I don't know him that well. He's Jewish you know." Then The Phantom added, "And he was in the Imperial German Navy."

"He could have been in the Imperial German Bandicoots for all of that!" retorted Chef. "The man is an Orthodox Jew. They are not known for their liberalism." His eyes sparked and flared. "And why would you think I could persuade him, him who is not even a rabbi?"

"Because you know everybody in town, have the gift of the Blarney, and because Sandro is one of your lambs!" The Phantom reached out and held Chef's arm. "It's very important to Sandro, Chef. Please, can you come with me?"

Chef frowned, and nodded. "I'll need to make some arrangements to have the galley covered. Let me call down to the Dockyard. Those so-called cooks will need to keep an eye on things while I'm away."

"It will only be for an hour," said The Phantom. "What possible trouble could they get into?"

"Sure and I thought that about you, Phantom Lascelles. Once!" responded Chef. "Now, go and change into a decent uniform. If we're to do this, we will do this properly!"

Leaving Chef The Phantom left the dining room and descended the steps of the building. He was very surprised to see Jeremy Cher sitting on the bottom step, obviously waiting for someone.

"Hello, Jeremy, how's it going?" asked The Phantom in greeting. He gave Jeremy Cher's shoulder a light tap and was about to carry on when the young cadet called him back. "What can I do for you?" The Phantom asked.

"Will you answer a question?" asked Jeremy Cher, his deep, brown eyes sombre.

"Depends on the question," replied The Phantom with a grin. He sat down beside Jeremy and looked at the boy. "Shoot."

Taking a deep breath, Jeremy Cher asked simply, "Was I in your dream?"

The Phantom started, and then recovered. "You know about the dream?" he asked carefully.

"I know," replied Jeremy. "I was . . . well I was in my bunk when Cory came to see Chief Anders and . . ."

"You listened!" accused The Phantom with a warm chuckle. "You snooped, didn't you?" Jeremy Cher blushed. "Well, yes. I had a Guard and Steerage and Little Jérémie and I were having a conversation and . . ." Jeremy Cher's mouth closed with audible snap. His blush deepened and he looked as if he would be very grateful if the ground suddenly opened up and swallowed him.

The Phantom snorted and giggled and clutched his sides. "You were flogging the monkey! You little devil you!"

Jeremy's blush of embarrassment turned to a flash of anger. "Well you try doing it in a mess deck! It's not easy and you do it when you can!" Again he closed his mouth quickly. "Uh, I didn't mean to say that!"

When The Phantom stopped laughing he gave Jeremy Cher a warm hug. "Jeremy, everybody does it. Did Cory catch you doing it?"

Making a face, Jeremy Cher shook his head. "No! He didn't even notice me, or what I was doing." Then he added with a shy smile. "Thank God. I was embarrassed as it was."

"I'm sure Cory would not have said a word if he had noticed," replied The Phantom. "He's very discreet."

"Well, sometimes," returned Jeremy.

"Sometimes?"

"He's very much in love with Chief Anders, and the Chief, well, sometimes he forgets that I'm sleeping against the outside bulkhead. I can hear everything that goes on in his cabin!"

"Are you saying that when Cory is with Sean, sometimes they become, um, over-exuberant?" asked The Phantom with a snicker. When he had told Jeremy Cher about Cory being discreet, The Phantom had been basing his statement on the few times he had actually been with Cory. The thought of Cory as a "screamer" was not gelling in The Phantom's mind. "He's usually pretty quiet."

Jeremy Cher looked at The Phantom quizzically. The older youth's statement could be taken several ways and Jeremy instinctively knew that there were some things best left unquestioned. However . . . "Not Chief Arundel, Chief Anders," he whispered. "And it only happened once."

"Why Jeremy, you have been busy," scoffed The Phantom playfully. "And here I thought you were a good, Catholic boy! Imagine, eavesdropping on the Chiefs when they're . . ."

"I am a good Catholic boy!" declared Jeremy stoutly. "And I wasn't eavesdropping. I was in my own bunk, minding my own business!" His eyes narrowed somewhat. "And my name is not Jeremy!"

The Phantom, taken aback, looked inquiringly at the boy. "It isn't? But . . ."

"My name is Jérémie," declared the boy. "Why people must give every name an English inflection is beyond me!" He squared his shoulders. "My mother named me Jérémie . . ." he dragged out the name . . . "Stephane! I will be 16 next month, so I am not a child."

"I never thought you were," said The Phantom calmly. "Quite the opposite."

Jérémie's eyes widened. "For sure?"

"Fuckin' aye!" replied The Phantom with a wink. "You're pretty clewed up, I think."

"I am," returned Jérémie firmly. "Something is going on, something to do with a dream you had, and something to do with some Order. There was a big meeting this morning about it all, and there's another one about to start. I listened to Sean and Cory, and no, they didn't do what you think they did, and now I want to know, was I in your dream?"

"Well, Jérémie," began The Phantom with all the exaggeration he could muster, "you were."

Jérémie Cher beamed. "So, I guess I'm going to Ste Anne de Beaupré, then?"

"Not so fast, Jérémie Cher," said The Phantom. He looked at the handsome young cadet. "It's all right to call you that, isn't it?"

"Of course," replied Jérémie. "After all, I did say that I would only take Little Jérémie for a walk in the moonlight with you!" He blushed again. "Sorry, that slipped out."

The Phantom smiled and whispered, "That will be our little secret, okay?"

Relieved, Jérémie grinned. "So, the dream. I am in it, and you are leading the others to some sort of crusade." He cocked an eyebrow. "Yes?"

The Phantom nodded. "Yes. But before I tell you anything more I must ask you a question."

"Okay."

"And you must answer truthfully."

"I never lie," declared Jérémie, offended that Phantom would even think such a thing.

"Jérémie, are you gay?" The Phantom asked softly.

For some reason, Jérémie understood the validity of The Phantom's question. "No, Phantom, I am not gay."

"Other than wanting to take Little Jérémie for a walk in the moonlight with me, have you ever thought about another boy?"

Jérémie saw the sincerity in The Phantom's eyes and knew that he must, at all times, in all things, be truthful. "Once, yes," he admitted softly. "A boy back home. I liked him a lot." He began to wring his hands. "I do not understand why, but I used to . . . think . . . about him all the time." His shoulders slumped. "One day he said something about one of the other boys and I knew that he would never want to do anything."

The Phantom gave Jérémie's shoulder a pat. He knew that schoolboys, in their natural habitat of the schoolyard, could be the cruellest of creatures and that the epithet, "Fag!" was hurled frequently at the weak or the effeminate. "So, you knew what he was, then, and stopped thinking about him?"

"No. I stopped wanting him," replied Jérémie with a sad look. "I still thought of him, sometimes, but not the way I did before."

"And when you told me that you and Little Jérémie might go for a walk with me?"

"Maybe we would," replied Jérémie with a grin. "I have thought about doing things." He paused and looked deep into The Phantom's eyes. "With you."

"Well, Jérémie Cher, while I am flattered, I must inform you with the greatest of delicacy that I am not, shall we say, available?" He gave the boy a winning smile. "Of course, if I were, available, well, I just might come calling and ask to take Little Jérémie for a walk, although I hear that you should be calling him Jérémie le Grand!"

His ego stroked, Jérémie giggled. "Well, he is pretty big but he really doesn't get all that much bigger when he's angry!" Once again, after realizing what he'd said, Jérémie blushed furiously. "Damn, I did it again!" he moaned.

Laughing, The Phantom hugged Jérémie and said, "You don't have to be embarrassed to talk about it, you know. All guys do it. Hell, Harry is always going on about the Pride of the Fleet."

"And I heard that the stewards held a contest and that David is bigger," returned Jérémie with a sniff. "Harry boasts too much!"

The Phantom recalled the party following the Passing Out parade and the contest he had judged. David Tomkens had won Best In Show and Harry, being Harry, when he heard about the contest, had bellowed and roared around the Gunroom in protest, refusing to believe that such a rival existed, and certainly not in the possession of a mere steward! David, who actually was bigger, decided to stick it to Harry and refused to show the Drum Major anything, keeping his pride firmly in the snug confines of his Fruit of the Looms.

The Phantom snickered. "Well, let's just say that God was good to the both of them."

"Anyway," said Jérémie, deciding to return to the subject, "what Harry has or David has isn't what I'm interested in. I have thought of being with a boy, and I have thought of being with you. But that doesn't mean that I really want to do anything."

"Most guys your age think about it and most guys just think about it," replied The Phantom. "It doesn't mean anything at all."

"Okay. So, when do we leave for Quebec?"

The Phantom thought carefully about what he was going to say next. "Jérémie, you were in my dream, and I do think you should be with me when I go. There is something though, that you really have to think about because it's entwined and part of everything."

