5.9: The second story about the (modern) Order of the Sponge
“That’s all very well,” pTravis interjects. “But surely any organisation formed 2,000 years ago will long since have ceased to exist. Or have been turned into something quite different from its original purposes?”
“A natural assumption. But let me show you another icon which was obviously painted much more recently than the first. A refreshing reliance on modern steam technology!
“And here is another ‘story’...
Concealed behind unassuming storefronts and in the interstices of hotel laundry rooms, members of the clandestine Order of the Sponge, akin to the legendary Knights Templar of old, harness the power of sponge and iron as instruments of their dual purpose, seamlessly blending the sacred and the sartorial. With each stroke of sponge and press of iron, they imbue garments with layers of coded messages, seamlessly promulgating their sacred doctrine and directives.
As customers unknowingly entrust their attire to the hands of these skilled artisans, they unwittingly become carriers of the Order’s message, spreading its influence across the globe. Each careful press and precise fold serves as a conduit for the Order’s clandestine communications, weaving a web of secrecy within the seemingly ordinary act of garment care. Through their adept manipulation of soap and steam, the Knights of the Order of the Sponge control the flow of information and influence the movement of political power. They orchestrate a symphony of intrigue that reverberates across continents, shaping the destinies of nations with each meticulous stroke.
In cases of dire emergency, agents of the Order, ‘Pilgrims of Dust’ as such travelling knights are known, can call for assistance on feast days sacred to its saintly founder, through a ritual steeped in arcane symbolism. With practised hands under the cloak of night, they wield superheated travel irons to singe, seemingly blasphemously, sacred fabric, while murmuring incantations which carry through the ether. Their words resonate with the mystical frequencies binding every chevalier of the Order, each syllable a thread weaving through the unseen tapestry of reality.
In answer to their call, some non-descript laundering establishment nestled amid the vibrant bustle of city streets shimmers with a subtle, ethereal luminescence, intimating the presence the Knights of the Order of the Sponge concealed within. Behind the mundane façade of a well-known dry cleaning franchise, coin-operated laundrette or grimy office of an independent travelling ‘artisan of the sponge’ or valet, the vigilant knights stand ready, their senses attuned to the silent summons of their fellow members’ incantations. With the grace born of dedicated practice, they don their insignias and scarves of office, pick up sponge and travel iron, poised to embrace new missions, their allegiance unwavering in the face of the myriad threats which lurk in shadows and grime.
To her own surprise, Lottie has not been tempted in any way to fall asleep. Why can’t her lessons be as interesting as this?!? She wants to go back to their den - she now thinks of it as partly hers although the others have made no such offer - and discuss it. But by now it is dark outside and for all anyone knows, the hills may be alive with bulb spiders.
So, instead, they head off to their various bunks leaving Hipparchus with his oil lamp turned low and tuning the dial of his almost inaudible short wave radio.