JOURNAL OF DEREK RAYNE5 June 1969 - Amsterdam - 2:17 a.m.
2 months ago tonight. It’s odd - I am watching the clock and counting the minutes. It’s just past 9 p.m. on the 4th in Peru. I don’t know the precise time, but it’s close. Everyone is asleep. I lit a candle and set it on the window sill. It’s foolish, I know, but when I was very little, my nanny lit a candle on 22 December, the night her mother died. She said that her mother’s spirit would visit for as long as the candle burned. It’s a comforting thought. I need comfort now that no one can give - not even God.
It’s time I began to write again. As I reread what I wrote and what Father wrote, it almost seems surreal, and yet not. I’m surprised that at some point I didn’t slip into Dutch. Languages are odd. Latin is horrid for me, yet I switch back and forth between English and Dutch and at school even French and German with scarcely a thought. And, once I’m speaking or writing in one, I rarely inadvertently switch to another.
~~~~~
I have the decrepit, old pack sitting beside me on the bed. God, it smells of mildew and worse. Somehow, I managed to hang onto it and, miracle of miracles, no one looked in it or destroyed it. Now it has a special place that no one, not even Ingrid, knows of. I only take it out when the house is dark and silent and my door is locked.
Until this night, I’ve not had the courage to open it. First I took out the key - with Father’s ring still on it. They let me keep it. I have it around my neck now. How odd it feels. Then I read his sepulchre notebook, then my own journal - both are water stained, mildewed, and filthy. The pages stuck together, but the ink didn’t run. As for the damned parchment that started it all - I cannot bear to touch the thing and it’s where it will never again see the light of day.
Now, for the first time, I’m opening his wallet. The mildew and mould are very bad. There’s cash - a little of everything - dollars, pesos, and Peruvian soles. Why did I think I’d need the money? For the lunch at the Lizard Cafe, perhaps? No, if all had gone well and I’d made it out in the car, I would have needed it.
Here are his Calif. driver’s license (Why are the photos always so bad?), his US Social Security card, his Luna I.D. card - all rather mangled. Two coins - a 1850 English penny and a 1853 US quarter, both in mint condition. 100 yrs. before Ingrid and me. I wonder if they were his lucky pieces. He never said anything about them.
Oh, God, there’s a photo of Ingrid and me on the rocking horse in the nursery. Mom’s holding us on. We all looked so happy. There’s a crayon drawing on newsprint. It’s in bad shape. It won’t last much longer. It’s of the Golden Gate, the ocean, and the sun. It says, “I love you, Daddy, Ingrid.” There’s my penmanship certificate that I won during my first term in Switzerland. I was seven. I don’t know what to think.
He did love us once and was proud of us then. Why did it fade? Or did it? Maybe he just got more distracted and confused as the years passed? Perhaps, I’ll understand one day - maybe it takes age before one can begin to understand one’s parents.
ENOUGH! I must finish my story before my hand gives out.
~~~~~
We arrived home on 23rd of May. I did not return to school, but they said I could do the work over the summer and take the tests at the beginning of next session. If I finish with grades in the top 20%, I won’t have to repeat anything.
I am almost completely mended, but it was a bit of a haul. The only reminder is that my feet still kill me when I set them on the floor first thing in the morning. They say it will take a long time for the nerve endings to become less sensitive. I doubt I’ll be playing much football when I go back to school, but then, I never did have much affection for shorts, knee socks, and black and white balls.
I think the worst part has been that Ingrid has been determined to put weight back on me by putting her culinary classes to good use. She will never be a chef, but I can’t damn her for her loyalty, or her love. She has missed so much of her term that she’s in the same boat as I am and will have to either repeat the term or do the work and test out of it.
Apparently a trucker found me in the middle of the Cuzco-Puerto Maldonado Rd. late on the 25th of April. It was a good thing that Father always insisted that our passports with a notification card always remained on our bodies. Otherwise, I’d have been a John Doe until I came to my senses - or they’d have most certainly looked in my pack.
I remember very little after the night on the ledge. I don’t know how I made it to the road nor how I got to Lima. To tell the truth, I can’t remember much of what went before either. All I do know is that I awoke after four days in a hospital in Lima. My feet and hands were totally bandaged and I seemed to be sprouting tubes. I was a mess - not a pretty sight. Once I told them where I had come from, everyone very nicely kept telling me I shouldn’t be alive - that my guardian angel had been watching over me. They all joked that he must be a very potent angel. Perhaps so, all things considered.
The infections were serious enough that there was talk of amputating several of my fingers and toes. I’ll swear they gave me every shot and pill known to modern medicine. Besides the infections, I had picked up a few different breeds of parasites and fungi as well. It was all rather disgusting. I don’t think I’d care to be a nurse.
I was quite helpless for a while with both feet and both hands encased in gauze and completely out of service. It is truly annoying when one again begins to feel well, but cannot do much of anything that calls for the use of a finger - including pressing a nurse’s call button. Mastering how to turn the page of a book was a major accomplishment. The elbows, nose, and tongue are truly inadequate substitutes. I also discovered how embarrassing life’s necessities can be when you can’t even hold a spoon or a glass of water. I shudder in horror at the thought of another sponge bath. At the moment, I’d rather die. But, I must admit, I think I have learned the lessons of patience, persistence, humility, and how to forebear with dignity. What else can one do? I had a lot of time to think and to remember more than I would ever have wished.