"The Order?" asked Jérémie.

"Yes. Things are happening, Jérémie Cher, and sooner or later you will be asked to join. Now, I know that you think that the Order is just for gays. Well, it isn't. There are straight men in the Order. They're called Knights of Honour."

"Can I be a Knight of Honour?" asked Jérémie, his eyes lighting up. "That would be neat!"

"Knighthood is a very responsible and important thing, Jérémie," said The Phantom in all seriousness. "You can't just decide to be one. You have to be, in your heart of hearts, a true knight. You have to talk to a man, we call him the Proctor, and he explains everything and then he decides if you can join."

"Oh. Well, can you put in a good word for me?" asked Jérémie with a smile. "I'd like for you to do that."

"No," replied The Phantom, shaking his head. "I can recommend you to the Proctor, but I can't use pressure of any kind, not with him - and if you knew who the Proctor is, you'd understand - and not with you. You should really go over to the Gunroom, listen to what Cory has to say, and then decide."

Jérémie considered this and then said slowly, "Phantom, something inside me tells me that I have to go with you, that somehow, my life is mixed in with yours. When I heard about your dream, and how you called everybody in your dream a brother, something happened to me. I can't describe it, because I don't really understand it. All I know is that I must go with you, and I must be your brother."

Very gently, The Phantom caressed Jérémie Cher' cheek. "Then you shall." Then, much to Jérémie's surprise, The Phantom blushed.

"What?"

"Um, well, the Order has what is called the Rule. It's a whole bunch of rules that the knights have to follow. There is one regulation, Article 24, that um, well, it involves Jérémie le Grand."

"Jérémie le Grand?" repeated the boy. "What's he got to do with it?" He looked down at his crotch. "He's in there, and isn't that all that's important?"

"Well, in a way, yes, because you have to be a man to be a knight. It's just that well . . ." The Phantom blushed deeper and coughed delicately. "Well, you being French Canadian, and Catholic, the odds are, that . . . um, Jérémie, has Jérémie le Grand undergone a refit?"

Jérémie's eyes widened. "You mean, like Chief Anders, and like Chief Thornton?"

The Phantom nodded. "It's required."

"Well, I'm not sure that I want to do that!" exclaimed Jérémie. "It's a hell of thing to ask!"

The Phantom held up his hand. "Jérémie, the idea is that you form a covenant with your brothers, that you, in one way, become as one with them. The Order is prepared to make allowances for non-Christians, such as Sandro, but I don't think that it will give you a dispensation."

"I am still not sure that I want to do it!" insisted Jérémie again. "I'm not sure that becoming a knight is worth losing my foreskin!"

"That is a choice you will have to make," said The Phantom emotionlessly. He pulled the boy to him and hugged him. "Just remember, though, to me you will always be Jérémie Cher, and you will always be my brother."

Suddenly Jérémie began to cry. "Oh, Phantom, I so want to go with you, to prove to you that I am your brother. But, Phantom, what you, no, what the Order wants is not in my culture. Hell, where I live, in Notre Dame du Nord, which is a little town outside of North Bay, everybody speaks French, everybody goes to the Catholic Church and nobody is circumcised. Heck, even being born is different 'cause nobody calls a doctor. They call a midwife and you're born at home. The only time you go to a hospital is to die!"

The Phantom reached into his pocket and took out his handkerchief. "Here, dry your eyes," he said as he handed the square of linen to Jérémie. "Now, listen to me, okay?"

Jérémie wiped his eyes and nodded.

"I know that what is asked is difficult, and often will go against your teachings, or your prejudices. I am not trying to talk you into doing something you can't, or won't do. I am only telling you about the Rule. It is your choice to accept the Rule, or refuse it."

"Then I won't be a knight!" wailed Jérémie. "I won't truly be your brother!"

The Phantom stood up abruptly and pulled Jérémie to his feet. "Now listen to me, and listen well," he said, his green eyes boring into Jérémie's. "You will be with me in Ste Anne de Beaupré, and you will be with me wherever we go. As for becoming a knight, you know what must be done and you must decide, not me. As far as I am concerned you will be a knight, you just won't have the title. One day, when you are older, maybe you'll change your mind, maybe you won't." He shrugged. "Who knows, maybe the Order will decide that you can be a part of it without . . ."

"You mean that? I can be a part of the Order?" Jérémie asked excitedly. "I won't be just a little brother, or a half brother, or . . .?"

"You will be my brother!" The Phantom placed his hands on Jérémie's shoulders and he leaned forward to gently press his lips against Jérémie's. "You have my word on it, and I have given you the kiss of peace. My kiss of peace!"

Jérémie, who had never been kissed by another boy before, swallowed hard and impulsively returned The Phantom's kiss. "I think, maybe, I'll think about what you said, about this Rule 24."

The Phantom smiled. "Good. That is all that is asked of you. Later, when you are older, and legally able to make your own decisions, then you can decide. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough," agreed Jérémie. He pulled away and turned.

"Where are you going?" asked The Phantom.

"Back to the Dockyard," replied Jérémie. "Where else would I be going?"

The Phantom pointed toward the Staff Barracks. "You have a meeting to attend. If you're to be one of us - no matter in what position - you have to know about the Order."

Seeing that The Phantom was serious, Jérémie nodded. "I love you, Phantom," he blurted, and then hurried off, heading for the Staff Barracks.

The Phantom watched him go and then returned to the galley. "Oh Cheeefff," he called. "We have a proooblem!"

"I told you to dress," complained Chef as he wheeled his battered old Chevy into the afternoon traffic of Comox. "And look at you! It's like a refugee you are!"

The Phantom made a face and looked down at his clothing. He was neatly dressed in freshly ironed uniform bell-bottoms, a crisp, starched gunshirt, with his white cap on his head and his polished boots on his feet. "I told you, Chef, that it's all I had in my locker," explained The Phantom patiently. "My Number 11s are in my locker in the Gunroom and I didn't want to interrupt the meeting in there."

Not at all mollified, Chef glowered and swore under his breath at a passing tourist bus, squealed the tires and rolled down the main street of the small town. "And this little problem with Jeremy Larouche . . ."

"It's Jérémie, actually Jérémie Stephane," corrected The Phantom idly. "He's very particular about his name."

"And about his wee appendage!" snarled Chef.

"It's not so 'wee'," murmured The Phantom with a smile.

"Is it something you said?" asked Chef, whose hearing was excellent. "Is it then?"

"I said nothing," declared The Phantom, feigning innocence. He did not want to start an argument with Chef over the state of Jérémie's "appendage".

Chef grunted. "It cannot be ignored, Phantom," he said as they idled at a red light. "The Grand Master is willing to make allowances for Sandro. He will not issue a Special Remainder for Jérémie. Case closed, and no more about it!"

While he knew that Chef could be as stubborn as a mule at times, The Phantom had every intention of speaking more about "it". He idly drummed his fingers against the armrest and then said, "Chef, it's about time we thought about people like Jérémie. What the Order asks is not a part of his culture, and I suspect that the priests are actively opposed to circumcision because of the Vatican's anti-Semitism. You have to remember that Jérémie's culture is different from ours. Almost every aspect of his life is based on Old-World traditions. They do certain things differently." He sighed as Chef steered the car against the curb to park in front of Mr. Schoenmann's small establishment. "And he's not alone."

Chef put the car in park and turned off the engine. "I am aware, Phantom darlin', of the lad's culture. I am also aware of a growing movement, particularly in the United States, to outlaw the procedure completely! The movement is strong and is being listened to."

The Phantom wondered how Chef, who never seemed to listen to a radio, watch television, or read a newspaper, was always so informed of world affairs. However, he had had to think of a way for Jérémie Cher to be accepted by the Order. "Still, Chef, we should make allowances for people like Jérémie. It's not his fault and besides . . ."

Chef exited the car, dodged a taxicab and stood in front of the shop. "Phantom, I sympathise, I truly do. But think on. Once again a tradition is under attack because the ill-informed and ignorant scream loudly and have access to a self-righteous and liberal media." He stared evenly, and coldly, at The Phantom. "I love you as my own son, lost to me these many years, but Phantom, I will not destroy a tradition that has bound my brothers to me for well over 800 years. Jérémie is a fine young man, I agree, but he will not be a knight, period! Please do not fight me on this because you will lose!"

The steel in Chef's voice convinced The Phantom that his argument with the man was over. No matter how much he wanted Jérémie to be with him, The Phantom knew that Chef, who was the Proctor, would not bend, and would not allow the young French-Canadian to be a part of the Order.

"Might he still accompany me, us, to Ste Anne de Beaupré?" he asked hopefully.

