that term Brock had used before about Dahlia LaMotte’s family— overland .
“I went to college with a girl from Great Neck whose family came over then, too … but why do you say overland ?”
She shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest; the diamonds on her fingers glittered as she chafed her hands against her upper arms. She and Casper exchanged a look. “It is just an expression we exiles use,” she said.
“Here at Fairwick,” Casper said, “there is a long tradition of giving asylum to refugees. That’s what the painting on the outer doors of the triptych represents. It’s called The Fairies’ Farewell. ” He nodded toward the large painting at the end of the room. From afar I hadn’t noticed that it was a triptych, but when I got closer I saw a seam running down the middle and two small gilt handles, presumably to open the painting to reveal the three interior scenes. I thought it was unusual to display a triptych closed, but then the painting on the outer doors was certainly worth looking at. It depicted a procession of winged fairies and fox-faced elves led by a man and woman on horseback, traveling from left to right across a meadow, heading toward an arched opening in a thick wood. The man was on a white horse. He wore a black cloak, his face in shadow. The woman, on a black horse, wore a long green medieval dress, cinched at the waist with a gold belt decorated with Celtic designs similar to the ones on the painted beams and panels in this room. Her long white hair was entwined with flowers and leaves and, I realized with a start, she looked a lot like Fiona Eldritch. I turned around to glance at Fiona, who was chatting with the dark-garbed Russian studies professors.
“You’ve noticed the resemblance,” Casper said, sounding, I thought, a little nervous for the first time since I’d met him. “Fiona is the grandchild of one of the donors of the painting, who modeled for the Fairy Queen.”
“I see,” I said, although I thought there was something Casper wasn’t telling me. “So she’s the Fairy Queen, who’s …?” I was going to ask who the man at her side was, but as I stepped nearer and looked more closely at the shadowed face the words died in my throat. It was he. The man in my dreams.
“Ah, you recognize him,” Soheila said.
I tore my eyes away from the painted face and stared at Soheila, aghast.
“What do you mean? Why would I recognize him?”
“Because you’ve made a study of him,” Soheila replied calmly, but giving me a quizzical look. “That is the Ganconer, as he’s called in Celtic myth. His name means ‘love talker.’ In Sumerian myth he was called Lilu. He’s the incubus who rides his horse, the night mare, into the dreams of women whom he seduces. The women he comes to in their sleep fall under his spell and begin to waste away. He sucks them dry like a vampire. He’s what you write about in your book—the demon lover.” Soheila wrapped her sweater more tightly around her chest and tucked her hands into her long sleeves. She looked like she was freezing. “In my country we have a long history of dealing with demons,” she whispered. For a moment I thought I saw her breath condensing into a little puff of smoke, but I must have imagined it; it was warm in the room. “But he is the most dangerous of demons because he is the most beautiful. The others …” She tilted her chin to the far right side of the painting—the woods that were the destination of the procession. The dense thicket was inhabited by shadowy figures. While the creatures in the procession were beautiful winged fairies and elves, the creatures lurking amid the vines were stunted goblins and lizard-skinned dwarves, forked-tongued devils and bat-faced imps. “These creatures are easily recognizable as demons, but the Ganconer assumes the shape of your heart’s desire.”
“Why is he at the head of this procession?” I asked. “Is he with … her ?” I pointed toward
“I went to college with a girl from Great Neck whose family came over then, too … but why do you say overland ?”
She shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest; the diamonds on her fingers glittered as she chafed her hands against her upper arms. She and Casper exchanged a look. “It is just an expression we exiles use,” she said.
“Here at Fairwick,” Casper said, “there is a long tradition of giving asylum to refugees. That’s what the painting on the outer doors of the triptych represents. It’s called The Fairies’ Farewell. ” He nodded toward the large painting at the end of the room. From afar I hadn’t noticed that it was a triptych, but when I got closer I saw a seam running down the middle and two small gilt handles, presumably to open the painting to reveal the three interior scenes. I thought it was unusual to display a triptych closed, but then the painting on the outer doors was certainly worth looking at. It depicted a procession of winged fairies and fox-faced elves led by a man and woman on horseback, traveling from left to right across a meadow, heading toward an arched opening in a thick wood. The man was on a white horse. He wore a black cloak, his face in shadow. The woman, on a black horse, wore a long green medieval dress, cinched at the waist with a gold belt decorated with Celtic designs similar to the ones on the painted beams and panels in this room. Her long white hair was entwined with flowers and leaves and, I realized with a start, she looked a lot like Fiona Eldritch. I turned around to glance at Fiona, who was chatting with the dark-garbed Russian studies professors.
“You’ve noticed the resemblance,” Casper said, sounding, I thought, a little nervous for the first time since I’d met him. “Fiona is the grandchild of one of the donors of the painting, who modeled for the Fairy Queen.”
“I see,” I said, although I thought there was something Casper wasn’t telling me. “So she’s the Fairy Queen, who’s …?” I was going to ask who the man at her side was, but as I stepped nearer and looked more closely at the shadowed face the words died in my throat. It was he. The man in my dreams.
“Ah, you recognize him,” Soheila said.
I tore my eyes away from the painted face and stared at Soheila, aghast.
“What do you mean? Why would I recognize him?”
“Because you’ve made a study of him,” Soheila replied calmly, but giving me a quizzical look. “That is the Ganconer, as he’s called in Celtic myth. His name means ‘love talker.’ In Sumerian myth he was called Lilu. He’s the incubus who rides his horse, the night mare, into the dreams of women whom he seduces. The women he comes to in their sleep fall under his spell and begin to waste away. He sucks them dry like a vampire. He’s what you write about in your book—the demon lover.” Soheila wrapped her sweater more tightly around her chest and tucked her hands into her long sleeves. She looked like she was freezing. “In my country we have a long history of dealing with demons,” she whispered. For a moment I thought I saw her breath condensing into a little puff of smoke, but I must have imagined it; it was warm in the room. “But he is the most dangerous of demons because he is the most beautiful. The others …” She tilted her chin to the far right side of the painting—the woods that were the destination of the procession. The dense thicket was inhabited by shadowy figures. While the creatures in the procession were beautiful winged fairies and elves, the creatures lurking amid the vines were stunted goblins and lizard-skinned dwarves, forked-tongued devils and bat-faced imps. “These creatures are easily recognizable as demons, but the Ganconer assumes the shape of your heart’s desire.”
“Why is he at the head of this procession?” I asked. “Is he with … her ?” I pointed toward
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