Prof. Washburn arrived before I awoke and Mother and Ingrid got in later that night. I gave Father’s Legacy Journal to the professor, but otherwise was still quite out of it for a few days, what with the drugs and a fever besides. Thank God they didn’t think to go through my pack - absolutely amazing! That guardian angel of mine must have been working overtime. I am actually surprised they didn’t burn it when they burned my clothes, considering its state was as disreputable as my own. I’m repeating myself - oh, well. I should have destroyed my journal and Dad’s notebook, but perhaps continuing to write is what saved me somehow. The secrets contained in there must never be known.
Señor Muñoz, the precept of the Lima House, and his associate, Fr. Ramirez, both came several times to check on me. Really they came to ask me questions. I stonewalled them with “I don’t remember.” They seem incredibly willing to accept me at face value, even the professor, who should know better. They seem to accept that the shock of my father’s death and my own ordeal have buried the memories too deeply to be touched or have wiped them away completely. I wish they had. Instead, they repeat in glorious technicolour again and again. Sometimes, I awaken screaming, but I’m still managing to get away with “I can’t remember.” I may soon have to change my tune to “I don’t want to talk about it.” I’m just waiting for someone to suggest a psychiatrist. I have told no one, including Mother, anything more than what’s written in Dad’s journal. Mother suspects, but she’s still running interference. She’s like a junkyard dog with a single pup. I am almost sure Ingrid knows. I think she’s “seen” my dreams. I’m sorry for her if she has.
~~~~~
I’ve had a lot of time to think about my “Sight”. At one low point I wondered if it was evil - and therefore, if I was evil. Now, I think it’s neutral and like any sense, it can be misinterpreted - and thus be manipulated for good or bad. I must work to train it and myself to stay on course. It stems from my own emotions, and yet, I must learn to appraise it separately from my emotions. It is through the emotions that the dark powers can manipulate it. I must be ever on my guard - ever vigilant - and must warn Ingrid of my discovery. I fear our abilities could be turned to very great evil. We must both pray that there are guardian angels who will guide us.
~~~~~
Luna is being placed under the control of a trusteeship, which will gradually relinquish control to me when I reach twenty-one. I am to have full charge by the age of twenty-six. When that comes, I shall use a portion of the foundation’s money to establish a museum to be named after my father. His collections will form the core. Mother has let it be known that she expects me to attend Oxford. She says that since I’ll still only be sixteen when I matriculate, she wants me close to home - not half way around the world. We’ll see about that one.
I don’t know who will be appointed to succeed Father as precept in San Francisco. I don’t really care, other than the fact that they will be living in our house amidst Father’s collections. That house has many secrets. I hope no one gets the urge to remodel. At least Prof. Washburn will be there, and Mother plans to visit during the summer to make sure all is well. Perhaps, when I gain control, I’ll send the Legacy packing. Alcatraz should suit them just fine. No, I shouldn’t say that - Mother has never harboured any resentment toward the Legacy itself - not that I know of. Her only anger was toward my father’s obsessions. If she doesn’t, then perhaps I shouldn’t either. The Legacy does a worthy job and is worthy of the respect and devotion it commands. I feel it’s pull, and yet....
~~~~~
I seem to be wandering. I am still avoiding writing about this, but I am down to having nothing more to say. I’d best get it done and over.
The professor, Señor Muñoz, and Fr. Ramirez retrieved Dad’s body and evidently found the site and my explanation convincing. We had him cremated in Peru. The newspapers got the story wrong. Why am I not surprised? They said he was killed at Chimbote, which is a fishing port on the Peru's northern coast. I guess someone must have looked at a map, was unable to find Chipote, and so assumed that the reports meant Chimbote. Actually, all the better - in case any non-Legacy adventurer is ever tempted to go treasure hunting.
The funeral, on 20th May, was a good one - dignified. Lots of people wanted to attend because of the foundation’s contributions and activities, but Mother kept it small. We had a private mass at Mission Dolores - the same church where he was christened. For his urn, we chose an Orange ware jar from the Toltec-Mayan culture. It was a piece in the collection from the Early Post-Classic period, found in Campeche, Mexico and probably dates to about 1100 A.D. For some reason, he had been particularly fond of it. He liked it’s shape and colour, and especially its decoration of black hand prints. He said once that the hand prints preserved a little of the potter’s soul.
We placed the urn in a niche in the chapel-tomb above Ayala Cove. It’s next to his father’s plaque and empty niche. It has an ornate bronze gate that can be opened. I took it out and held it twice before we left. The bronze plaque below has an enlarged replica of a Legacy precept’s signet complete with an enameled blue setting, under which lies his name, Winston Rayne, and his dates, 1914-1969. My own will be there one day. The thought is comforting.
It’s odd - but somehow the world seemed a smaller, safer place when I knew Dad was somewhere in it. It didn’t matter where - whether in SF, Timbuctoo, or the next room. It didn’t matter whether we fought or I felt that he was ashamed of me, whether we laughed or even saw each other. He was there. Now that he’s gone, it’s a scarier, lonelier universe. The nights seem darker, the winds colder, the sunlight less warm.
The R.P. came from London to attend and remained to accompany us home to Amsterdam. He was most attentive and solicitous. He kept pumping me and assuring me that there would be a place waiting for me in the Legacy when I’m old enough and ready. Mother says that they are quite impressed. Adults think they’re so clever. I don’t need his place in the Legacy and I don’t want it, though I fear it will be mine. Damn the Legacy to hell - and me with it - but most of all damn Lucifer himself and all his minions.
E-mail: Dubricus 
