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Parsley Sage, Rosemary & Time

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Jane Louise Curry

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“The fox barked at her, one sharp, short sound. Without expecting to, Irène laughed. "What?" she said aloud. The fox's mouth opened, showing its white teeth, and its tongue lolled, laughing with her. A sense of recognition tingled in Irène's bones and throbbed in her forehead. Her laughter died. She came to her feet, facing the creature. It scrambled down from the tree trunk, its lithe body weaving through the branches as easily as a stream of water might. It stood on the opposite bank. Its tail arced above its back, a plume of red and black. Its unblinking gaze fixed itself on her. Irène whispered, "Are you here for me?" Again the fox's mouth opened in its grin, and its tail waved once, twice, before it leaped the little brook as easily as if it could fly. Irène stood very still as the fox stepped toward her on narrow black feet as dainty as a dancer's. It---he, she could see now---pressed his cold black nose against the back of her hand, and, when she turned it, nosed her palm. She thrilled at the touch, though the touch of so many other beasts disgusted her. He was different, this fox. It was not just that he was beautiful, and graceful. It was more, much more. Her soul knew him. Her power flared in his presence. He took a step back, his eyes never leaving hers, then whirled and leaped back over the brook to disappear into the forest on the other side. The last thing she saw was that lush red-and-black tail, switching back and forth as he faded into the dimness of the woods. Irène brought her palm to her nose and sniffed the toasty smell of him. She knew what he was, and she knew what it meant. Her mother had Aramis. Her grandmother, Ursule had told her, had had an ugly gray cat. And she---now, surely, a witch in full possession of her power---had a glorious vulpine creature like no other. She had her fox. She would see him again.”

HeritageWitchesFoxFamiliars
Book:A Secret History of Witches
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“And as we stood there, a curious thing happened: a kind of window opened in the rain, just as if a cloud had been hitched aside like a curtain, and in the space between we saw a landscape that took our breath away. The high ground along which the road ran fell away through a black, woody belt, and beyond it, for more miles than you can imagine, lay the whole basin of the Black Country, clear, amazingly clear, with innumerable smokestacks rising out of it like the merchant shipping of the world laid up in an estuary at low tide, each chimney flying a great pennant of smoke that blew away eastward by the wind, and the whole scene bleared by the light of a sulphurous sunset. No one need ever tell me again that the Black Country isn't beautiful. In all Shrophire and Radnor we'd seen nothing to touch it for vastness and savagery. And then this apocalyptic light! It was like a landscape of the end of the world, and, curiously enough, though men had built the chimneys and fired the furnaces that fed the smoke, you felt that the magnificence of the scene owed nothing to them. Its beauty was singularly inhuman and its terror – for it was terrible, you know – elemental. It made me wonder why you people who were born and bred there ever write about anything else.”

IndustryTerrorLandscapeBlack Country
Book:Cold Harbour
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“Und wandelte Magdalena im finsteren Tal, zwischen den Wesen, die schauten sie an, streckten die Hände aus nach ihr. Was kann ich tun? sagte Magdalena. Da war ein Sturz aus fernen Höhlen, viele Tücher wurden zurückgeschlagen, und war Nacktheit in allen Öffnungen, die sprachen das Wort: Bedürftigkeit. War ausgestreckter Hände voll der Ort und suchender Augen, die wollten. Und Magdalena ging und sollte bringen, sie hatte aber nichts, war leer und arm. Ich muss wandern, dachte sie, und demütig schlugen die Gestalten ihre Augen nieder, und blieben stehen am Wegrand, zurück, wie dunkle Pfähle, die Hände halb gestreckt aus den Gewändern, müde Geste, verzagte Forderung, so würden sie stehenbleiben, lange, oh, so lange, und würde in ihren Herzen schlummern der Gedanke: sie wird wiederkommen, sie wird wiederkommen, und sie würden stehen und warten, die Äonen würden niederfallen, und Schnee sinken im kalten Wind ... Du bist die, die ihnen verheißen wurde, sagte die Stimme, und Magdalena floh, denn was konnte sie geben? Sie hatte nichts, leer waren ihre Gebärden. Und verzweigt waren die Täler, voll kühler Ungeduld. Der Morgen floss von den Höhen, blasses Auge der Nebelsonne. Zurück sah Magdalena hinunter ins Tal, da standen die Tannen, die dunklen Hallen. Und Magdalena fühlte eine schwache Spur von Glück, ich bin nicht der Gärtner eures Unbehagens, sagte sie, und die Bäume rauschten im Wind. Entronnen, sagte Magdalena laut, entronnen ...”

DreamsHelplessnessNeedinessExperience Of Life
Author:Peter von Mundenheim
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“They would go down fighting, but they were going to die there. And he thought dying would be all right. It was going to break Roland's heart to lose the boy...yet he would go on. As long as the Dark Tower stood, Roland would go on. Jake looked up. "She said, 'Remember the struggle.' " "Susannah did." "Yes. She came forward. Mia let her. And the song moved Mia. She wept." "Say true?" "True. Mia, daughter of none, mother of one. And while Mia was distracted...her eyes blind with tears..." Jake looked around. Oy looked around with him, likely not searching for anything but only imitating his beloved Ake. Callahan was remembering that night on the Pavilion. The lights. The way Oy had stood on his hind legs and bowed to the folken. Susannah, singing. The lights. The dancing, Roland dancing the commala in the lights, the colored lights. Roland dancing in the white. Always Roland; and in the end, after the others had fallen, murdered away one by one in these bloody motions, Roland would remain.”

JakeDark TowerThe Dark TowerSusannahRolandKa
Book:Song of Susannah
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“In New York—the New York of her own time, at least—they would have been objects of scorn and anger, the butt of every idiot’s crude, cruel jokes: a black woman of twenty-six and her whitebread lover who was three years younger and who had a tendency to talk like dis and dat when he got excited. Her whitebread lover who had been carrying a heavy monkey on his back only eight months before. Here, there was no one to jeer or laugh. Here, no one was pointing a finger. Here, there were only Roland, Eddie, and herself, the world’s last three gunslingers.”

SusannahRolandEddie
Book:The Waste Lands
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