(no subject)
It's been building up inside him, as it always does this time of year--a boiling to his blood, an itching to his skin, a need to laugh and run and hunt and seek and find.
On the outside, to the outside, he's as he always is: just Jack Green, gardener and husband and father. On the inside, though, on the inside, names long forgotten prod to be spoken, guises wish to be worn, feet wish to leap and voices wish to sing.
Sometimes he hears them whispering, his long-dead loves: Remember us, remember us, say our names.
I can't, he tells them. You're the past. This is now. Rest in the arms of your mother and let me be.
Georgia, he suspects, knows that something is going on: she has a habit of holding his face in both hands and looking straight into his eyes. Once she begins talking he imagines she'll accompany this with You're zoning out again, Papa. Come back to earth. His girl is pragmatic. She gets that from Gil.
It's only one night a year, when things change, when they begin again. Like the sun always rising, Herne always makes himself known.
On the outside, to the outside, he's as he always is: just Jack Green, gardener and husband and father. On the inside, though, on the inside, names long forgotten prod to be spoken, guises wish to be worn, feet wish to leap and voices wish to sing.
Sometimes he hears them whispering, his long-dead loves: Remember us, remember us, say our names.
I can't, he tells them. You're the past. This is now. Rest in the arms of your mother and let me be.
Georgia, he suspects, knows that something is going on: she has a habit of holding his face in both hands and looking straight into his eyes. Once she begins talking he imagines she'll accompany this with You're zoning out again, Papa. Come back to earth. His girl is pragmatic. She gets that from Gil.
It's only one night a year, when things change, when they begin again. Like the sun always rising, Herne always makes himself known.