"He is free to do what he pleases," replied Chef, "as are you. He will just not be a part of you, or of the Order." He was about to enter the shop when he turned and said, "It is well known that every knight had his companions. They were not of his house, nor of his Order. It is allowed."

Mr. Schoenmann had been idling away the morning working on his accounts. Business had been steady, and he had been so busy that this morning had been the only time he could find to work on the books. Much against his better judgement he had called in his youngest grandson, Nethanyu - Nate - to tend the shop.

A low sigh escaped the old man's lips. Nate would never be a shopkeeper. He was much more interested in his social life. Of course, Nate was only 17, and a typical teenage boy. Girls, fun, girls, swimming, girls, school, girls . . .!

Frowning, Mr. Schoenmann returned to his columns of figures and bills of sale. He raised his pen to make an entry in the ledger when the doorway grew dark, shadowed by a large figure of a man. Glancing up, Mr. Schoenmann saw a uniformed figure and his eyes grew wide. Sad, then glorious memories filled his brain as he watched the man approach his keckel-head of a grandson.

"It cannot be," exclaimed Mr. Schoenmann to himself. "Yahweh would not grant such a mitzvah!" Rising, Mr. Schoenmann approached the man, and the young man accompanying him. "It is you? It cannot be?" he whispered as he stared fervently at Chef.

The Phantom stared in surprise at the old man's reaction to Chef's entry. Mr. Schoenmann's grandson, who had never seen his Zeyda so agitated, joined him. The old man had finally gone 'round the bend.

Chef bowed his head. "I have come to beg a mitzvah."

Mr. Schoenmann squared his shoulders and rapped his grandson on the top of his curly-haired head. "Stand up, Nethanyu, stand to attention in the presence of he who is Righteous Among The Nations."

The Phantom stared in amazement as a strange expression crossed the young Jewish boy's face. He was even more amazed when the boy snatched a small, black silk cap from the drawer of the counter and placed it carefully on the back of his head. The Phantom's jaw dropped when the boy approached Chef, took the old cook's hand, and kissed it!

"It is I who has the mitzvah, the blessing," whispered Nate. "Thank you for my Zeyda, thank you for what you did."

"I did only what a true man would do, in a time of troubles and horror," replied Chef, his voice low and filled with meaning. "I only did what God ordained."

Mr. Schoenmann's eyes glistened with tears of joy as he took Chef's hand. "Rebbe, by your very presence you bring a mitzvah to my house."

Embarrassed, Chef allowed his hand to be kissed and then murmured emotionally, "What was done was a long time ago."

"And will always be remembered," countered Mr. Schoenmann. He saw The Phantom standing behind and to one side of Chef and reached out to take the young man's hand. "We meet again, young man," he said, remembering The Phantom's recent purchases. "A mitzvah, a blessing on you, that you are beloved of the Rebbe."

The Phantom, who had no idea what a "Rebbe" was, was once again dumfounded at this new turn of events in Chef's life. Just when The Phantom thought that he had the measure of Chef, something would happen and he realized that he knew nothing at all. He did not know what "Righteous Among The Nations" meant, but obviously it meant a great deal to Mr. Schoenmann and his grandson. Still, he could not help saying impishly, "Chef is beloved of many."

"True, true," agreed Mr. Schoenmann with a nod. He gestured toward some chairs. "Please, sit." He turned to his grandson. "Nethanyu, the wine."

"There isn't any," Nate replied, lying. He had deliberately hidden the bottle of kosher wine. Nate hated the sweet, red wine that seemed to accompany any Jewish discussion. "There's that bottle of Scotch you got from Mr. Lieberman."

"Then bring it," ordered Mr. Schoenmann. "And don't forget the glasses." He winked at Chef and added as an aside, "He can be such a nudnik when he puts his mind to it!"

Chef glanced at The Phantom, returned the wink, and said, "He's not alone!"

The Phantom gave Chef a dirty look, but said nothing. He was very interested in just what secrets might be revealed and settled himself in the chair Mr. Schoenmann had indicated.

The whiskey poured, each took a drink, and then Mr. Schoenmann asked, "How can I, a man who owes so much to you, grant a mitzvah?"

"One of the lads - a cadet of your acquaintance - who is Jewish wishes . . ."

"Ah, yes," interrupted Mr. Schoenmann. He held up a finger. "The Russian boy, Sandro, yes?"

Chef nodded.

"A fine, handsome young man, very responsible, and very conscious of his heritage!" Mr. Schoenmann glowered at Nethanyu. "A boy who attends shul, Temple, wears a Tallit, observes the Law and understands what it is to be a Jew. A boy who will face his B'rit Milah with songs of praise on lips." He sniffed audibly. "Unlike some I could name!"

Nethanyu was tempted to remind his grandfather that it was much to late to worry about his own B'rit, which had happened eight days after his birth, and so far as he could imagine he'd managed that with more howls than songs of praise! The Phantom decided it would be unwise to inform the old man that Sandro, while he was more or less observant, had a passion for bacon and eggs at breakfast!

Chef coughed delicately. "It is not a mohel we are needing. It is a Minyan."

Mr. Schoenmann's face registered his surprise. "A Minyan? You need a Minyan?"

"Not me," countered Chef, "Sandro."

"There has been a death, Mr. Schoenmann," said The Phantom. "Sandro is very upset because the dead boy, well, we all think of him as our brother and Sandro, he wants to say Kaddish."

Nethanyu made a mistake in rendering his opinion. "If the boy, the one who died, wasn't Jewish, there can be no Kaddish. A Jew can't say Kaddish for a Christian!"

"So, my little keckela of a grandson is now an expert in Halachah?" asked Mr. Schoenmann scathingly. "Or perhaps he who hasn't stuck his nose into the Temple on Shabbat in ages is suddenly a member of the Beit Din?" He wagged his finger imperiously at his grandson. "You know nothing!"

Turning to Chef, Mr. Schoenmann reached out and gently tapped the old cook's knee. "Pay no attention to the boy." He turned to The Phantom and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing the numbers tattooed on his wrist. "Do you know what these mean?" he asked gently.

The Phantom's heart skipped a beat and a heavy weight seemed to descend upon him. "I know," he whispered.

"Sobibor, Chelmnitz, Auschwitz," recited Mr. Schoenmann. "In the camps it was forbidden to be a Jew. More often than not the rabbis were the first to be sent to the gas chamber. It was forbidden to say prayers, forbidden to wear a kippa, all was forbidden!"

Reaching out. Mr. Schoenmann took The Phantom's hand and placed it in his grandson's. "Take the hand of a friend, Nethanyu, of a Christian boy. Take the hand as I once took it and thank God that people such as he, and the Rebbe, exist. One, he who is Righteous Among The Nations, risked life to save Jews. The other, wishes to give comfort to a friend."

Nethanyu slowly allowed his hand to envelop The Phantom's. His eyes, however, were on his Zeyda. "I'm sorry," he said, his eyes brimming. "I'm sorry."

Holding each boy's hand, Mr. Schoenmann continued. "In the camps we were forbidden many things by the SS. But still we were Jews and still we observed the Law. We did it in secret, we did it in whispers, but still we observed the Law. We called on God, we wept, and we prayed. We prayed for ourselves, and for our brothers and sisters who made the last journey, a journey that ended in a gas chamber. We prayed when the smoke rose out of the chimneys of the crematoria. We prayed for them, and we prayed for the Russians, prisoners of war, frightened boys, many no older than you, my dearest Nethanyu, or you, Philip Lascelles - and yes, I know your name. We said Kaddish for all who walked that last journey, Jews, Christians, Atheists, and asked only that when our time came someone would remember us, that someone would give us Kevod HaMet. We had no Chevrah Kadisha to prepare us for our final journey, or to wrap us in tachrichim. We went naked to the ovens, and asked only a Yizhor. We had only our prayers."

Weeping openly, Chef embraced Mr. Schoenmann. "Nes Gadol Hayah Sham," he murmured. "Forgive me, Rebbe, for the ones I could not save. Nes Gadol Hayah Sham!"

Holding Chef, Mr. Schoenmann nodded. "A great miracle, yes. But a miracle also happened in Eretz Yisrael when a boy rowed a ramshackle boat into our ship." He chuckled softly. "Such a bang he made! We thought we'd been torpedoed!"

"The tide was against me," explained Chef with an embarrassed grin.

Mr. Schoenmann sobered. "The boy was calling us, the lost, the unfortunate, the men and women who had survived the camps, Jews recalled from death, gesturing and calling a ship filled with hope, but threatened with death. Pointing, and banging his oar against the iron sides of our ark, the boy shouted out the course to steer to avoid the patrolling British destroyers. Nes Gadol Hayah Sham. Then the boy spirited the long line of dispirited, sick, Jews, through the Arab lines, away from the Tommies who would send us back. Nes Gadol Hayah Sham." Bringing his hands together, almost in prayerful supplication, Mr. Schoenmann continued. "Such a boy, a boy who lied and bullied and stole to provide us with the desperately needed arms and ammunition that kept the Arab horde at bay. Nes Gadol Hayah Sham. A boy who stood before the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem and dared him to attack the hospital that had given us refuge. Nes Gadol Hayah Sham!"

