numerals.
“It’s a warning to anyone who happens upon this island,” Hexy answered, dropping the waterlogged branch back onto the beach. “I don’t think that any of this nonsense is really true. But in case it is, they should know that this is the lair of the Beast.”
“The Beast?”
Hexy quoted Yeats:
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
“I ken yer meaning,” Rory said after a moment.
“If any of this is true, then I don’t think the Beast is slouching toward Bethlehem anymore. We need to be very careful.”
Rory nodded. “Aye, and I am thinking that I cannae leave until I am sure that my task here is done. We maun be assured of survival before I gae,” he said softly.
For some reason, these words made her shiver.
Rory rubbed warm, smooth hands over her arms. His touch, though, was more arousing than soothing. She suspected that he intended it that way.
“I ken that ye did not mean the summoning, sae I’ll not take ye against yer will, but ye’ll come tae me soon, won’t ye, lass?” he asked her, suddenly picking her up and walking toward their boat. His eyes were bright as they met hers. “It’s been a hundred years since one of yer kind has made love tae one of us. Four hundred seasons.”
Hexy closed her eyes, overcome with dizziness and a sort of thrilling terror. “I’m dreaming,” she reassured herself. “There is no reason to be frightened.”
“Certainly ye’ve nae reason tae be frightened of me here and now,” Rory murmured. “But I tell ye true, Hexy lass, this is nae dream. I suspect ye’ll realize it soon enough.”
Chapter Six
Hexy rolled onto her back and watched carefully. The moonlight was bright against the wall, broken into distorted squares by the many panes of ancient rippled glass that made up the window she had left slightly ajar. The light seemed frozen in midundulation. There were thirty-six separate spots of hazy light. She had counted them several times as the uneven diamonds of brightness moved slowly over the wall, the shadows shifting lazily as the lunar path led the moon down into the vermilion sea. It was not as soporific as counting sheep.
The chill, still night brought plainly the sounds of the silver-painted breakers, comingcloser every minute as they chased the cold moonlight up onto the barren landscape of broken gray stone. These were ancient rocks, sharp and savage and splintered, softened only by cotton grass and patches of stubborn heather that grew in the sand where the jutting stones stood.
Hexy rolled over and punched her pillow, trying to get comfortable. The down had a bad habit of gathering in the corners, where it welded itself into unbending bricks that tortured the body. No one could sleep under such conditions, not even with the sea whispering to them.
Rory would probably say that the storm kelpies were calm tonight, that there were no white horses riding the waves. The thought of Rory made Hexy smile even as she pushed the covers away from her face and rolled over onto her stomach, fitting her feet through the brass rails at the end of the bed.
It was a bit chilly with her bare feet sticking out where the eddies of cool air could tickle them, but she liked having the window open on the rare occasions when no rain threatened to disturb the coastal shores. The weather the last few days had actually been unseasonably delightful. She couldn’t recall exactly when, but it seemed to her that she’d been here many nights when the sea roared as it was driveninland by a furious hand and there was nothing to do but take shelter in caves of stone.
Yet blustery spring, real or imagined, had to end eventually. That was the way of the seasons. The days were rapidly drawing in on the nights and had surpassed them in length. Soon it would be summer, the season of
“It’s a warning to anyone who happens upon this island,” Hexy answered, dropping the waterlogged branch back onto the beach. “I don’t think that any of this nonsense is really true. But in case it is, they should know that this is the lair of the Beast.”
“The Beast?”
Hexy quoted Yeats:
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
“I ken yer meaning,” Rory said after a moment.
“If any of this is true, then I don’t think the Beast is slouching toward Bethlehem anymore. We need to be very careful.”
Rory nodded. “Aye, and I am thinking that I cannae leave until I am sure that my task here is done. We maun be assured of survival before I gae,” he said softly.
For some reason, these words made her shiver.
Rory rubbed warm, smooth hands over her arms. His touch, though, was more arousing than soothing. She suspected that he intended it that way.
“I ken that ye did not mean the summoning, sae I’ll not take ye against yer will, but ye’ll come tae me soon, won’t ye, lass?” he asked her, suddenly picking her up and walking toward their boat. His eyes were bright as they met hers. “It’s been a hundred years since one of yer kind has made love tae one of us. Four hundred seasons.”
Hexy closed her eyes, overcome with dizziness and a sort of thrilling terror. “I’m dreaming,” she reassured herself. “There is no reason to be frightened.”
“Certainly ye’ve nae reason tae be frightened of me here and now,” Rory murmured. “But I tell ye true, Hexy lass, this is nae dream. I suspect ye’ll realize it soon enough.”
Chapter Six
Hexy rolled onto her back and watched carefully. The moonlight was bright against the wall, broken into distorted squares by the many panes of ancient rippled glass that made up the window she had left slightly ajar. The light seemed frozen in midundulation. There were thirty-six separate spots of hazy light. She had counted them several times as the uneven diamonds of brightness moved slowly over the wall, the shadows shifting lazily as the lunar path led the moon down into the vermilion sea. It was not as soporific as counting sheep.
The chill, still night brought plainly the sounds of the silver-painted breakers, comingcloser every minute as they chased the cold moonlight up onto the barren landscape of broken gray stone. These were ancient rocks, sharp and savage and splintered, softened only by cotton grass and patches of stubborn heather that grew in the sand where the jutting stones stood.
Hexy rolled over and punched her pillow, trying to get comfortable. The down had a bad habit of gathering in the corners, where it welded itself into unbending bricks that tortured the body. No one could sleep under such conditions, not even with the sea whispering to them.
Rory would probably say that the storm kelpies were calm tonight, that there were no white horses riding the waves. The thought of Rory made Hexy smile even as she pushed the covers away from her face and rolled over onto her stomach, fitting her feet through the brass rails at the end of the bed.
It was a bit chilly with her bare feet sticking out where the eddies of cool air could tickle them, but she liked having the window open on the rare occasions when no rain threatened to disturb the coastal shores. The weather the last few days had actually been unseasonably delightful. She couldn’t recall exactly when, but it seemed to her that she’d been here many nights when the sea roared as it was driveninland by a furious hand and there was nothing to do but take shelter in caves of stone.
Yet blustery spring, real or imagined, had to end eventually. That was the way of the seasons. The days were rapidly drawing in on the nights and had surpassed them in length. Soon it would be summer, the season of
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