King of Morning, Queen of Day by Ian McDonald Read Free Book Online

pookahs—creatures the length of my forearm with the body of a boy and the head of a horse—capering agilely through the trees. Among the roots squatted things like tiny fauns, with the legs and horns of a ram and bright, human eyes. In the distance I saw the figures of the woman archer and the blind harper, whose music filled Bridestone Wood, floating like the drifting thistledown through the trees. And beyond them, almost hidden by the moon shadows, were the Lords of the Ever-Living Ones: the antlered helmets of the Wild Hunt, the moon-silvered spearpoints of the Host of Sidhe. The music swelled until the woods rang and I felt my heart would burst. And then there was silence—profound, absolute silence, and stillness. And far off, among the trees, there was a golden glow. It drew nearer, and as it approached, the host of the faeries let out a bubbling murmur of awe. Heads bowed, knees bent, spear points touched the moss. The golden glow entered the clearing and I saw that it was a wheel. It was five-spoked, much as I have always imagined a chariot wheel to be, rolling by its own power. It rolled toward me, enveloping me in its golden glow. I felt an overwhelming need to kneel before it. Inside the light I saw that the wheel was not just one thing, but many things at once: a golden salmon, a spear of light, a swan with a silver chain around its neck, a radiantly beautiful man with the green branch of a tree in his hand. The words of wonder and awe seized in my throat. I reached out a hand to touch the magic and mystery. The golden light blazed up before me… and the next thing I remember, I was back again beside the summerhouse where I had dropped my nightgown, alone and naked and cold. My feet were like two blocks of ice in the heavy dew. It is strange, but I remember feeling guilty and embarrassed as I pulled on my nightgown. The sky was beginning to lighten to the east; dawn would soon be rising over Glencar. I shivered and shuddered in the cold before the rooming.
    I do remember one more thing. As I slipped back through the french windows up to my room again, all the clocks I passed stood at quarter to four.

Emily’s Diary: July 7–12, 1913
    T HE GOOD WEATHER BROKE last night in a tremendous thunderstorm. It started unassumingly enough—just rambles and grumbles out beyond Knocknarea—then the sky gradually filled with black and before we knew it, lit up with lightning. The thunder rattled the windows and the storm was upon us. I have never seen the like before, trapped and roaring in the glens and valleys around Ben Bulben. Mrs. O’C was sure the world was going to end, and every time the thunder roared, I found myself agreeing with her.
    It definitely spelled the end of the marvellous weather. When I looked out my window this morning the mountain was covered in grey cloud and a dismal, dreary rain was falling. I was stuck in the house all day doing jigsaws in the library and playing with the cat. How easily entertained are cats! A little scrap of wool and they are amused for hours. Lucky cats. I am bored, tired from doing nothing, and depressed. When the weather broke, it felt like the magic broke with it. Was it all just a Midsummer Night’s Dream?

July 8
    S TILL RAINING. LOOKS LIKE it will never end. How much rain can there be in a cloud? I had always imagined that as they rained, clouds dwindled until eventually they rained themselves away to nothing. Evidently not.
    I’ve been thinking—about the faeries; about the magical Otherworld so close to our own, and yet so far away; about what Mummy said about the Old Gods not really dying, only changing into the shapes of their enemies. All sorts of thoughts whirled around in my head like a kaleidoscope, wanting to fall together into a pattern that would make sense—a theory, a hypothesis (Daddy would be pleased. Here I am, thinking like a scientist)—but they wouldn’t. It is as if there is one magical, golden key that holds them all together and I cannot