Read DAEMONOMANIA: Book Three of the Aegypt Cycle for Free Online
Authors: John Crowley
kept it, and he thought he was done with making them. Even so, without ever choosing to be, he
had all this summer been faithful to Rose, at least in the sense that he had had no other lovers but her. Or only one, and
he imaginary, or phantasmic: his familiar spirit, incubus too, and (Pierce was convinced) the pander who first brought Rose
and him together.
That was his son, Robbie.
“I wish I could meet him,” Rose said. Rose believed Robbie was the child of his body, begotten on a long-ago long-gone lover,
raised by grandparents elsewhere, only just come again into Pierce’s life. That’s what Pierce told her. And in telling her
this and making it likely, Pierce had come upon some details of Robbie he might not otherwise have discovered.
“You might.” It was midnight in August, and still as hot as day; they were naked and neck-deep in the motionless dark waters
that fill an abandoned quarry up Mount Merrow.
“Dark like you?”
“Blond. Well sort of amber honey; maybe it’ll darken.”
“Dishwater blond.”
“And his eyes too. Honey.” Made by the bees upon Mount Hymettus, the ones they sing of.
“Not like his dad.”
“Not in any way.”
Pierce had expected that his imaginary son and lover (he had not told Rose about that part) would vanish, fast or slowly,
from his life as Rose came farther into it. But Robbie hadn’t gone when Rose came. He had only grown denser, glowed more honey-warm
as throughout that summer Pierce and Rose coupled. Indeed he was with them (though seen, or perceived, only by his father)
on that same hot midnight at the Mount Merrow quarry. A laughing Caravaggio boy, naked on a stela of granite at the water’s
edge, one knee drawn up to rest his cheek on.
“Warm,” she said. She let herself sink down till her chin met its pale reflection on the water’s surface. “At first I was
so hot and the water was cold. Now the air feels cold and the water’s warm.”
He swam ponderously to her. Her face was dim, her hair spread out behind her over the black water. The depth beneath them
was palpable, its weight solid like its darkness. Why at night does deep water seem so much more a beast, a being, and why
when you swim naked?
Those quarry waters are deep, fathom on fathom certainly, though maybe not so deep as some believe. Down at the bottom is
the red Impala in which two lovers drowned in the year 1959; the trunk is open, for the suitcases they were fleeing with were
seen floating on the surface next morning, that’s how it was learned they’d gone together over the cliff above. You hear it
told that the lovers are still inside, up to their chins now in muck, she at the wheel, he beside her (his hand on the door
it may be, too late, too deep). But that’s not true. Divers got them out, and they are buried now in earth, like most of us,
and far apart.
Up on the height, the road that the Impala drove in on, long closed, has nearly disappeared; lovers and swimmers now leave
their cars outby the highway and walk in, past the nearly illegible No Trespassing signs, to reach the quarry’s edge. That’s how Rose and
Pierce had got there. Still the only convenient way of entering the water is to leap. So Pierce had taken Rose’s hand (for
what other woman would he have had to be so brave?) and they went in together, feet first and looking downward, crying out.
“Here’s my plan,” Beau said to Pierce, and laughed lightly at himself. They could already see the glow and pulse of blue lights
out around the bend across the bridge out of town. They approached slowly and not by the straightest way while Beau explained.
It seemed simple enough, though Pierce’s heart shrank somewhat in his bosom, he had never been able to negotiate easily with
the earthly powers, did not usually assume they could be negotiated with, only bowed to or evaded.
Beau stopped his car opposite the overturned turtle of Rose’s car and set the brake. The
had all this summer been faithful to Rose, at least in the sense that he had had no other lovers but her. Or only one, and
he imaginary, or phantasmic: his familiar spirit, incubus too, and (Pierce was convinced) the pander who first brought Rose
and him together.
That was his son, Robbie.
“I wish I could meet him,” Rose said. Rose believed Robbie was the child of his body, begotten on a long-ago long-gone lover,
raised by grandparents elsewhere, only just come again into Pierce’s life. That’s what Pierce told her. And in telling her
this and making it likely, Pierce had come upon some details of Robbie he might not otherwise have discovered.
“You might.” It was midnight in August, and still as hot as day; they were naked and neck-deep in the motionless dark waters
that fill an abandoned quarry up Mount Merrow.
“Dark like you?”
“Blond. Well sort of amber honey; maybe it’ll darken.”
“Dishwater blond.”
“And his eyes too. Honey.” Made by the bees upon Mount Hymettus, the ones they sing of.
“Not like his dad.”
“Not in any way.”
Pierce had expected that his imaginary son and lover (he had not told Rose about that part) would vanish, fast or slowly,
from his life as Rose came farther into it. But Robbie hadn’t gone when Rose came. He had only grown denser, glowed more honey-warm
as throughout that summer Pierce and Rose coupled. Indeed he was with them (though seen, or perceived, only by his father)
on that same hot midnight at the Mount Merrow quarry. A laughing Caravaggio boy, naked on a stela of granite at the water’s
edge, one knee drawn up to rest his cheek on.
“Warm,” she said. She let herself sink down till her chin met its pale reflection on the water’s surface. “At first I was
so hot and the water was cold. Now the air feels cold and the water’s warm.”
He swam ponderously to her. Her face was dim, her hair spread out behind her over the black water. The depth beneath them
was palpable, its weight solid like its darkness. Why at night does deep water seem so much more a beast, a being, and why
when you swim naked?
Those quarry waters are deep, fathom on fathom certainly, though maybe not so deep as some believe. Down at the bottom is
the red Impala in which two lovers drowned in the year 1959; the trunk is open, for the suitcases they were fleeing with were
seen floating on the surface next morning, that’s how it was learned they’d gone together over the cliff above. You hear it
told that the lovers are still inside, up to their chins now in muck, she at the wheel, he beside her (his hand on the door
it may be, too late, too deep). But that’s not true. Divers got them out, and they are buried now in earth, like most of us,
and far apart.
Up on the height, the road that the Impala drove in on, long closed, has nearly disappeared; lovers and swimmers now leave
their cars outby the highway and walk in, past the nearly illegible No Trespassing signs, to reach the quarry’s edge. That’s how Rose and
Pierce had got there. Still the only convenient way of entering the water is to leap. So Pierce had taken Rose’s hand (for
what other woman would he have had to be so brave?) and they went in together, feet first and looking downward, crying out.
“Here’s my plan,” Beau said to Pierce, and laughed lightly at himself. They could already see the glow and pulse of blue lights
out around the bend across the bridge out of town. They approached slowly and not by the straightest way while Beau explained.
It seemed simple enough, though Pierce’s heart shrank somewhat in his bosom, he had never been able to negotiate easily with
the earthly powers, did not usually assume they could be negotiated with, only bowed to or evaded.
Beau stopped his car opposite the overturned turtle of Rose’s car and set the brake. The
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