The winter day warmed in the sun, chilled the bones in the shade. A tiny lizard hopped across the cottage yard, searching for insects and gullet stones. A caw from the field broke the silence. A single bee buzzed by Dante as he stained the baby's crib. Dante listened to the creatures of his small world, felt the sun warm his back, breathed deeply of the heady unpolluted air and felt content.

The field gate creaked. He glanced up to see a thin, black man dressed in a shabby brown robe, entering the yard. Brother Francis, priest of Gaia, had come to call. Dante straightened at once with a welcoming smile, having attended the temple services every week since his arrival.

"No, no. Don't let me disturb you," said the priest. "I was on my walk and ended up here. Nice day." A few gray clouds hid the sun and he shivered in his thin robe. "Though cool in the shade. Almost ready for the baby, I see."

"Another month and I go for Martha and my Sophia," grinned Dante. "Come in and have a cup of tea or coffee to warm up. I have a picture."

Dante scanned the darkening sky. He lifted the crib as if it weighed nothing and lead the way into the cottage. Francis trundled over to the banked fire. A black cat slept curled up on the hearth. The priest turned to warm his back, glancing around as Dante dragged the crib to a place by the door, pushed up the sleeves of his slave overall, washed his hands in the kitchen sink and put on the kettle.

The once neglected room glowed with new paint. A large braided rug covered the floor. The mouse infested sofa had disappeared and two comfortable chairs waited by the fire. In a corner sat a child's wicker rocking chair. The kitchen gleamed with a renovated counter and cupboards. A new microwave was tucked above the stove. A twisted copper Ankh of Gaia hung in the middle of the window above the shining sink.

"You're doing a splendid job of renovating. I hardly recognize the old place," said Francis.

"Thanks."

Dante opened a cupboard to reveal new dishes. He set out two mugs then piled some of the big cookies sold by the pub onto a blue willow plate and placed it in the middle of the table.

"They're not as good as Martha makes," he said. "But they'll do."

Francis sipped his tea, listening to the silence and watching Dante work his way through first each chocolate bit, then each small section of his cookie, the eating taking the young man's total concentration. At some point in his life, starvation and neglect had haunted their new neighbour. Yet his piano playing and the occasional slip in his accent, spoke of a privileged childhood. Pieces of the puzzle that surrounded Dan's past. Francis dismissed the matter, all kinds of personal disaster had plagued those of his parishioners once considered property to be bought and sold.

Dante took a last sip of tea, then ran upstairs for a moment. He returned and proudly presented Francis with an elaborate frame holding a grainy fax photo of a rather ordinary looking woman and a tiny baby.

"Beautiful child," murmured the priest. "Has she been presented?"

"Martha's doing it." Dante's face clouded for a moment then the sun shone through. "But we'll need a wedding when she gets here."

"I'd be happy to join you."

Francis enjoyed marrying freed slaves. Whether escape through the underground or years waiting for bought freedom, they had usually suffered for love before they came together.

"Good," said Dante.

"I've been meaning to ask you," said the priest. "We all like your singing down at the pub and you may have noticed that we don't have a cantor at the temple." A cloud covered Francis's face. "Not since Robert died last spring. I was wondering if you might consider. "

"Yes. I'd like that." Dante beamed, "Martha'll be so proud. We like listening to the hymns on the radio."

"You love her very much, don't you?" said Francis.

"Yes." Dante stared into his cup. "She makes me feel like I'm someone. Like a normal person. Right from when I first came to Madams. She said to me, ‘Gaia smiles on those like you,' and I was able to carry on. For awhile, anyway. She makes me feel like a man " He looked up at the priest's sympathetic face. "You wouldn't understand."

"I might," said Francis. "There's a lot of men around here who were once slaves."

"Not like me," replied Dante. He perked up. "Let me show you the rest of the cottage."

They examined Magic Mouse's room and the attic with its new large bed. A small book case stood beside a computer desk. Some of the books seemed very old. Frances read a few of the titles. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, a Trilogy in Four Parts; The Four Fold Gaia Sutra; The Prince; Uncle Tom's Cabin; Selected Essays of Kore Jones.

"I found them under the floor boards," said Dante. "Hidden by the hermit. Philosophy, poetry and stories I've never seen before." Noticing Francis's puzzled look, he remembered that few slaves were literate and rushed to explain. "I read to Madam as well as singing and playing." Dante pulled out a black leather volume and handed it to the priest to distract his train of thought. "This one's very odd. Sacrilegious, I guess. Gaia's a man. They call her God and use 'He' all through the book. And the bodhisattva's are all men too. The second part is the story of their Beloved, their messiah. He's male too. There's a lot of strange philosophies in the worlds."

"Some say Gaia is neither male nor female," said Frances.

"How could we all be part of her life then?"wondered Dante. He quoted, "Her womb the universe. Ever expanding towards new birth."

"How do you know the book is about Gaia then, if they call her God?"

"Well in the origins bit, it's all about Gaia making the universe. And it's obvious when you read the second part," replied Dante. "It talks about the word at the beginning. The Beloved talks about loving your neighbour, giving away material things, depending on Gaia like you were a lily. There's lots of wheat among the chaff."

"Wheat among the chaff?"

"From one of the parables in it." A slight impish look crossed Dante's face, as if he committed a small sacrilege by quoting from the odd text in front of a priest.

"May I borrow this book?" asked Francis.

"If you promise not to send it to the censor,"replied Dante handing him the book.

"Never. You've a lot to learn about Free Alabama. Well, I must finish my stroll."

They walked down the stairs. A cold rain had begun to pelt the cottage. Francis worked hard at asceticism, but the thought of the chill outside made him want to linger. He squared his shoulders at the door. Dante opened it and a gust of hail rattled into the cottage.

"You can't go home in this," he protested.

"I've gone through worse," replied the priest, putting on a brave front.

"Here, take my cape. And keep it, I have two other coats. You can't go ‘round like that."

Dante grabbed a cloak from its hook on the wall. .

"This is very good quality. Reminds me of a wraith. You sure?" asked Francis.

"You need it. It'll keep you warm." Dante handed it to him and the priest placed it over his shoulders. "Now you look like the chief priest of a big temple. Coffers overflowing with donations to Gaia."

"I'm not sure I like that idea," said Francis. "I'm supposed to scorn materialism."

"Gaia doesn't smile on those who give themselves colds," pronounced Dante.

Francis laughed and he had to admit that the cloak warmed him right down to his sandaled toes. His magic prickled as if the cape lived. The priest ignored the feeling. His wizard power picked up sensation memories of the people who had handled or worn an object. He decided Dan's late owner had given him the cloak as a hand-me-down. No doubt the reason he wished to part with it.

"I'm only borrowing it," said Francis.

"If I need it one day, give it back," said Dante, letting the priest out into the rain lashed day.

Dante watched Francis out of the yard then ran upstairs to find the book he had left face down on the floor on the far side of the bed. No one but Nanny had ever seemed interested in helping him learn about and control his magic. They had chided him like Elizabeth, ignored him like his father, or tried to destroy him like his unknown enemies. So Dante had decided to look after himself. An old database for apprentices, overlooked when the University of Botany upgraded its security, and the hidden books of the dead hermit became his magic masters. He carried the ancient tome downstairs and sat down in front of the fire with a fresh cup of tea. The cat claimed his lap. Dante frowned as he worked through Magic and The Ousia of Objects and Creatures.