Cloak and Dagger Broadcasts

Quiet Please - Light the Lamp for Me

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Duration:: 31m
Broadcast on:: 18 Jul 2024
Audio Format:: mp3

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Membership eligibility required equal housing opportunity, all-own subject to approval, insured by NCUA. Belco, banking for everyone. Quiet, please. Quiet, please. The American Broadcasting Company presents Quiet, please, which is represented and directed by the U.S. supporters. The American Broadcasting Company presents Quiet, please, which is represented and directed by the U.S. Department of Health. The American Broadcasting Company presents Quiet, please, which is represented and directed by the U.S. Department of Health. The American Broadcasting Company presents Quiet, please, which is represented and directed by the U.S. supporters, which features earnest travel. Quiet, please. The U.S. Department of Health is called Light the Landport. They say that my historical books, my stories, face upon happenings in the past, are extraordinarily vivid. They say that they're minutely accurate that they read it if I'd actually been there, seen the happenings in person. They say that my descriptions of the early days of the California Missions, particularly of the San Fernando Mission, are more painstakingly detailed than even the contemporary accounts of the brown-road Franciscans who lived and labored, prayed, and died in the shadows of the Sirodi walls. I may wonder what undiscovered source material I alone have access to. And now the time has come to tell. Do you know San Fernando? Let me see only San Fernando, ladies, tell me. The statue of father, son of his side, the fountain of memory garden across the road, a screen door that opens into the musty of the office and the sign that reads, "Cherios, the arches of the cloister, or the cracked plaster shows the into David Ricks, the wrought iron fires on the lingo's, the sheath band on at the end of the cloister where the surly old ram glowers at you through the wire. Do you know the conventional and the glass cases of gold-threaded vestments against the walls, the old weapons, the rights of stirps, the attentionless car from wood, the sagging old door frames and the wooden steps in the still room? Do you know the still room? The distillery where the old monks make grandly from the sour wine of the valley remains of copper pipes and vats in the ancient still and the wooden platform with steps worn and eroded by time and complex footsteps, priestly and secular. The cramped tall room, windless, faintly odorous on a bank day of the spirit of the grave that was distilled there. The dust of 150 years, the walls covered with names and dates scratched into the crumbling doorway, and dove a gene in Finney from Toledo. Kilroy and Harry Bubeck of San Francisco, stabbed Sergeant Pearl Palmey at the WAC. And my cigarette lighter slipped from my fingers as I started a lighter cigarette. In the half darkness of the still room, it bounded into a far corner under the platform and with an appropriate remark about the perversity of inanimate objects, and down on all fours and crawled on the dust to retrieve it. In the farthest, dirtiest corner, of course, on a loose Dolby brick alongside it. A brick that concealed a hidden treasure. I smiled briefly at the conceit as my fingers probed in the spaces where the brick had been. And... It was something there. A lamp I discovered when I crawled out clutching it, an ancient bronze lamp green with age. A lamp like those the room and shoes, something like a modern sauce boat, and a musty-fraid wick profiting from its snout. Most interesting discovery here in the California mission, I took the lamp to the door the better to examine it, made another discovery. The lamp was full of oil. The wick was greasy with it. It was more than this to you. And, curiously, I flipped my lighter and touched the flame of the wick. Thunder. Thunder. And darkness around me. And only the tiny flame of the lamp to reveal the yawning door and a Dolby bricks of the wall. And in its feeble light, the bricks look newer, cleaner, and the great copper still inside their own gleamed bright lean, cast flickering reflections of the ancient lamp back at me. And the voice spoke in my ear. Can't you hear me? It's dead, amigo. He stood close beside me. The soldier and Leon and steel breastplate, one hand on the hilt of a long, straight sword with a basket hilt. The Spanish soldier of the late 18th century, he was real flesh and blood by the weight of his grip on my shoulder. Now, my Spanish is very limited. This operation was a very astonishing thing. Astonishing, I thought. Impossible. And I answered him in English. What happened, I asked? Oh, English, huh? English, I mean. I'm an American. What's going on here? Well, I'm Irish. You are? Well, my name was Peter Paula Brine, don't we? No. I'm Pedro Pablo Obercon. The soldier in the armies of his majesty of Spain. And the last man has ever was. Oh, I'd get at the cinema, huh? Cinema? Movies. I'm afraid I do not understand your cover here. But what made it get dark so suddenly? It's been dark for nearly four hours, amigo. It's... What kind of joke is there? There is no joke. Well, what? And you could be telling me how you came in possession of my land. Your land? My land. I'm sorry, I found it. In there. Well, I hit it yesterday. Yesterday. It's been in there a hundred years. It's been there a day. Oh, it must have