Mr. Schoenmann turned to his grandson. "It is I who have been given a mitzvah." Then he thundered. "Find me ten Jews!"

With Mr. Schoenmann's word that Sandro would have his opportunity to say Kaddish for Sandro, Chef and The Phantom returned to Aurora. As they approached the causeway that connected the Spit to the main island, Chef pulled to the side of the road. The Phantom, confused, stared with red-rimmed eyes at his mentor.

"Sure and it's a sentimental, wee beggar you are, Phantom," said Chef with a warm smile. "God love you for it."

The Phantom sniffed loudly, once again on the verge of tears. "You read about it, Chef, you see documentaries about it, and yet it never really sinks in. You saw it, didn't you?"

Chef took a deep breath. "Aye, lad, I saw some of it. I was younger than you, and a Boy Seaman. It was a sad, sad time."

"Chef, you helped them? You saved some of them?"

"Aye lad, I did. I was young, and impetuous, and filled with self-righteousness, somewhat as you are now. I saw things that drove me to a rage that has never really left me. I did what I could, although it was little enough."

Impulsively, The Phantom leaned to his left and hugged Chef closely. "I'm sorry, Chef, really sorry. I've driven you crazy, I know, but Chef, I want to do good, I want to be like you."

Chef gently pushed The Phantom away. "You are, in many ways. You have a heart that beats not for you, but for your fellow men, for your brothers. You love with all your heart. As I was in my youth you are now. Brazen you are as the Besom of Benbecoolla, and as impetuous as the Hurlers of Donegal! At times you rush forward without thinking. But then, so did I." He smiled broadly. "Ah, Phantom darlin', what a Tatar I was."

"You still are," replied The Phantom with a grin. "Did you really row out in a small boat to warn the ship?"

"Aye, I did. A leaky old dory of boat it was. I paid the Arab who owned the scow five pounds - all the money I had in the world. No doubt he thought I was as mad as a hatter. But I had heard the Master-At-Arms and the Captain plotting, for there was an illegal approaching the shores, a ship filled with Jews who had escaped the camps only to be denied haven in their own land. Laughing they were, for there were too many Jews in Palestine and the Arabs, damn their eyes, were threatening riot and insurrection. Bugger the Arabs, says I, and off I went."

"You were very brave, Chef," said The Phantom earnestly.

"Well, perhaps," conceded Chef. "But then, it was a long time ago and what was done is done, and cannot be undone. What is important is what you learned this day."

"I don't understand."

"Remember Mr. Schoenmann's words. Think on, Phantom darlin' and you will find the answer."

"The camps," The Phantom blurted out. "No matter what happened, the Jews kept their faith. They found ways to worship God and they never wavered in their faith."

"And?" asked Chef pointedly.

"They kept the Commandments, they kept to their traditions."

"So you see it then?"

"Yes," breathed The Phantom. "For four thousand years and more they never left God, never gave up their traditions, their ways. They kept to the Law, no matter what." He burst into tears and laid his head on Chef's shoulder. "I stupidly asked for something you could not give. I asked that you forget your tradition, the Order's tradition, something that was and is an integral part of your being. I didn't understand before, but now I do. The Rule is what has held the Order together. The Jews adapted to the situation, to the horror they were forced to endure, but they never forgot the essential parts of their Faith. The Order has adapted, yes, but I forgot the essential part of the Rule, and why it was written."

"Aye, lad, you did," said Chef gently. "And now you know why your young friend will never be a knight. It is hard to deny him, I know, but it is something you must do. It is so very easy to adapt, to alter things for the sake of political correctness, or for modernism. We have, as you know, in the Navy an old saying: 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it!' The Rule is damaged, yes, and demeaned by those who swore on their oath to observe it, but the essential Order is still there." The old cook reached out and took The Phantom's hand. "We must hold fast to our beliefs, Phantom, no matter what the cost."

"I know." The Phantom pulled away. "I just wish I didn't have to do it. Jérémie is so . . . so eager to help. And his desire to help is genuine."

"I do not doubt it," said Chef. "And in two years, perhaps three, I will call on him."

"Promise?"

"Promise," said Chef as he started the car. Then he said, "And I want you to know that you have a valid point."

"I do?"

"Aye. There will always be those whose traditions fly in the face of ours. There will always be those who are influenced by their culture and who will never agree to circumcision. Perhaps it is time that the Order adapted."

"But, Chef, it flies in the face of the Rule. Do you want to ignore the Rule?"

"I did not say that," replied Chef calmly as he turned the wheel and the car began to trundle across the causeway. "What I am saying is that perhaps there is a way for those who will not be knights, to be of the Order."

"Maybe they can be . . . Companions?" suggested The Phantom, pleased that Chef was at least considering his arguments.

Chef thought a moment and then nodded his head. "Companions. I like that." As they pulled into the barren parking area beside the Mess Hall, and pulled alongside Mark's hulking, black, behemoth, Chef continued. "Did you know that every modern order of Knights has a degree called 'Companion'?" Chef turned off the engine and turned to face Phantom. "I will make a proposal to the Grand Master. I will propose that a new degree be proclaimed, Companions of Honour. It will be for those who cannot, or will not, observe the Rule in all its forms. They will not be knights, and will not be privy to the inner workings of the Council or of the Order. They will never be candidates for high office."

"But they will be of the Order?" asked The Phantom. "And Jérémie isn't gay," he pointed out.

"It matters little," replied Chef, "if the lad is, or is not. He will not have to profess one way or the other because he will not be a knight, period. He will have respect, and honour, title, dignity, whatever you wish to call him, and allowances will be made for him but . . ." Chef stared evenly at The Phantom, his eyes cold and clear. "He will not be a knight, nor will any other Companions who follow him!"

The Phantom's green eyes flashed briefly, and then he nodded slowly. Chef was a canny old man, and a formidable opponent, and would not be cowed, or coerced. The old man had made up his mind, and nothing would make him change it. Admitting defeat, at least in this battle, The Phantom asked quietly, "But they will all be of the Order?"

"They will," confirmed Chef as he opened the car door and motioned for The Phantom to follow him. "The terms are harsh, and perhaps to some minds, unfair. But those are my terms," he said as he walked around to the front of the huge building.

"But the option is there for them?" asked The Phantom as he mounted the steps of the Mess Hall.

"Yes. If they wish to become knights they will observe the Rule. There will be no exceptions, Phantom, understand that."

"So I may tell Jérémie?" "You may, just so long as you make him understand that he will be of the Order, but not a knight." Chef glanced at his watch and then looked around. The area was devoid of people. There were no cadets walking about on errands, no officers prowling, nothing. Even the seagulls seemed to have deserted the Spit. The Phantom saw Chef looking about. "I guess the meeting is still going on," he opined.

"Aye," replied Chef absently. "And it is time for you to go. There are things I must do, and you must be waiting for their answers. I will be along shortly."

Chef turned abruptly and entered the Mess Hall. The Phantom, not a little afraid, for while he loved the other cadets with all his heart, could not help wondering just how far their love for him, and for each other, extended. He began walking slowly toward the Staff Barracks, and the Gunroom.

Cory's voice soared melodiously through the Gunroom as he repeated the words of Saint John:

"Know ye that men shall call ye anathema, and mankind shall turn his face from thee.

Many shall perish at the hands of man, but ye are the Blessed of the Lord thy God. This I promise thee.

Thou art set on a road that is not of God's making, a road that contains many thorns and scorpions. Many shall perish at the hands of man, but ye are the Blessed of the Lord thy God. This I promise thee.

Thou art brothers in the sight of God and ye shall take thy brothers and all that are like unto them, unto thy breasts and keep them safe, for they are Blessed of the Lord thy God. This I promise thee.

Thou shall make unto God, and unto thy brothers, a covenant, as Abraham made unto the Lord. Each of you shall remove the orlah that is between thee and thy God and make unto him a sacrifice, and return to the image of Him that made thee, for ye are the Blessed of the Lord thy God. This I promise thee.

Raise ye not great temples, for these are displeasing in the sight of God. Hold each man true as ye hold thyself true. Keep the way of thy Lord, and bring not shame or corruption unto Him, for this is unseemly, as ye are the Blessed of the Lord thy God. This I promise thee.

Hold ye true to the Lord for all eternity and there shall be a place at the right hand of the Lord. Though mankind beset thee, and bring thee great sadness, hold ye to the way of the Lord. Make ye not a great sadness, for ye are the Blessed of the Lord thy God. This I promise thee.

