Read Online DAEMONOMANIA: Book Three of the Aegypt Cycle by John Crowley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Crowley
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Pierce assumed, though—what
he would perhaps at the very end of his book conclude, what he
planned
to conclude—was that this longing or hope, real and effective as it was and in the past had been, belonged to the things
inside
and not to the things
outside
: that outside remains about as it always has, but that, inside, World-Ages are always failing and being renewed; that no life
ends without its share of such upheavals; that any moment will be, for some hearts, the twilight of Minerva’s owl. In the
end it was to be a fable, of general application; a truth about human nature more than about history.
De te fabula
.
In that way he could sell his book no matter what befell the world.
Like the brilliant boy he had known at St. Guinefort’s, his school, who had shuffled a deck of cards before him and asked
what his favorite card was; and when Pierce had answered (rather at random) that it was the jack of diamonds, the boy had
laid the deck facedown on his bed in rows, then allowed Pierce to take away what cards he chose in an elaborate ritual, ending
up with but one lone card on the bed; much hesitation and
mysterioso
, perhaps this hasn’t worked, then he turned over the card and it was indeed the chosen jack; and only long after did the
boy show Pierce the deck he’d used, all jacks of diamonds. Pierce asked what he would have done if Pierce had named, say,
the queen of hearts? I’d have put the cards away, the boy said; but almost everybody names the jack of diamonds.
It was noon, and Pierce pulled from the wickerwork étagère beside him (it shared the patio with his desk and chair and a glider
upholstered in striped canvas) a bottle of Scotch, and poured an inch into a glass.
At The Woods Center for Psychotherapy the parking lot was crowded with the station wagons and cars, many nice ones, of the
parents and spouses who had arrived to take the residents (never “patients”) back to the lives from which they had escaped
or been ejected to come here. The now ex-residents piled portable stereos and boxes of books and records and green rucksacks
into the backs or trunks of Foxes and Jaguars, or watched their parents do it; among some family bands the tension was already
mounting as Rose Ryder passed by. Up at the open flagged entrance of the shingled main building, once a family resort (some
residents called it the Next-to-Last Resort), staff members were parting from those who had graduated from the program, some
of whom were in tears, others sprightly and gay, all better now. Rose had to stop several times to give hugs and get them,
her hurry imparting a horridinsincerity to the farewells she tried to get over with quick. Well
heyee
. Now you write, okayee? Hey I’m
sure
it’s gonna be
great
.
Away and upward then on the staircase that climbed up within the Tower on the building’s sunset side to the Lookout on the
top, a broad room once an open terrace and now screened and glassed. Way late. She went up, over, up again, over again around
the four sides of the structure, leaving earth. A spiral: coming at each floor to the same place again, only higher.
She stopped. She listened for voices above. She could see that the door to the Lookout was closed. If you can’t make it this
morning just don’t bother coming in at all anymore: Mike used to pretend to be able to say such things with calm force but
now suddenly he really could. And he had learned up there.
She circled upward, circling what she feared. Easy enough to say she had just forgot, and then to forget she had not really
forgotten. And Mike would let it go, let her go.
She could hear a voice now through the door at the top of the stairs, Ray Honeybeare’s, speaking softly. She pressed her cheek
against the door, smelling its odor of pine and varnish, and tried to hear words; waited for a pause within which she could
open the door; waited for what drew her to overcome what pushed her away.
She
he would perhaps at the very end of his book conclude, what he
planned
to conclude—was that this longing or hope, real and effective as it was and in the past had been, belonged to the things
inside
and not to the things
outside
: that outside remains about as it always has, but that, inside, World-Ages are always failing and being renewed; that no life
ends without its share of such upheavals; that any moment will be, for some hearts, the twilight of Minerva’s owl. In the
end it was to be a fable, of general application; a truth about human nature more than about history.
De te fabula
.
In that way he could sell his book no matter what befell the world.
Like the brilliant boy he had known at St. Guinefort’s, his school, who had shuffled a deck of cards before him and asked
what his favorite card was; and when Pierce had answered (rather at random) that it was the jack of diamonds, the boy had
laid the deck facedown on his bed in rows, then allowed Pierce to take away what cards he chose in an elaborate ritual, ending
up with but one lone card on the bed; much hesitation and
mysterioso
, perhaps this hasn’t worked, then he turned over the card and it was indeed the chosen jack; and only long after did the
boy show Pierce the deck he’d used, all jacks of diamonds. Pierce asked what he would have done if Pierce had named, say,
the queen of hearts? I’d have put the cards away, the boy said; but almost everybody names the jack of diamonds.
It was noon, and Pierce pulled from the wickerwork étagère beside him (it shared the patio with his desk and chair and a glider
upholstered in striped canvas) a bottle of Scotch, and poured an inch into a glass.
At The Woods Center for Psychotherapy the parking lot was crowded with the station wagons and cars, many nice ones, of the
parents and spouses who had arrived to take the residents (never “patients”) back to the lives from which they had escaped
or been ejected to come here. The now ex-residents piled portable stereos and boxes of books and records and green rucksacks
into the backs or trunks of Foxes and Jaguars, or watched their parents do it; among some family bands the tension was already
mounting as Rose Ryder passed by. Up at the open flagged entrance of the shingled main building, once a family resort (some
residents called it the Next-to-Last Resort), staff members were parting from those who had graduated from the program, some
of whom were in tears, others sprightly and gay, all better now. Rose had to stop several times to give hugs and get them,
her hurry imparting a horridinsincerity to the farewells she tried to get over with quick. Well
heyee
. Now you write, okayee? Hey I’m
sure
it’s gonna be
great
.
Away and upward then on the staircase that climbed up within the Tower on the building’s sunset side to the Lookout on the
top, a broad room once an open terrace and now screened and glassed. Way late. She went up, over, up again, over again around
the four sides of the structure, leaving earth. A spiral: coming at each floor to the same place again, only higher.
She stopped. She listened for voices above. She could see that the door to the Lookout was closed. If you can’t make it this
morning just don’t bother coming in at all anymore: Mike used to pretend to be able to say such things with calm force but
now suddenly he really could. And he had learned up there.
She circled upward, circling what she feared. Easy enough to say she had just forgot, and then to forget she had not really
forgotten. And Mike would let it go, let her go.
She could hear a voice now through the door at the top of the stairs, Ray Honeybeare’s, speaking softly. She pressed her cheek
against the door, smelling its odor of pine and varnish, and tried to hear words; waited for a pause within which she could
open the door; waited for what drew her to overcome what pushed her away.
She
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