been. Look at it. Well, perhaps it has been then. Of course. Friend. Would you be knowing the date? Date? The year and the day? Now? No. I will tell you. September 26, 1999. Look here. No. There's no point at all in keeping in ignorance, amigo. Since you have found the lamp and lighted the same. Go on, friend. Eh, it is my land. I found it one day in spin, and I carried it with me for long years, before I found out what were its powers. Was in Gerard, are I mine, but I first found out. A dark night in the barracks. I'd be taught myself with a little lamp. Then, am I mine, I was thinking of the days of the Saracens in Granada, when I lighted a little wick. And Karamba, when it flimmed up, I was set in foot and tore them. To a fool. The Saracens. The Moore's bidad. The scimitars they had. And long spears. And great black beards. I don't believe it. Well, you're here. Are you not? From your own time? Well, you lighted the lamp as you were thinking of the old days. Well, I hear me, man. You have not much more time to listen. That is the power of the lamp, then. Think of a time and light the lamp, and you're there. Blow it out. You're still there. But light it again. And think of another time. Your own delight. And it's like that. Well, I've got it. It makes little difference. Now we go what you think. Well, give me back, we lamp. Well, now look here. How do I know it's yours? And how do I know it's yours? I have the means to take it from you. Why, I could run your school. You wouldn't get away with it. - For the police? - I am. And listen. Do not be judging events by the standards of your own time. But that is not now. I'll have back my lamp. I won't give it to you. That doesn't mean mine to let you live as best you could. A full hundred and fifty years before your own time. But I see I must not do it. I'll look here. There's such a thing as law. I'll best deal. But if you blow it out and light it again, then wish yourself back where you came from. Then I'd not have the lamp at all at all. And since I cannot wish you back myself, there's only one thing to do. I've leaned across my shoulder and blew off the lamp. In the darkness I heard the sound of steel as he drew his sword. I felt the wind from the sword stroke and my hat was plucked from my head. In frantic reflex I swung the lamp. It struck flesh and bone and the dark I heard it groan. A clashing of steel. Bigger Pablo Oberholm fell. I waited a long time before I applied my lighter to the wick of the little lamp. And thought of home time. And the thunder crashed. And I stood there in the sunny afternoon alone. The old ram blacked and impatient autumn of your horn sounded on a highway that Oby bricks with crumbling in ancient again. And there was a sword cut in my hat I saw as I picked it up. And there was blood. Fresh blood on the base of the little bronze lamp. And so I blew off the flame that flickered so pale on the sunshine. And wiped it off. Sat down. And thought. And thought. [Music] Days later when I went back to the year 1799 to a time two weeks out to my first visit there. When I went back to a range from masses to be said for the cause of the solo Pedro Pablo Oberholm, Lake of Galway. I asked one of the good fathers to translate home of the worn, dim inscription incisive of the base of the lamp. It is hard to read he told me, but the letters are different. Old. But it was Latin. And at last he made it out. Priorities. Corières. Futores. Sema. The past many times. The past many times. The future. But once. And I wondered then. I wish that I had more time to talk with Oberholm, learn of his excursions into the past. Whether he had possessed the hardyhood to take his one trip into the future. Or cute to tell I myself had not. But I made many trips back and learned many things which only have explained that in my books. Yes, I was there. I saw John Fremont. Teotico was my friend. I saw the marches behind the bare flag in the days of the California Republic. I knew many people whose names are in history now. I knew them and they knew me. And we were friends. You ask how? I have but to light my lamp and think of a timeline there. There are only two restrictions. One. But I can change only time, not place. If I wish to see Chicago in the mid 90s, I must go to Chicago. If I would watch the Battle of Hastings in 1066, I must go to England. And the other. I may see the future. Only once. And I find myself incapable of choosing a time in the future which I would want to see. But let us speak of the past a while longer. Do you know the old Vicente Deo's so dobe in Encino? Or about those street runs in the Ventura Boulevard? A long low dobe house with the thick walls, the broad fountain in the yard. They must have driven past a dozen times. I lived there with my wife, Concepcion, Queen Chita Morales. All through the year 1821. I think that was the happiest period of my life. Yes, the little bronze lamp is a priceless gift. A gift that no mortal should ever possess. I'm afraid for there were certain things. Immutable laws governed it. I have no idea where it came from. We discovered its powers. We fixed its powers. But it brought evil as well as good. Cheryl. As well as George. The punishment shall we say for the possession of such transcendent powers. I'd hoped that with the lamp I'd be unable to live again certain happy days. But I found that once lived those days were forever gone. I remember how I found it out. It was not always easy to explain my long absences from Concepcion, our