Go ye and make thy covenant, each with the other. Find ye your brothers, and make with them thy covenant. On my feast day gather ye thy brethren and the Lord shall give unto them a sign. Keep ye this day, for thou are the Blessed of the Lord thy God. This I promise thee."

Cory finished his peroration and looked out. They had all gathered, the Boys of Aurora. Beside him his brother, Todd, stood quietly. Tyler, quiet, a serene look on his face, sat beside Val at the head of the long, scarred, wooden mess table. The American cadets, Mark, Tony and Nathan, sat together, hands folded, waiting. Along the table Thumper, Two Strokes, Fred, Jon, Chris and Nicholas, and Matt, sat silently, each lost in his own thoughts.

Sandro, Joey, Randy, and Calvin Hobbes - Randy and Calvin's red hair a bright contrast to the dark blue and crisp white that predominated, glistened as if flecked with gold in the sunlight that streamed through the windows. Beside the two young cooks Phil Thornton sat protectively. He did not need prayers, or scripture, to explain his feelings. Where Randy and Joey went, so went he.

Opposite Phil sat Brian, with Rob at his side. Sitting apart, on Jon's bunk, Andy and Kyle listened for the first time to Cory's words and a look that approached awe crossed both their faces.

On Greg's recently abandoned bunk, Stuart and Steve sat together while at the far end of the table, somewhat apart, Sean Anders looked with loving eyes upon Cory, his destiny, and his love.

On Harry's bunk sat Jérémie. He had slipped in through the connecting door from the Petty Officers Mess. No one had denied him entry. On the other side of the Gunroom, sitting on Two Strokes' bunk, Mike Sunderland and Phillip, called the Assistant, waited, their hands entwined.

Cory's eyes, as deep a blue as the sky above, scanned the room. His heart seemed so full and the warmth of feeling seemed all but overpowering. They were all his friends. Some had been his lovers and now all were his brothers.

"This morning you all, or at least most of you, were asked to think about what Phantom told us. All of us . . ." Cory reached out his hand and pointed at each cadet in turn. "Were part of a dream. We have all been called to a crusade. Before I go on, I ask each of you to search his heart and make your decision."

Cory did not hear the soft shuffling of The Phantom's boots on the polished wooden deck as he entered the Gunroom, and he continued on.

"There are some who say that we are too young, that we cannot in truth know what we are, and what we want. I profess to you all that I am gay. I love my brother with all my heart and I love one of you deeply and . . ." He glanced down the long table to where Sean was sitting and a special, wonderful sparkle filled his eyes. "And I will make him my life partner."

Wordlessly, Sean Mark Anders, Chief Iron Ass, unbending, by the book, never-give-an-OD-a-break Anders, stood and walked purposefully to the other end of the table. He took Cory in his arms and stared into the deep blue eyes so filled with love. He said nothing for there was nothing to say.

A slight stirring amongst the cadets broke the still, warm air of the Gunroom. Sandro was the first to break the silence. "I go."

Randy and Joey spoke simultaneously. "I go."

Tyler, who had spent part of the morning cradled in Val's arms, looked at his Sicilian lover, who nodded. "I go, without hesitation," he said.

Val looked into Tyler's eyes, and then turned to look at Cory. "I go."

Mark, Tony and Nathan did not hesitate. Mark spoke for all of them. "We are brothers of the sea, and I consider you all my brothers of my blood. We go."

One by one the others nodded. Each spoke firmly. They would go. Andy rose and said softly, "Go and make ye a covenant with each other. I make my covenant. I go."

Kyle continued the allegory. "I have found my brothers and I make with them my covenant. I go."

Cory looked at Todd, who smiled back and said, "I go."

Harry, who was blubbering softly, searched frantically for his handkerchief, remembered that he did not have one, swiped his arm under his nose, sniffed stentoriously and said, "I stand with my brothers. I go."

Mike and Phillip, called the Assistant, rose. "We go," said Mike. He gave Phillip's hand a squeeze. "We both go."

A smile of such beauty that none of the cadets in the room had ever seen before formed on Cory's lips. His eyes took in his brothers and settled on Jérémie Cher. "There is one who has not spoken," he said.

Jérémie felt weak-kneed as he rose to face the cadets who had turned their heads to look at him. He had never before in his young life experienced such warmth, emotion or affection. "I . . . wish to be your brother," he managed. Tears brimmed his dark eyes. "Please, I will go with you?" He saw The Phantom standing quietly in the doorway. "I will be your brother forever?"

The Phantom's hand reached out to touch Cory's shoulder. Cory turned his head and saw the slight nod of the Phantom's head. He turned and smiled at Jérémie. "It is decided," responded Cory. He looked at the cadets and continued. "Jérémie is our brother and we will all go with Phantom to Ste Anne de Beaupré." He paused and then added emotionally. "And for those who wish it, beyond."

For the first time, The Phantom moved into the Gunroom and spoke softly as he looked directly at Jérémie. "We are brothers, and no matter what happens in the future, we will always be brothers. The decision you have made has been difficult, I know. Soon, very soon, you will be asked to make another decision. You will be influenced by thoughts of nobility and flying banners, of great deeds and titles. Please, all of you try to understand what Cory tells you, and what the Proctor, whom you all know, will tell you. Listen to the whispers of your soul, and not to the thunder of your egos."

Cory looked long and hard at his friend. Something had happened that had touched Phantom's soul, something that had buttressed his friend's belief in the Order. He nodded slowly and looked at the others.

"The Order of Knights of Saint John of the Cross of Acre has fought many battles," he began slowly. "Some battles were won, many, far too many were lost. The history of the Order is filled with stories of oppression and indignity. As Saint John said, man turned his face away from us, and those like us." He looked at Sean and smiled. "It is very difficult to admit to anyone that you are something they abominate." He turned and looked at Todd. "It is very easy to hide in a closet, to pretend to be something you are not."

Jérémie raised his hand and Cory nodded for him to speak. "The Order is only for gays, yes?"

"No," replied Cory quite firmly. "Granted, the majority of the knights are gay. However, there are heterosexuals, straight men, who are members. My father is a Knight of Justice, which is the second degree of knight. The highest degree is that of Knight of Magistral Grace, Donat and Justice. He is also, I assure you, very, very straight."

Todd decided to speak. "Jeremy, the Order is not about being gay or straight. It is about brothers helping brothers, of righting wrongs and providing a place of refuge for gays in times of troubles or danger."

"This was the original idea, then?" asked Mike, who had only heard snippets of the Orders history.

"Yes," confirmed Cory. "In Acre, in what is now called Israel. At the time it was referred to as Outre Mer, and the Order, as originally conceived, was to gather together gay men - knights and peasants - to provide a military force to protect pilgrims. The original knights did not want to become involved in the political in-fighting, the grasping for power that seemed to permeate the other Military Orders, such as the Templars and the Hospitallers. They avoided Jerusalem, and established the Mother House in Acre, although there was a hospital in Jerusalem and one of the Grand Master's titles is 'Defender of the Hospital at Jerusalem'."

"And they all made the 'covenant'," Jérémie asked.

"Why yes, of course," replied Cory. "The knights had been told by Saint John to make the covenant, and they did. It became a part of the Rule and the Order has never deviated from the Rule in over 800 years." He snickered. "Mind you, while forming the Order was easy, finding a mohel was next to impossible."

"A what?" asked Randy, who came from a very rural community where Judaism, in all its forms, was considered an alien force of evil, and until he went away to camp he had never met a Jew.

Cory translated. "A mohel is a circumciser. When Saint John told the knights to make a covenant, as Abraham had made a covenant, which they interpreted, rightly, to be circumcised, they were a little flummoxed. They couldn't go to a Christian doctor because none of them would have known what to do, and would probably have reported them to the Church authorities for heretical practices, or something. They couldn't go to the Jews because the Christian knights had rampaged through the city, killing everyone who wasn't Christian. They indiscriminately slaughtered Jews and Arabs. Sadly, anti-Semitism was very much a part of the early Church - it still is, only less vocal - and the so-called Christian knights."

"Not to mention that medicine in the 12th Century was primitive and based on the early teachings of the Greeks," supplied Chris, who had studied the subject with a view to becoming a doctor. "Surgery right up to and including the first Great War, heck, beyond that, was basically lop it off."

"Holy Moses!" explained Tony. "No wonder the knights didn't want a Christian hacking at them!"

"Moses could have used a mohel," responded Cory dryly. "In the event, the only other community that practiced circumcision were the Arabs so the knights bought a circumciser."

"They what?" exclaimed Nicholas.

