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“Almost almost forgot. Remember, no walking down the silver corridor when it’s dark. No looking behind the emerald curtain. No staring portraits in the eye. No eating things without salt. And no trusting the Salamander.”
I had been taught to tame my wild impulses and desires that had agitated me to pain. I had folded it with my soul and learnt to drink contentment like you would a poison. Drop by drop, day by day. Until it became tolerable.
And so, here I was: clutching the compass he had left behind, knot tightening within my heart, under the light of a pendulum sun.
Scorn the food and shun the drink, For faerie food and faerie tricks, Will snare the tongue and trap the sick. Sprinkle salt from human lands Sprinkle salt with human hands. Meat loves salt and salt loves meat, I pray the lord my soul to keep. So sprinkle salt, else restless sleep, So sprinkle salt, else endless weep. Traditional folk rhyme, collected by J Ritson in Fairy Tales and Folk Songs, Now First Collected, with Two Dissertations on Pygmies and on Fairies
By and large, the Fair Folk possess all the essentials of humanity. They have in common with us all the elements of body which make up the man. They have two eyes, two ears, two hands and two feet. They appear to laugh when they are pleased, weep when they are grieved; they sleep when weary, eat when hungry; rejoice over their gains, mourn over their losses very much as other men do. However, those longest associated with them, and most intimately acquainted with their character and habits, never expect one of the Fair Folk to speak the truth when there is a chance for them to tell a lie. Yet
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Native to Arcadia and sometimes found in earthly libraries, this pest is often said to feed off the written word. It allegedly consumes secrets and digests them into less informative fragmentary whispers.
“But I daresay I fear the Pale Queen the most.” “Why?” Mr Benjamin grinned at my question, his lips stretching tight over his blunt, brown teeth. There was no humour in it. “Because she is most human.”
I have but one candle of life to burn, and I would rather burn it out in a land filled with darkness than in a land flooded with light.
They would never lie if the truth can hurt more. And the truth can always hurt more.
Jesus shall reign where’er the sun Does his successive journeys run; His kingdom stretch from shore to shore, Till moons shall wax and wane no more. Behold the islands with their kings, And Europe her best tribute brings; From north to south the princes meet, To pay their homage at His feet. There Persia, glorious to behold, There Elphane shines in illusory gold; And barbarous nations at His word Submit, and bow, and own their Lord. Where He displays His healing power, Death and the curse are known no more: In Him the tribes of Adam boast More blessings than their father lost. Let every
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Bäumchen, rüttel dich und schüttel dich, wirf Gold und Silber über mich.
“You’re human. And humanity loves us.” She was stroking my hand as though it were a lapdog. “So desperate are you to speak to us that you see us everywhere. You look across your borders, your walls, and instead of your neighbours, you see us. As your ships sail further and countries and continents discover each other, you see not each other. You see us. You want to see us.”
If changelings are something between man and beast, what will become of them in the other world?
Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck. How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse! how much better is thy love than wine! and the smell of thine ointments than all spices! Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon. A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed. Thy plants are an orchard of pomegranates, with pleasant fruits; camphire, with spikenard, Spikenard and saffron;
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“And it has been a while since I’ve watched my sister read the bloody entrails of the constellations…”
And this is a question no one had asked – why had He not painted again? Out of fear that He’d have to recycle this canvas? Though it seems an odd accusation to the all powerful that He would, of all things, run out of space. But no, I would say He never painted again because He ran out of ideas. Perhaps, like the best of us, He knew He had only one story in Him. One story. And He had written it all in every aspect of the world, from each pillar-like mountain to vaulting sky.
The children that die as the price of that first Fall, I shall replace. For the love that my child bore his, sinful it may be in his eyes, I will love them both. I will bring her dolls of flesh to save her from that pain.
