I’m not quite sure how I got to be fifty-one years old without even knowing about Neil Gaiman (never mind reading him). He wrote the following extract in Stardust:
The moon was setting.
Dunstan raised his hand to his mouth and hooted. There was no response; the sky above was a deep colour – blue perhaps, or purple, not black – sprinkled with more stars than the mind could hold.
He hooted once more.
“That,” she said severely in his ear, “is nothing like a little owl. A snowy owl, it could be, a barn owl even. If my ears were stopped up with twigs perhaps I’d imagine it an eagle owl. But it’s not a little owl.’
Dunstan shrugged, and grinned, a little foolishly. The faerie woman sat down beside him. She intoxicated him: he was breathing her, sensing her through the pores of his skin. She leaned close to him.
“Do you think you are under a spell, pretty Dunstan?’
“I do not know.’
She laughed, and the sound was a clear rill bubbling over rocks and stones.
“You are under no spell, pretty boy, pretty boy.” She lay back in the grass and stared up at the sky. “Your stars, she asked. “What are they like?” Dunstan lay beside her in the cool grass, and stared up at the night sky. There was certainly something odd about the stars: perhaps there was more colour in them, for they glittered like tiny gems; perhaps there was something about the number of tiny stars, the constellations; something was strange and wonderful about the stars. But then …
They lay back to back, staring up at the sky.
“What do you want from life?” asked the faerie lass.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You, I think.”
“I want my freedom,” she said.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Listen to the faerie lass, Douglas
The moon was setting.
Dunstan raised his hand to his mouth and hooted. There was no response; the sky above was a deep colour – blue perhaps, or purple, not black – sprinkled with more stars than the mind could hold.
He hooted once more.
“That,” she said severely in his ear, “is nothing like a little owl. A snowy owl, it could be, a barn owl even. If my ears were stopped up with twigs perhaps I’d imagine it an eagle owl. But it’s not a little owl.’
Dunstan shrugged, and grinned, a little foolishly. The faerie woman sat down beside him. She intoxicated him: he was breathing her, sensing her through the pores of his skin. She leaned close to him.
“Do you think you are under a spell, pretty Dunstan?’
“I do not know.’
She laughed, and the sound was a clear rill bubbling over rocks and stones.
“You are under no spell, pretty boy, pretty boy.” She lay back in the grass and stared up at the sky. “Your stars, she asked. “What are they like?” Dunstan lay beside her in the cool grass, and stared up at the night sky. There was certainly something odd about the stars: perhaps there was more colour in them, for they glittered like tiny gems; perhaps there was something about the number of tiny stars, the constellations; something was strange and wonderful about the stars. But then …
They lay back to back, staring up at the sky.
“What do you want from life?” asked the faerie lass.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You, I think.”
“I want my freedom,” she said.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Listen to the faerie lass, Douglas
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