Upon the locomotive journey from London to Dover, a span of two hours, I dedicated a portion of the passing time to the pursuit of artistry. An hour into the voyage, I completed a sketch encapsulating the enigmatic figure that had pervaded my recent nocturnal visions—an entity adorned with nine wings akin to those of a dove, shrouded in obsidian-hued medieval armor. Its countenance bore a singular predatory eye, a vast maw hosting formidable, razor-like canines. Psyche, roused from her slumber, graced me with a tender kiss upon the cheek before her gaze fixed upon the rendered visage.
"What an unusual creation," she remarked, her eyes lingering on the sketch. "Would you care to divulge the identity or nature of this otherworldly being?"
Responding with a wry smile, I dismissed the notion of a devil and declared, "Not a devil, my dear Psyche, but rather an angel—perhaps an angel of justice that has frequented my dreams, haunting my nights for the past two days. In these recurring dreams, Lucas and I find ourselves in a café, only to be ambushed by this celestial entity. It insists that we cease meddling in matters beyond our ken, matters of which I possess scant knowledge. And then, I awaken."
Psyche, contemplating the sketch, offered her insights. "It bears resemblance to the depictions of Old Testament angels, akin to Gabriel who visited Daniel during his exile in Babylon. But who is this Lucas?" she queried.
"Lucas Aurora," I responded, "a professor versed in the esoteric realms of Egyptology and thanatology—a man of profound intrigue, yet veiled in mystery. In due course, you shall have the opportunity to acquaint yourself with him."
Psyche, unraveling the cryptic tendrils of his nomenclature, mused, "Lucas Aurora—'Aurora' being a Latin term, suggestive of 'Dawnbringer' or 'Morningstar' in English. What a name steeped in enigma."
Following another hour of our railway traverse, we arrived at Dover. Promptly securing chariots, we made our way to the coast, destined for the vessel that would ferry us from Dover to Ostend, navigating the English Channel. Having consigned our luggage to the ship, we were welcomed aboard by none other than the ship's captain, and to my astonishment, he was none other than Captain Morgan—a dear friend and one of my former patients.
Captain Morgan, a man of venerable age in his mid-fifties, donned the habiliments of a Victorian mariner with a countenance weathered by the ceaseless winds of the sea. His short-cropped white hair formed a stark contrast to the cascading cascade of a long, thick beard, also resplendent in snowy whiteness. Blue eyes, deep and experienced, bore witness to the marvels and ferocious might of the vast oceans. A pervasive aroma of rum enveloped him, a testament to the libations shared amidst his maritime sojourns. Despite this, Captain Morgan was a man with a heart of gold, having traversed the seas for over three decades, each voyage bestowing upon him a treasure trove of tales waiting to be unveiled.
Captain Morgan's eyes met mine, recognition sparking within them. In a manner befitting a seasoned sailor, he enveloped me in a hearty embrace and, in the vernacular of the sea, exclaimed, "Oy, if it ain't me favorite physicist! What brings ye to these waters, Sire Eros?"
Smiling in return, I acknowledged, "Captain Morgan, the currents of fate have brought me here, and I am genuinely pleased to witness your improved well-being. I trust my medical counsel proved beneficial. As for my current endeavor, I embark on an adventure in the company of my companion, the delightful lady, Psyche Lamperouge."
Captain Morgan, with a hearty pat on my back, responded in kindred spirit, "Haha, that's the spirit! Finding yerself a fine lady, a perfect match for a gentleman like ye. Come aboard, feel at home."
The captain, perceiving Psyche and me as lovers or perhaps wedded, induced an endearing blush upon Psyche's countenance. In good humor, I chuckled at her discomfiture. Proceeding to our quarters, we awaited the commencement of the maritime journey, a sojourn anticipated to span no less than four hours due to the inclement weather. As night descended, an invitation to the captain's cabin materialized, setting the stage for an evening of convivial discourse on matters of life and its intricacies.
Psyche and I found repose in the opulent embrace of the captain's cabin, where Captain Morgan, a paragon of boundless hospitality, extended his amiable offerings. The air was imbued with the rich aroma of rum, and the captain, in jovial spirits, proffered a selection of meticulously rolled cigarettes, housing tobacco hailing from the verdant realms of North and South America. With a flourish, he regaled us with the revelation that the very tobacco was once employed by the Maya people of Central America in their sacred and religious ceremonies.
Partaking in the captain's joyous libations, he, an affable imbiber, soon found mirthful intoxication and drew near to share a favored tale from his treasure trove of narratives.