From The Revenge of the Wolf King
He stopped when we reached the river bank, and letting go of my hand, parted the reeds so very carefully. I saw it, then, white and slender, a bird made of light. It walked in the water on its long, slim legs, perfectly balanced, as if dancing to a music it could only hear.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.
From Bécquer Eternal
I locked my car and went down the bank, to the gravel strip by the water where Ryan and Bécquer had come ashore.
A heron, white and slender, walked the shore hunting for food. The heron that had made it into the narrative of the manuscript Bécquer had agreed to represent.
But for the heron, the place was deserted. The boats and canoes that dot the lake in summer time, were now grounded ashore in the crescent shaped inlet to my left. And the owners of the cars sitting by mine were nowhere in sight.
Turning my back to the lake, I walked to the bench Bécquer and I had shared the previous night, and sat down.
The weather had been unusually mild this past October and the trees had just reached their full autumn colors, but the stunning beauty of my surroundings I had profusely photographed over the previous weeks, failed to impress me.
Maybe it was because the effect of Bécquer’s blood had worn off during the night, and, after perceiving the world through immortal senses, it seemed dull now that I was seeing it with my human eyes. Maybe it was, plain and simply, because Bécquer was not with me and I wished he were.
Dare to Read 