Michael examined the color of the wine in his glass: both golden and brown, all wines become one wine, and said, “To all of us, of all races, and the matter we are made of, and the ground beneath our feet, and the worlds over our head. To strife and passage and death and life.” He held his glass higher. “To horror, and awe, and all strong emotions, and most of all, to love.”
Salafrance drank, and the others drank as well.
When they were finished, John put down his glass and said, “I think it must be an acquired taste.”
“It’s wonderful,” Ruth said.
Michael frowned, drawing the flavors back and forth. He honestly did not have an opinion. In a few decades, perhaps he would appreciate what he tasted now.
“What’s it like?” Kristine asked, curious and envious.
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.
“All that suspense, and you don’t know?” she chided.
The rest of the evening went well, with Salafrance telling her own story and Ruth listening closely. There was much about life in the hills and alleged witchcraft and conflict between the early farmers and the clannish Sidhe. Salafrance told of a lonely and rebellious young Sidhe female—herself—coming down out of the hills into the towns of humans, enchanting and being enchanted in turn by a strong young human male and being taken to his cabin to bear children. In time, Salafrance could not stay apart from her kind; the love was strained by forces neither could control, and they parted, Salafrance leaving their children with the man, who found his house filled with witches and warlocks: his own offspring.
Kristine slept in the crook of Michael’s arm as the hour passed midnight. Salafrance said near dawn that she must leave, and Ruth escorted her to the door, where they had a few words alone.
Then Salafrance extended her arms and took her great-granddaughter into them, hugging her close. “Humans have always taught us how to love,” she said.
She departed into the dawn, and Ruth returned to the kitchen, her face wet with tears. John sealed the bottle again and placed it in the wine closet. Michael took Kristine home in the Waltiris’ old Saab.
The birth was late. Three days later, on a bright spring morning after a long-awaited night’s rain, the sidewalks dappled with moisture and the grass still beaded, Michael opened the front door to retrieve the newspaper. Something feather-touched his aura, and he paused, listening.
“Man-child,” came a voice above his head. He looked up and saw Coom staring down at him from the roof, her long fingers tightly gripping the tile.
“You still have much to learn.”
He turned. Nare stood on one leg on the lawn to his left, wriggling her long fingers before her flat chest.
“Even a Lace-Maker and Gardener needs a few tens of years to mature and reach his potential,” said Spart, sitting cross-legged on the lawn to his right, smiling at him with her head cocked to one side. “May we teach?”
Michael’s chest swelled with gladness, and he laughed. “Only if you’ll teach our child, too.”
“Man-childs,” Coom said. “Our specialty!”
So it was that Michael Perrin came into his time, and the Earth found its youth once more.
Notes and Acknowledgments
My special thanks to those who helped with this novel: to Terri Windling who revived it; to Poul and Karen Anderson, exacting readers; to Jim Turner, Ray Feist and David Brin for critiques and encouragements; and of course to Astrid, who read it endlessly in its various printouts. My debts of inspiration are many—portions of this book go back thirteen years—but Jorge Luis Borges is at the top of the list, and once again, Poul.
The language spoken by the Sidhe is not completely artificial. Many readers may recognize Indo-European roots and borrowings from various extant languages; most will likely not recognize that other words are derived from some very obscure Irish cants. If you’re curious to find out more, please refer to a marvelous book by Robert A. Stewart Macalister, The Secret Languages of Ireland, first published in 1937 by the Cambridge University Press. A good university or public library may have it. Lovers of languages—or dabblers, such as myself—will find it fascinating.
Appendix
The Film Scores of Arno Waltiri (Highlights)
1935 Ashenden
1939 Queen of the Yellow River
1940 Dead Sun
1941 Sea Scorpion
1942 Warbirds of Mindanao
1942 Ace Squadron
1943 Yellowtail
1946 Northanger Abbey
1948 Descartes, a.k.a. The King’s Genius
1950 Let Us Now Praise Famous Men
1951 Some Kind of Love
1958 The Man Who Would Be King
1963 Call It Sleep
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1986 by Greg Bear
Revised in 1992
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-0771-2
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Greg Bear, Serpent Mage
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