Lesley Livingston - Darklight (Wondrous Strange)

TITANIA [Awaking]: What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?

BOTTOM [Sings]: The finch, the sparrow and the lark,

The plain-song cuckoo gray,

Whose note full many a man doth mark,

And dares not answer nay;-

for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish

a bird? who would give a bird the lie, though he cry

cuckoo never so?

TITANIA: I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again:

Mine ear is much enamourd of thy note;

So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;

And thy fair virtues force perforce doth move me

On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee.

BOTTOM: Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason

for that: and yet, to say the truth, reason and

love keep little company together now-a-days; the

more the pity that some honest neighbours will not

make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon occassion.

TITANIA: Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.

BOTTOM: Not so, neither: but if I had wit enough to get out

of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.

TITANIA: Out of this wood do not desire to go:

Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no.

I am a spirit of no common rate;

The summer still doth tend upon my state;

And I do love thee: therefore, go with me;

Ill give thee fairies to attend on thee,

And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep,

And sing while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep;

And I will purge thy mortal grossness so

That thou shalt like an airy spirit go.

Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed!

T he old man lay crumpled on the flagstones in front of a Park Avenue brownstone, his lifeblood oozing from five small holes in his neatly buttoned tweed vest like sap from a maple tree tapped in spring. Standing over him, pistol still smoking in his fist, was a man with glassy eyesvacant of rational thought.

A thrall, thought the dying man, and he wondered briefly who among his kind had stooped so low to send the poor, mindless mortal slave to do their unpleasant bidding. The old mans eyes rolled upward, gazing past the face of the thrall into a sky of blue so bright, it squeezed tears from the corners of his eyes. He remembered when he had first set foot in this world. And his was the first. Others from his realm had followed, but he had been the one to lead them there.

He had been the foremost of the Fair Folk, the most powerful, the one to discover a passageway between that other realm and this one. He had created the Four Gates, one for each Court in the Otherworld, for each turning point of the seasons; doorways through which his kind could pass freely to savor the delights of this fresh new world.

That was in the days before mankind had stretched out his hand, before the forests had given way to the ax, before meadows had been paved over and rivers dammed. The old man had learned to live with humanity. And so had the Faerie whod followed him: finding ways to coexist, in the same way that green things push their way up through cracks in the pavement.

He had moved the Gates from place to place over time, for one reason or anotherwar, or progress, or plain old Faerie boredom. He could still remember when the mortal populace of this world had referred to the Beltane Gate as the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. That was before he had hidden it in the deep green forests of Ireland.

The Lnasa Gate was still called Stonehengeand most likely always would be. The Gate of Imbolc, now far in the north, had never had a human name, no matter where it had existed. Gwynn ap Nudd, the inscrutable king of the Court of Spring, had preferred it that way.

Now, with the relocation of the Samhain Gate, the old man had done his finest work. His creation would be marveled over by the mortals of the New World for centuries to come. And even still, they would never know its true purposethat it housed a Faerie secret, a portal to the Otherworld. But they would flock to the Gate, and they would call it by its human name: Central Park.

Andrew.

The old man blinked up at a tall figure silhouetted against the sky.

Andrew, old friend...

Ah, the old man gasped, struggling to rise up on one elbow. A trickle of crimson flowed from the corner of his mouth. You are here.

Be still, Andrew. The tall man knelt on the sidewalk and put a gentle hand on the old mans bleeding chest. I will help you.

Yes. Andrew Haswell Green, a philanthropist and a father of New York City, one of the driving forces behind the creation of Central Park, sighed contentedly. It is well that you are here.

What can I do?

Carry a burden for me.

Anything.

Thank you, old friend. Green put his hand on the other mans sun-browned brow. For a moment the little gray courtyard in front of the brownstone lit up with warm, forest-dappled sunlight. The chilly November air filled with the heady scents of growth and harvest, fermentation and vegetal decay. The other man gasped and his eyes went wide, but he did not flinch or pull away.

The bestowing did not take long.

When it was over, the other man laid his oldest friend down gently on the stones and stood. Then he turned and walked north past the ornate edifice of Grand Central Terminal, in the direction of the park. To where the trees now whispered his name.

The shiny black carriage rolled to a stop on the other side of the street. Its occupant drew back the heavy velvet window curtain, hissing in frustration at the sight of Andrew Greens body, already emptied of life... and power. The passenger knocked on the roof of the carriage. The street was still empty, but that wouldnt last long. In the distance could be heard the faint sounds of voices raised in alarm.

The carriage driver stepped down from his perch into the street. The heels of his polished, silver-buckled boots rang on the pavement as he walked over to kneel beside the body on the sidewalk. After a moment, the carriage driver stood and returned, bearing four silver hairs plucked from the dead mans beard. They were stained with bright blood, twisted into four loops, and knotted together.

The shouting was closer now. Without another glance back, the lone occupant of the black carriage pulled the curtain closed and signaled the driver to move on.

O , now be gone; more light and light it grows.

More light and light; more dark and dark our woes!

The lovers shared a brief, poignant embrace.

And... scene! the director called in a precise English accent. I want to cut the rest of the lines up to Lady Capulets entranceMindi, make a note in the cue script. Juliet, upstage hand, please. Romeo, watch your diction. He checked his watch. Its ten oclock, so were done. Well pick it up here next rehearsal, people. Check the call time on the notice board, and dont be late. Ill have notes for you all before we start, so dont think youve gotten off easy. Now go home and look at your scripts.

Kelley Winslow packed up her gear and hung up her rehearsal skirt on the back of her dressing-room door. Good night, everybody! she called out as she slung her purse across her body and headed toward the stage door of the Avalon Grande Theatre.

Night, kiddo. Gentleman Jack Savage smiled at her from the doorway to the greenroom. The veteran actor raised his cup of coffee in salute. Hell of a job tonight. Your balcony scene is gonna knock their socks off, Juliet.

Shoes, maybe, Quentin, the director, said dryly as he rounded the corner from the backstage area. Ill reserve judgment on any sock-knocking until such occasion as you remember that quarter turn