Demon and Beast
William Butler Yeats
For certain minutes at the least
That crafty demon and that loud beast
That plague me day and night
Ran out of my sight;
Though I had long perned in the gyre,
Between my hatred and desire.
I saw my freedom won
And all laugh in the sun.
The glittering eyes in a death's head
Of old Luke Wadding's portrait said
Welcome, and the Ormondes all
Nodded upon the wall,
And even Strafford smiled as though
It made him happier to know
I understood his plan.
Now that the loud beast ran
There was no portrait in the Gallery
But beckoned to sweet company,
For all men's thoughts grew clear
Being dear as mine are dear.
But soon a tear-drop started up,
For aimless joy had made me stop
Beside the little lake
To watch a white gull take
A bit of bread thrown up into the air;
Now gyring down and perning there
He splashed where an absurd
Portly green-pated bird
Shook off the water from his back;
Being no more demoniac
A stupid happy creature
Could rouse my whole nature.
Yet I am certain as can be
That every natural victory
Belongs to beast or demon,
That never yet had freeman
Right mastery of natural things,
And that mere growing old, that brings
Chilled blood, this sweetness brought;
Yet have no dearer thought
Than that I may find out a way
To make it linger half a day.
O what a sweetness strayed
Through barren Thebaid,
Or by the Mareotic sea
When that exultant Anthony
And twice a thousand more
Starved upon the shore
And withered to a bag of bones!
What had the Caesars but their thrones?
1.1
The timeless song rang throughout the synagogue. It was sung in a language no longer known to the human beings remaining on this earth, and I hardly listened to it, having heard it millions of times before. I was distracted. There was a familiar tingle at the back of my neck, a warning, an instinct. I did not dare turn around to see the truth of it with my own eyes, but I was certain of him without having to.
He watched me. He watched me, and it frightened me. The intensity of his gaze, the strange glow of those green orbs disconcerted me. There was something wrong about him. I didn’t know what, and part of me didn’t want to, but I knew. None of the others seemed to notice. My father, standing beside me, sang in his deep tenor, deeply rooted in his beliefs that we were safe and everything was the same. It was almost as if I was the only one who could see who was behind me, as if I was the only one who could hear him, as well. Sometimes I dreamed of him, and when I woke up, I thought he was there, standing at the end of my bed. But when I blinked, he was gone, only an imagining.
My people had been traveling from place to place since the beginning of time. We had become experts at hiding the truth, at blending in. No one ever found out the reality of our lives or what we were. The synagogue—the lovely old ruin we all stood in and made boom with our song—was only a meeting place. A symbol. A habit that the people had formed over centuries. This was part of the reason why this man—this boy—terrified me. He’d been accepted as one of us without question, our Elders listening to his wild stories and noting his strange eyes… and doing nothing. Even the sound of his name terrified me.
Loewen.
It tickled at my memories, prodded at my thoughts. You know this name, my mind would say to me. You have heard it before. Remember. Remember. But I never could. Did he have something to do with it? No—it was impossible to get inside the head of a Djinn. Getting into minds was what we did. Perhaps I had been too long in this world, taking lives and playing games that were not right to play. Oh, it had been so long since I’d opened that door. Right or wrong. Such slippery concepts, so ancient and tireless. Was I going insane?
Something was going to change. Soon. And it would be because of the stranger, the beautiful man-boy that, for some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about.
Loewen.
“You are not participating,” my father murmured in my ear. His smooth chin brushed my temple, and I restrained myself from shivering. My father was not the force that I sensed Loewen was, but he was not a force to be trifled with, either. I kept my eyes to the front, pulling my thoughts away from the person standing too close behind—three rows back.
“I’m sorry,” I said past stiff lips, discovering a lie without effort. “I was only thinking of the next Hunt.”
This he approved of. “It will come soon enough,” he growled, slightly smiling with his own anticipation. “But for now, respect our ways.”
He would be suspicious, though, despite the signs of relenting. It had been long since I’d been silent at the Gathering. Ever since those days of rebellion in Dallas, I’d been the obedient, cold daughter he’d always wanted. I hunted and I sang as I was required to do. Until now, this very moment. I’d stopped singing our song because I’d been thinking of him. How could I have been so foolish? Would Father start hunting at my side again for fear of me returning to my old ways?
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