"Actually, they bought a slave who was a doctor. His name was Al-Din Salef el-Hashemy. He was a very respected physician in Acre, and had been captured and taken to the slave market where he was abused and debased. The knights bought him for five bezants and asked him to circumcised them."

"The knights owned slaves?" asked Jon.

"Only the one, and they freed him," replied Cory. "The knights treated Doctor el-Hashemy with respect and great honour, which is how they treated all Arabs, Jews, and Christians. In their eyes all men were equal and nowhere in the chronicles that I read is there an instance recorded where they were disrespectful to anyone not of their faith, or not a brother. Doctor el-Hashemy was so well treated that he stayed with the knights until he was too old to practice medicine. He also took several apprentices - there were no medical schools in those days, remember - and taught them his profession. He married and his descendants live in Egypt. Each year a gift of gold, usually in the form of a casket, or box, is sent to them. I'm sure that they wonder how or why they are so honoured but the Order, it seems, never forgets a favour."

"Or forgives an indignity," proffered Todd.

"Quite true," said Cory glibly. "But lets face it, when you've been spat on for 800 years you do sort of get a little testy!"

A small laugh circled the table.

"In all seriousness, the Order's insistence on treating everyone, no matter what his religion, or his status, in a way stood them well." He shrugged. "At least it allowed many to die with dignity and not be butchered."

"Butchered? Like in hacked up?" asked Joey. He shuddered at such a fate.

"As in hacked up," said Cory with a frown. "The history of the Crusades, and the Crusaders, is filled with blood and treachery. From the moment the Crusaders took Jerusalem they did nothing but fight amongst themselves, and war with the Arabs. Each side was cruel, and the atrocities committed were appalling. When the Crusaders first took Jerusalem they rampaged, out of control, throughout the city. They massacred Arabs, Jews, Maronite Christians, Greek Orthodox, you name the sect, or the people, and no one was safe. Later, when the Kingdom of Jerusalem had been established they warred constantly with the Arabs, always lying, never keeping their word, and butchering anyone who was not of the faith.

"In 1187, Yusuf ibn Ayyub, Salah-al-Din as he is called, or sometimes Saladin, Khedive of Egypt, rampaged through the Holy Land. He took castle after castle, killing and burning as he went. Guy, Count of Lusignan, King of Jerusalem, called for the Host to assemble. The knights of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, as Christians and knights, answered the call, and 23 of them rode out to join the King's army. With them went six pages, all young boys under the age of 16, and seventy foot soldiers. The Christian Army was trapped at the Horns of Hattin and massacred. Only four knights and one page remained alive as captives.

"After the battle Saladin, who was famous for his chivalry, showed no mercy to the Christians, particularly the leaders of the knightly orders, the Hospitallers, and the Templars, whom he hated beyond reason. They had never kept their word, and never honoured him, or his religion. He ordered that the foot soldiers who had been captured should be sold in the slave markets of Damascus. The Grand Masters of the Temple, and the Hospital, and knights of noble birth, were ordered imprisoned, to be held for ransom. As for the others, some two hundred knights of the Temple and the Hospital, they were lined up in front of his tent, and stripped naked."

"And what of our knights?" asked Harry.

Cory did not fail to note that Harry had said "Our" knights and smiled inwardly as he replied, "At the time the Order was not very well known. They existed, yes, but as they had been bidden, they did not raise great temples, and the Rule was only just being written. The then Grand Master, John of Scotland, asked that he be allowed to remain with his knights, and share their fate. The page boy, Bradley of Kingston, son of the Baron of York, also refused to leave his brothers. He was fifteen."

"Fifteen?" squeaked Randy. "They killed kids?"

"In those days boys were men as soon as they reached puberty," responded Cory. He reached out and ruffled Randy's hair. "You're safe, for the moment."

Randy stuck his tongue at Cory and slid his hand over Phil Thornton's broad, firm thigh and gave the Chief's parts a firm, gentle squeeze. "A lot you know," he said with a giggle.

Phil gave Randy a "Not here, you twit!" look and, although he did not realize it, blushed. "Ah, um, so what happened?" he asked.

Cory, who had seen Randy's hand sliding down the front of Phil's bell-bottoms, looked away, trying hard not to laugh. He cleared his throat and continued his lesson. "Remember the el-Hashemys? Well, the old surgeon's grandson was a part of Saladin's army." He stopped, trying to remember everything he had read. "It turns out that the family was very noble, and very important. This younger el-Hashemy told Saladin of what the Order had done and Saladin, being a gentleman, ordered that the Knights of Saint John of the Cross be set apart from the others. He couldn't help but notice that the knights had been circumcised, as was the page boy. He called them 'People of the Book' and offered to spare them if they would convert to Islam. They all refused. Saladin then decided that they would die as knights."

"Which meant?" asked Thumper, his eyes wide with curiosity, totally engrossed in Cory's story.

"Saladin gathered all the mullahs that accompanied the army. He ordered that each be given a sharp knife and then he pointed at the Templars, the Hospitallers and the other knights. The mullahs, screaming and shrieking curses at the Infidels, fell on the Templar and Hospitaller knights and hacked and stabbed them to death. The massacre was so terrible that the medieval chroniclers, when they recorded the incident, edged their folios in black and never illuminated the manuscripts. The Arabs never wrote of it."

"What happened to the knights of the Order?" asked Chris, his voice a whisper.

"They died as knights," replied Cory. "They were beheaded, along with the page boy. Later, when the killing was done, el-Hashemy and his servants took the bodies, washed them, wrapped them in linen cloths and buried them separately, away from the others."

"And the True Cross?" asked Nathan. "I recall something about the True Cross."

"That is the third miracle of the Order," responded Cory.

"The first being the Divine Protection of the chapel in Acre, and the second being the Saint's first appearance before the knights," reminded Todd.

"Yes," confirmed Cory. He regarded his brothers and smiled. "Now, remember, according to the chronicles, Saint John promised to return to the chapel in Acre on his feast day, which is December 26th. The knights, who had done everything they had been told to do, gathered in the chapel. By now there were seven knights, four pages, street urchins who had accompanied the Crusade and had no masters, and ten foot soldiers, and a dozen or so 'peregrini Christi', pilgrims of Christ, who were on their way to Jerusalem and had stopped in Acre to wait for the next caravan to the Holy City."

"And Saint John appeared?" asked Two Strokes. His innate Protestantism was being sorely tested, and he still had his doubts.

"The knights, the congregation, prayed and sang hymns until the early evening. According to the chronicles the sun was just setting, and 'Darkness came upon the earth', when Saint John appeared. According to the chronicles,

'He who was beloved of the Lord Jesus Christ our Saviour, and stood with Him at His Death, appeared before the multitude, surrounded by fire and great tumult, saying: "Behold, thou art the Blessed of the Lord thy God, who is well-pleased with thee.

Know ye that man will turn his face away from ye, and cast ye into fires and bring down your temples with great tumult.

Fear ye not, for thou art the Blessed of the Lord. This I have promised thee"."

Randy, who had sat through many a Sunday sermon filled with fire and brimstone in the local evangelical church, shrank back. Joey, and Jérémie, sons of the Church, grimaced. The evangelicals did not have a patch, or a monopoly, on fire and brimstone when it came to the Roman Catholic Church.

Cory saw the grimaces. "Saint John was telling the knights that just because they were gay, or perhaps because they were gay, they had a special place. God would not condemn them, man would."

"And he's done a damned good job of it over the centuries," rumbled Harry, his voice filled with disgust.

"Yes, he has," replied Cory sadly. "I don't think that any of those present had an inkling of what the centuries would bring. Nobody did. Nobody could predict the hatred generated by the Roman Catholic Church, and perpetuated by the Protestants."

"I personally don't give a flying fuck what people think of me," exclaimed Fred, glowering. "I might be gay, but I'm nobody's fool and it sure doesn't make me any less a man than some guy who chases quiff half his life!"

Matt nodded his agreement. "People think that because we're gay were some sort of freaks. Well I got news for 'em. I don't want to be a girl, and I don't wear panties or dresses." He turned and looked first at Harry, then at Mike Sunderland, then at Phil Thornton, all tall, broad, muscular cadets. "And I'd like to meet the fool who'd dispute their masculinity!"

Harry grinned wickedly. "Bring 'em on! I ain't been in a good fight in ages. I'm due for one!"

"Oh God," muttered Todd. Harry on a tear usually meant someone's butt got bitten. He nudged Cory. "Get on with it or Harry will be chasing you around the room again!"

Todd's earthiness brought Cory back to the moment. He looked balefully at the others and then spoke. "God, through his Saint, had told the knights that they were the Blessed of the Lord. Saint John appeared for a second time and after telling the awe-struck knights that God was well pleased with them, said,

'Thus sayeth the Lord thy God: In thee I am well pleased and shall send unto you a sign that you shall keep sacred'."