home in the valley. I couldn't say cut us all. I had been visiting other times. I did the best I could, almost always. And she was satisfied, happy that I returned. But there was a time when I'd been away and miscalculated. The time when I came back. It was six months later than I thought. The house was dark and silent, and I walked up the pan. I called... Bon Chita! Bon Chita! And there was no answer. Only old to Bursio, her father was there squatting in the darkness. His quapling poi censored me. Are you terrible? Are you terrible? Oh, not to Bursio. Where is everybody? We've gone a long time and prayed. I'm sorry, I meant to come back earlier, but something happened and I... How's Concepcion? I'm hungry enough. What's the matter, Bursio? I said, "I'm hungry, Bursio, thank you, Aubrey. What's he?" I didn't know a snob. What's that? What's the matter? Where's Concepcion? Oh, Concepcion, is there? What did you say to Bursio? She died four days ago and I prayed them. Your child was blind and she died. And I've turned them away, set by the thottons for a long, long time. My child... would live and die before I was born. My wife... And I'd drive my tears as I suddenly thought, "Well, I can bring her back." All I got to do is light the lamp again, think of a time long before this and she'll be back. And I did. And I found myself still in the same time with Aubrey Bursio huddled in the shadow of the house. And Conchita dead. No other limitations to everything. If I'm not in such a fool, I'd have thrown a lamp away, come back to my own time to live out my life. But I didn't. I planted an acacia tree beside her grave. You can find it, perhaps, someday, if you're nearly or they lose the house. Today, it's rather than dead of old age. I planted it with these hands. It's more than a hundred years old. I never went back to the old days of the dead of old house. I'd been past there a number of times. I know where the grave is and the acacia. I know where to find our initials. Conchita's in mind, scratched to the Spanish dagger in the bobby wall when it was soft and fresh. But it's a place of sorrow when you remember it happiness for me. And I seldom go there. But I've been many places. I didn't meet George Washington. I talked with Allen. I'm stubborn at Valley Forge, but the general himself was unapproachable. I watched the custom massacre from the hilltop above the little dig horn. Could tell you some interesting facts about that fight. I saw a Marie Antoinette mount the steps of the scaffold in Paris. I turned away in sick horror. And when I'd let up my lamp again, I found myself in a midst of a crowd celebrating Lindbergh's flight from the United States. I knew a man in New York named Sidney Rees. And I sat in an old house where a skyscraper stands now and watched Sidney carving his own tombstone. You can see the tombstone yourself if you're walking past Trinity's churchyard someday in New York. How Sidney Sidney lies about here, it reads. I remember how Sidney laughed as he tapped away at the inscription. And if the little lamp is taken in many places, then my books, they say, are accurate, novels of detail. I wonder that the Irishman and Spanish uniform ever visit this age on his one excursion into the future. That the others who wanted the furring come and stare curiously at us. However, they are scared of the future of seeing the future too soon as I was. Years the long years have taken a heavy toll. The Indian Isle and my shoulder forgive them, a fever in the swamps with an endocortes army in Mexico. A slash I got in my leg from a baby dinosaur in Arizona half a million years ago. And all the sorrows are the sadness. I learned some interesting facts last night. My doctor, Katherine Sprigg, Hunter, and the practical hard-headed woman, a friend, my doctor. Last night we sat alone and spoke of many things, many things. Of course I believe it, Nancy. I find it difficult to believe it. Yes, I believe it. I'm glad you do. I was afraid. I rather envy you. Don't envy me, Katherine. Yes. I have so many things on my conscience, things that came about through this lap, you know. Peter Paul O'Brien that I murdered. Let's not say murdered, Nancy. Murdered in 1799. And Conchita. That you couldn't help you, no? I don't know, perhaps, if I'd come back sooner. You never know. If you could have had adequate medical attention, perhaps. If I could have gone back earlier, taken you back with me. You couldn't do that. No. Hold it myself. I feel a sense of inadequacy, Katherine. I feel it with this amazing power. I should have done something with it. Something for other people instead of for myself alone. I wish you had books, too. Yes, I know the books. But after all, I am not after what you told me tonight. It's too late, isn't it? I don't know. What you said? I said, I'm afraid you haven't too much time, Nancy. I said you'd better begin to set your affairs in order. They're in order. As much in order as they ever will be. After you told me the story about the lamp, I wondered. I wondered? Perhaps the words seem loose in somewhere. Some time, I mean, might need catching up. No, I don't think so. No, I think not. Except, as I said, I wish there were at least a few things I could do for someone else. You know about that, Nancy. I don't. If I could have taken back a gift of happiness to someone. But I didn't. When I got the lamp, I killed a man. And I met Kunchita. I sat and watched Kuster's man being slaughtered. But could you have done? I might have