Read Online King of Morning, Queen of Day by Ian McDonald - Free Book Online
Authors: Ian McDonald
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Desmond. Weather cloudy, threatening rain from the West.)
Emily: (her face ecstatic) Oh, can’t you hear them? Can’t you feel them? Oh, I thought I’d lost them, affronted them, and they’d hidden themselves away from me, but they’ve returned, they’ve come for me. Oh, can’t you hear them, calling through the woods and glens, across the mountainsides? They are the fairest of the fair, the sons of Danu; there are none to compare with the comeliness of the dwellers in the hollow hills: no son of Milesius, no daughter of proud Maeve aslumber on cold Knocknarea. Their cloaks are of scarlet wool, their tunics of fine Greek silk. Upon their breasts they wear the badge of the Red Branch Heros, upon their brows circlets of yellow gold; their skin is as white as the milk of mares, their hair as black as the raven’s wing. The glint of iron spear points is in their eyes and their lips are as red as blood. Fair they are, the sons of Danu, but none so fair or so noble as Lugh of the Long Hand. Strong-mewed he is, golden-maned, golden-skinned; clad in the green and the gold of the Royal Don of Brugh-na-Boinne. He is Lugh, King of the Morning, Master of the Thousand Skills. There is none to compare with him in music or archery, poetry or the feats of war, the hunt, or the tender accomplishments of love. (Here Dr. Desmond blushed.) We are riders on the wings of morning, he and I, dancers in the starlit halls of Tir Nan Og. And with the sun setting we rise in the shape of swans, joined at the necks by chains and collars of red red gold, and journey through the night to the Land of Sunrise where we embark again upon our wondrous journey of love. We have tasted the hazelnuts of the Tree of Wisdom. We have been many things, many shapes—wild swans upon the Lake of Code, two arbutuses twined together upon a bare mountainside, white birds upon the foam of the sea. We have been trees, leaping silver salmon, wild horses, red foxes, noble deer; brave warriors, proud kings, sage wizards—
Yeats: Entrancing. Quite entrancing. Ah— thank you, Emily. That will suffice for the moment. Mr. Rooke, have you any questions you would like to put?
Rooke: Just one or two, if you will indulge me. Emily, could you tell me, when did you start your last period? (General consternation.)
Yeats: Mr. Rooke. Please!
Rooke: My apologies if I have offended any sensibilities, but this line of questioning is critical to my investigation of these manifestations. Emily, did you hear the question?
Emily: The eighth of July.
Rooke: And are they regular? I mean, is there a regular period of time between them?
Emily: Always the same. Twenty-nine days.
Rooke: So, the previous one would have begun about, say, the sixteenth of June?
Emily: Yes.
Rooke: And the next one would be due, then, in, let me think, eight days’ time, on the eighth of August? About the new moon?
Emily: Yes.
Rooke: And how long is it since you felt the returning presence of the faeries?
Emily: Since last night. I felt them, in my sleep last night—their presence out there in the wood, calling to me.
Rooke: Tell me, Emily, have you been feeling in any way physically out of sorts? Dizziness, light-headedness, stomach cramps, as if they were warning signs that a period is due? During a period, do you ever experience peculiar changes of mood and feeling? For example, have you ever felt sad and depressed and then, seemingly for no reason, found yourself suddenly buoyant and elated? When you become aware of the presence of the faeries, do you ever experience any kind of, how shall we put it, sensual, sexual excitement, or arousal?
E.G. Desmond: I insist that this stop at once! I will tolerate no more of this humiliation, this prurient titillation! No, I will not tolerate it. My daughter is not some sideshow, some circus freak for your idle amusement! I will not stand for any more of this cheap and tawdry voyeurism masquerading in the guise of science and learning! Good Lord, we stand
Emily: (her face ecstatic) Oh, can’t you hear them? Can’t you feel them? Oh, I thought I’d lost them, affronted them, and they’d hidden themselves away from me, but they’ve returned, they’ve come for me. Oh, can’t you hear them, calling through the woods and glens, across the mountainsides? They are the fairest of the fair, the sons of Danu; there are none to compare with the comeliness of the dwellers in the hollow hills: no son of Milesius, no daughter of proud Maeve aslumber on cold Knocknarea. Their cloaks are of scarlet wool, their tunics of fine Greek silk. Upon their breasts they wear the badge of the Red Branch Heros, upon their brows circlets of yellow gold; their skin is as white as the milk of mares, their hair as black as the raven’s wing. The glint of iron spear points is in their eyes and their lips are as red as blood. Fair they are, the sons of Danu, but none so fair or so noble as Lugh of the Long Hand. Strong-mewed he is, golden-maned, golden-skinned; clad in the green and the gold of the Royal Don of Brugh-na-Boinne. He is Lugh, King of the Morning, Master of the Thousand Skills. There is none to compare with him in music or archery, poetry or the feats of war, the hunt, or the tender accomplishments of love. (Here Dr. Desmond blushed.) We are riders on the wings of morning, he and I, dancers in the starlit halls of Tir Nan Og. And with the sun setting we rise in the shape of swans, joined at the necks by chains and collars of red red gold, and journey through the night to the Land of Sunrise where we embark again upon our wondrous journey of love. We have tasted the hazelnuts of the Tree of Wisdom. We have been many things, many shapes—wild swans upon the Lake of Code, two arbutuses twined together upon a bare mountainside, white birds upon the foam of the sea. We have been trees, leaping silver salmon, wild horses, red foxes, noble deer; brave warriors, proud kings, sage wizards—
Yeats: Entrancing. Quite entrancing. Ah— thank you, Emily. That will suffice for the moment. Mr. Rooke, have you any questions you would like to put?
Rooke: Just one or two, if you will indulge me. Emily, could you tell me, when did you start your last period? (General consternation.)
Yeats: Mr. Rooke. Please!
Rooke: My apologies if I have offended any sensibilities, but this line of questioning is critical to my investigation of these manifestations. Emily, did you hear the question?
Emily: The eighth of July.
Rooke: And are they regular? I mean, is there a regular period of time between them?
Emily: Always the same. Twenty-nine days.
Rooke: So, the previous one would have begun about, say, the sixteenth of June?
Emily: Yes.
Rooke: And the next one would be due, then, in, let me think, eight days’ time, on the eighth of August? About the new moon?
Emily: Yes.
Rooke: And how long is it since you felt the returning presence of the faeries?
Emily: Since last night. I felt them, in my sleep last night—their presence out there in the wood, calling to me.
Rooke: Tell me, Emily, have you been feeling in any way physically out of sorts? Dizziness, light-headedness, stomach cramps, as if they were warning signs that a period is due? During a period, do you ever experience peculiar changes of mood and feeling? For example, have you ever felt sad and depressed and then, seemingly for no reason, found yourself suddenly buoyant and elated? When you become aware of the presence of the faeries, do you ever experience any kind of, how shall we put it, sensual, sexual excitement, or arousal?
E.G. Desmond: I insist that this stop at once! I will tolerate no more of this humiliation, this prurient titillation! No, I will not tolerate it. My daughter is not some sideshow, some circus freak for your idle amusement! I will not stand for any more of this cheap and tawdry voyeurism masquerading in the guise of science and learning! Good Lord, we stand
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