Much to everyone's surprise Cory's face seemed to glow with messianic zeal. "The chronicles describe what happened:

'And a great darkness fell upon the earth which shook with great thunder. Lighting flashed the sky and woe befell the people.

The House of God shuddered and trembled and a great light fell upon the Altar.

'Take this as My sign of my love for thee, and all thy brothers,' came a booming voice and behold the panel of the Altar was broken.

And the knights and all who had gathered there prostrated their bodies before the Altar of the Lord and they saw a casket of olive wood.

'Come thee forward and receive the Gift of God' the Saint commanded and the Grand Master, much afraid, approached with fear and dread and took from the hands of the Saint the casket.

And behold, the Great Voice filled again the House of God, 'Behold the word of thy God: Thou hast made thy covenant for thyself and thy brothers unto all eternity. Hold thy brothers close so that they shall know that they are Blessed and shall sit with Me at the Last Trump'."

"The chronicles then tell us that the Grand Master opened the casket. A great light filled the chapel and the voices of Cherubim soared upward, for what was revealed was a piece of wood," said Cory, his voice filled with emotion. "The chronicles say the piece of wood 'glowed as burnished gold'. Saint John said,

'Take ye this Cross on which thy Saviour, Jesus Christ, redeemed thy sins. Hold it close, for you are the Blessed of the Lord thy God. This I promise thee'."

Cory sat down and suddenly he realized what a truly wonderful thing had happened. He sat silently, unaware that a new shadows had appeared in the doorway. The other boys looked up and saw Chef. Behind him stood the Commanding Officer, and the Executive Officer and, much to everyone's surprise, Doc Reynolds.

Chef advanced ponderously into the Gunroom. It was then that the assembled cadets noticed that the man was dressed in all his finery. Chef had donned his London-tailored Number 11 uniform. He had put up all his medals and draped over his shoulders was a magnificent collar of gold and rubies. At his side hung his sword and on the ring finger of his right hand he wore a gold and enamelled ring set with a ruby.

Commander Stockman and Lieutenant-Commander Hazelton also wore their white uniforms, their chests hung with their honours. Each carried a sword and Number One, like Chef, wore a gold and enamelled, ruby set ring. Doc's shoulder boards glowed with crimson cloth set between the gold wire stripes of his rank. On his finger his ring, as magnificent as the rings worn by Number One and Chef, glowed blood red in the late afternoon sunlight.

Chef regarded the assembled cadets and officers, who had risen in respect at the presence of so many senior officers. He bowed to Tyler, and asked, "May I address the men?"

Tyler, who knew his protocol, returned Chef's neck bow. "I would be honoured to have the Proctor of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre address the prospective candidates."

Several eyebrows arched, and more than one jaw dropped at what their Master-At-Arms had unwittingly revealed. Or had he? They all knew Tyler, and none thought that he would "unwittingly" reveal anything. Which meant that . . . Candidates? Knights? Sean was not alone when he squirmed with the realization that his future, and that of the other cadets, had just been pushed to a new level of decision.

Standing foursquare at the head of the Gunroom table, Chef placed his hand on Cory's shoulder. "You have heard some of the history of the Order. I tell you that there is more, much more, for you to learn and know. In time you will be told that the history of the Order is long, and at many times, turbulent. It has known great glory, and known bitter ignominy. Sedition, treachery, treason, theft, have dulled its lustre, but still it remains. Yet, each time, like the Phoenix, the Order has risen again." A sad, almost desperate look came over Chef's broad, lined face. "Betrayal by the very knights it once nurtured once again threatens the very existence of the Order. In you, my sons, is seen the future. You, together and apart, are the Phoenix, the promise of rebirth. Much will be asked of you, little will be given in return, a name, a title, a bauble of gold and jewels, perhaps. Yet you will also have honour, the honour of men." He raised his hand and the ruby set into his ring sparkled and glowed with an almost ethereal light. "This has been said, and this I believe:

'Thou art brothers in the sight of God and ye shall take thy brothers and all that are like unto them unto thy breasts and keep them safe, for they are Blessed of the Lord thy God. This I promise thee'."

Chef paused as his eyes filled with tears. "Ah, lads, you are brothers. Love each other, hold each other close, for a great blessing has been given you." He hurriedly wiped his eyes. "It is settled. All who wish it will go to Quebec and attend Sylvain's funeral." He turned to look at Father, who nodded and stepped forward.

"The Area Cadet staff in your local areas are contacting your parents to obtain their permission," Commander Stockman advised. "As much as you each might wish it, you cannot go swanning off." He noticed several worried faces. "Thus far, none of your parents have said no. They have been very understanding." "Or glad to be rid of us for a few more days," thought Brian pragmatically. Commander Stockman fiddled with the sword knot that hung from the gilt hilt of his sword, and continued. "Travel orders have been written for each of you. Number One and I have spent a great deal of time on them."

The Phantom's eyes narrowed as he glanced at the bunk so recently stripped bare of any reminder of its recent occupant. "Which means they're being very careful, so careful they've left Greg out of the loop!" Nodding, The Phantom returned to listening to the Commanding Officer.

"You will leave here Thursday morning, spend the night and part of Friday in Vancouver as the guest of the Grand Master of the Order. From Vancouver you will fly directly to Quebec City. Transport will be laid on there for you to proceed to Ste Anne de Beaupré. Following the service for Sylvain, transport will be arranged for those of you who wish to return to your homes."

Chef nodded from time to time as the Commanding Officer spoke. A great deal of effort had been put into making at least part of The Phantom's dream a reality. Commander Stockman and Lieutenant-Commander Hazelton had all but burned up the telephone wires with NDHQ and points east and west. They had, for an hour or so, despaired. Ottawa would not pay for a flight to Quebec City for a small group of cadets, even for something as important as a funeral. Michael Chan, when he heard of the debacle - which he had, almost immediately, thanks to Chef - had arranged for an aircraft.

Clearing his throat loudly, Chef began to speak, his words free of his usual hyperbole and exaggeration. "I have no idea why you must go to Ste Anne de Beaupré, and I can only think that something awaits you there. What your destiny, what your fate, what that 'something' is, will be revealed in the fullness of time."

There was a soft shuffling at the entry leading to the barracks yard and chef turned to see David Clayton, Colin Arnott and Daniel Bradley-Smith standing in the doorway. He motioned the three men forward and spoke to Colin quietly. "Your place is with them, young Colin Arnott."

The Phantom, his face beaming at the sight of his blond, handsome lover, reached out to take Colin's hand, and asked, "What are you doing here?" as he led him into the Gunroom.

"It's a long story," replied Colin with a groan as they settled on Todd's bunk. "And I'll tell you all about it later."

With his qualifications for knighthood confirmed, Colin had straightened his clothes and waited in the Commanding Officer's cabin for whatever came next. He did not have long to wait. There was a short rap on the door of the cabin and Colin found himself confronted by one of the civilians who had been waiting on the jetty, who gave Colin a neck bow and made a sweeping gesture, indicating that the young officer was to follow him. While David worked the telephone, and Daniel struggled with his certification of Colin's suitability as a candidate knight, Colin was led below where, much to his blushing embarrassment, the tailor, the boot maker and the shirt maker fussed and measured.

Colin was politely, but firmly, requested to strip to his underpants. The sight of Colin's Canex Specials, tighty-whiteys bought on sale, caused several eyebrows to rise with a hint of unspoken disapproval. Obviously a gentleman did not wear Canex Specials, ever.

With much clucking, the Gieves man drew a measuring tape from the pocket of his suit jacket, and looped it around the blushing Lieutenant's waist, then his thighs, his arms, his shoulders, his measuring so extensive that Colin wondered if the man wanted to measure the length of his dick!

The man did not. Did sir prefer to wear Y-fronts (Colin took this to mean briefs) or boxer underpants? Colin actually preferred briefs, but on occasion did enjoy the freedom of movement afforded by boxers. Sir would have both. Would sir prefer silk for the boxers, or would sir have Egyptian cotton? The man's tone suggested that no gentleman would be caught dead in silk underpants, unless the undertaker put them on him. Colin opted for the cotton.

The Gieves man disappeared, off to fetch, again with a disapproving look, an off the peg, or ready-made, suit and uniform. It was now the turn of the man from Ashley's, who measured Colin's neck, arms, and chest and chattered away interminably about colours, collars and cotton. Colin, who had no idea that so much went into making something as simple as a shirt, could only nod at the man's suggestions.

While the man from Ashley's sat at the desk and entered Colin's shirts in his book, the man from John Lobb measured Colin's feet! The man explained that a last would be made from wood, and in future Colin's shoes, and boots, would be hand crafted from the last.