thought with him. I might have contributed. Contributed your own death. What could the dad have done? I mean, I've been happier. I think not. All right. I've been headed the greatest opportunity of all time and... What have I done with it? No, I'm afraid. Why are you so afraid of this future? What makes you think I'm afraid of the future? You are. Aren't you? I'm not afraid of it. Yes, you are. Well, who isn't? The past? That's happened. We know about it. We can take care of ourselves in the past, but the future... But the future is the place where you might find us gifts you want to bring to humanity. To others. You don't like the compacity? I don't know. Something's there. Something that might help us if we know a little about it. No. You say you owe a death plan to... Yes, but I... I don't want to remind you of what I told you tonight, but... How long have I got, Captain? Shall I tell you? Tell me. You may have six months. Oh, well, you may have ten years. But the six months is more likely. Yes. Yes, it is. Or... Or what? Or less? Captain, I'm afraid. Your decision, Manfred. But it's not much time. Well, what if I find this? Well, if I find I'm dead when I go into the future, would that be suicide? You might be dead an hour from now, Manfred. No. You or I or anyone? Maybe I wouldn't be able to come back. You have only to like the lamp, you say? Well, I know, but they might not let me come back. I rather think they'd be glad to help us. Because anything we might do with their secrets could conceivably help them. Yes, I suppose. I suppose so. Well, think it over, Manfred. I will. Tell us on me in the morning. All right. Good night. Good night. ♪ ♪ I sat there for a long time, thinking about over. Something of a shock to be told that you're near the inevitable close of your life. To never death is so irrevocably near. I think that faded from my mind to those black cars. Only if you were repiring. Curiosity remained. Curiosity also you could catch me and set a fire in me. I learned that the clock was striking for when I pinched out a last cigarette and reached over for the lamp. I was quite calm as I touched the flame of my light into the wake. I said aloud. I wish I could see the future. ♪ The tiny flame from the lamp cast its beams almost in vain. For the room that I sat in was only a shell that put it empty. The floor was ripped and torn with great jagged holes in it. Whereas it almost disappeared, I could look out over the city from any angle. Look at the light from my lamp. It was the only light there was anywhere. I cried out there was no answer. I cried again. Still there was nothing but the oppressive silence. I knew it. The heart of the world collapsed beside me. ♪ And in the east, the first blow of the sunrise frightened the morning. I put out the light of the lamp. I did not know how long I stood there. The ruined room. I'm moving. Using out on a scene of desolation such as man has never seen before. ♪ And as the sun rose higher into the triggeringly dark sky, new scenes of blue and an ashes came into blue. There was nothing. The city was gone. As far as the eye could see. Desolation. And you're under the man to do it. ♪ Normally, I don't know how far into the future I went. I said I wish I could see the future here. It may be that the timeline is a hundred years from your time. A hundred times. A red hour. Not just the future. And how much I come back to. The man was out there. There's no way to like it again. I like that piece. I'm coming out. My lighter is on the table in this room somewhere in the past. ♪ If I could like the light. I could return and perhaps this some way that we can work together and fan. I'm not sure if I had this too much eye on them. Let's see if my own eyes. It might be time. ♪ How can I come back? Who am I here to? Like the lamp for me. And for you. ♪ A title of today's Quietly News Story was like the lamp for me. It was written and directed by Willis Cooper. And the man who spoke to you was Ernest Chappell. And I don't know how they played the Irish soldier, Floyd Buckley was to go to see Owen, the doctor was canceling the day. As you, your music for Quietly News is played by Albert Vernon. Now, for what about next week? My good friend, I write a direct to Willis Cooper. I've written me a story for the next week and I call Nate John Smith. John. ♪ And so, until next week at the same time, I'm Quietly News Ernest Chappell. ♪ Now a listening reminder. The rocket-busting counterspies expose another vicious criminal enterprise this afternoon. Be sure to hear David Harding counterspies over this ABC station. This is ABC, the American Broadcasting Company. An official message from Medicare. A new law is helping me save more money on prescription drug costs. You may be able to save too. With Medicare's extra help program, my premium is zero and my out-of-pocket costs are low. Who should apply? Single people making less than $23,000 a year or a married couple who make less than $31,000 a year. Even if you don't think you qualify, it pays to find out. Go to ssa.gov/extrahelp, paid for by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. ♪ Ready for an audio experience like no other? Dive into the world of infinite sounds with Crystal Clear High Fidelity, only on Saul Good Media. Visit SaulGoodMedia.com today and start exploring the boundless universe of sounds that will soothe, inspire and revitalize your senses. Start listening today and experience uninterrupted serenity at SaulGoodMedia.com. ♪