The man from Gieves returned with an assistant, each carrying a selection of ready-made suits and a Royal Navy uniform and cap, which Colin was asked to try on for fit. Once again there was much clucking and measuring, although Colin could not see why. He was a perfect fit, and rarely needed anything altered. Apparently the man from Gieves agreed and while the assistant went off to hem the trousers of the suits chosen for him, Colin was asked to dress and wait.

Dressed, Colin sat on his bunk, wondering just what in the hell had happened, and what was going to happen. Everything had happened so fast! He had met and fallen in love with a green-eyed youth, been seduced into a wonderful world he had never known existed, stumbled into a Organization the nature of which still puzzled and confused him, been examined like some stud - Colin puzzled what that was all about - and been gifted with what looked to be at least a year's salary worth of clothing. He was being groomed for something, he just didn't know what.

There was a light knock and Colin looked up to see David Clayton standing in the doorway. "Are you ready?" David asked.

Colin groaned. "For what?" he asked sceptically.

"We're going to Comox."

"What's in Comox?" asked Colin, rising. "And should I pack?"

David shook his head. "That will be taken care of. Now come along. We have a long ride ahead."

"You still haven't told me why we're going to Comox," complained Colin as he followed David from the cabin.

"You're as bad as Bradley-Smith," growled David as he crossed the brow. "Always asking questions!" He grimaced as he tossed the car keys to the uncomprehending doctor. "Don't hit anything!" he commanded as opened the passenger side, rear door and motioned for Colin to get in the damned car.

Settled in the front seat, David watched as Daniel put the car in gear and slowly navigated his way out of the Dockyard, following Admirals Road through the New Songhees Reserve and across Gorge Road Bridge. Daniel did not appreciate the glowering looks he was receiving from David, gave his fellow officer a half-sniff, near-snort of derision. "I can drive, you know," he snapped.

"I never doubted that you could," replied David with a thin smile. "Now be quiet. I'm thinking."

Daniel rolled his eyes and concentrated on his driving, keeping a lookout for the on ramp to the Trans Canada Highway.

Once clear of the small city, David shot his cuffs and turned to Colin. "In Comox you will be asked if you wish to become a knight. If you agree there will be a ceremony. After that we will be going on a trip."

"A trip? Where?" Colin asked impatiently.

"There you go again!" David shook his head and then asked bluntly, "Colin, have you ever fucked a nine-year-old boy?"

Daniel was so shocked he all but ran the car off the road, skidding along the verge and scattering gravel and dirt all over the place. When he managed to stop the car he exploded, "Don't do that!"

"I asked a question," returned David calmly. "I know you've never done anything untoward. I didn't ask you, in any event. I asked Colin."

In the back seat Colin's face was suffused with rage. His right hand gripped the armrest so tightly that his knuckles were white. He wanted to leap over the seat and rip out David Clayton's heart.

"How . . . dare . . . you!" Colin breathed with barely controlled rage.

"I dare because I have been told to dare!" responded David quietly. "I dare because I am not about to carry a man to Comox who will deny his oath." He looked stonily at Colin. "As has happened."

Both Colin and Daniel stared in disbelief at David. "What . . . what are you talking about?" asked Daniel, his eyes round with shock.

Gesturing for Daniel to get the car going, David sighed. "There is an evil infecting the Order," he confided softly. "Knights have suborned the Order and broken their oath. Some have descended into pedophilia, buying and selling young boys. Others have used their positions to embezzle the Orders funds, looting the Common Treasury of what could be millions."

Turning in his seat, David pointed at Daniel, and then and Colin. "You, Daniel, and you, Colin, are about to participate in the re-birth of the Order. In Comox, in HMCS Aurora, is a group of young men and boys, who are about to embark on a crusade, a crusade that has already been called. In Toronto the Chancellor of the Order is gathering his forces, preparing to make war. A Bar of Justice has been proclaimed, and the men who betrayed their oath, turned their backs on their brothers, will suffer death." He squared his shoulders and stared angrily through the windscreen of the car.

"We have fought so long, so hard, to gain a modicum of equality," David whispered. "I saw what could happen when a gay was discovered and I saw the hatred. I heard the disavowals of mere friendship! I heard . . ." His head slumped and tears rose in his eyes. "I betrayed a friend." Then he added, his voice filled with sorrow, "God help me."

Daniel turned the wheel and pulled into a rest area. Then he placed his hand gently on David's shoulder. "God has already forgiven you," he said quietly.

Colin leaned forward and placed his hand with Daniel's. "Whatever happened you have more than made up for. I can hear it in your voice. Your dedication is something I can only hope for. Your love of the Order, and of your brothers, I can only aspire to."

"His name was Hal," whispered David through his tears, feeling the warmth of the hands on his shoulders. "Hal Simmons, and I turned my face away from him. I betrayed a friend because I was afraid. I spurned him because I was afraid and he was gay."

Weeping, David related the story of his friend. He had lived with the guilt he felt so keenly for three years. No amount of tears, no soul-wrenching sobs of anguish could ever expiate the guilt he felt. Until now only The Gunner had known the whole story, and The Phantom had heard only a part of it. David had told no one else, not his parents, not his friends, of that terrible day when he had seen his friend laid to rest in Fairlawn Cemetery. He shuddered involuntarily at the thought of the cold, Atlantic winds that blew across the gravestones.

Both Colin and Daniel listened and waited. They both realized that they could never truly know the anguish their new mentor felt. They could sympathise, for they had both seen the hatred that permeated, like an infected sore, their society, their culture, and their lives.

Daniel, his rimless spectacles spotted with his own tears, silently handed David his handkerchief. He waited until David had dried his eyes before he spoke. "God has forgiven you, and so has Hal. Your tears demonstrate your sorrow . . ."

"And your eyes mirror your anguish and determination to right a wrong," interrupted Colin. "You might not think it, but you are a true friend. Now is not the time to dwell on what has passed. Hal is at rest and now you must accept your destiny, as Daniel has, as I have. Last week I fell in love for the first time in my life. I fell in love with a young man!" Colin said with heavy emphasis. "I don't understand how I managed to do that, but I did. I realize now that my life is inextricably bound with his." He shrugged. "What my destiny is, I can't know or foretell. But I will be with him and I will be a part of his crusade, or your crusade, or the Order's crusade. I've had time to think about what happened in Comox, and I've had time to look at the world I live in. I don't like what I see, David. I don't like the laughter, the sneering, the hatred or the debasement of my fellows."

Colin's eyes sparkled with the fire of a true knight. "In Comox a young man gave me his love. He didn't ask me to return that love, but I do, with all my heart." He squeezed David's shoulder and continued quietly, with deadly determination. "I will never allow anyone to bring him to tears, or degrade him. I will never allow anyone, man, woman, child, to cause him grief. You became a knight because you felt guilty, and then you felt anger, at yourself, and at your fellows. You are fighting iniquity and hatred. I will join you in that fight. I will fight bigotry and hatred and do everything I can to right the wrongs that exist. Let right be done!"

Daniel slid the car into gear and pulled into the stream of cars and trucks heading north on the Island Highway. He took a breath and spoke in almost a whisper,

"I will seek that which was lost, and bring again that which was driven away, and will bind up that which was broken, and will strengthen that which was sick; but I will destroy the fat and the strong; I will feed them with judgement."

Colin's jaw grew slack as a memory flooded his brain.

"And as for you, O my flock, thus saith the Lord God; Behold, I judge between the cattle, between the rams and the he goats."

"The day of judgement is at hand," said Daniel.

"Let right be done!" growled Colin. "For all men!"

Chef watched as Colin and The Phantom sat closely together on the bunk and nodded inwardly. He looked around the Gunroom at the other cadets. It was time.

"A great evil walks the land," Chef intoned, trying not to sound ponderous. "Phantom saw the evil, a looming black shade. Across the battlefield the forces of evil shrieked and howled, knowing that an Order of knights, men of honour and duty, have heard the call to battle. You, my sons, are called. In you the future rests, and the glory of an Order renewed. In your sinews and muscles are the strength of Truth and Justice. Do not doubt, my dear sons - and I have no hesitation in calling you my sons - that the road will be hard and that it will be rife with conflict. Even as I speak other sons, your brothers, lie bleeding and hurt, bludgeoned into submission, plunged into a long night of despair, unbroken even by a star of hope."

The Phantom, overcome by Chef's words, left Colin's side to stand beside his patron, his friend, his Chef. His green eyes glowed as he proclaimed, "I go to join the fight. I answer the call. I shall go alone, or I shall go with my brothers. It is now the time to decide. It is now the day when we must heed the words written centuries ago: 'Arm yourselves, and be ye men of valour, and be in readiness for the conflict; for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our nation and our Altar. As the Will of God is in Heaven, even so let it be!'"

Continued in Chapter 28b