THE A TO Z OF FANTASTIC FICTION

Quentin S. Crisp
Paul Di Filippo
I
Hal Duncan
Christopher Fowler
Robert T. Jeschonek
Marly Youmans
and others
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 Peter Crowther
Editorial: Graham Joyce.3 Publisher and
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The Twilight Express Christopher Fowler.6
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THE A TO Z OF FANTASTIC FICTION

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 Graham Joyce is not known for shying away from, speaking his mind (see below). He has just
delivered his new (and as yet untitled) novel to Gollancz. Meanwhile, Graham's new YA book.
Three Ways To Snog An Alien, will be published by Faber next summer.

Editorial
Graham Joyce
R eading is to be encouraged, trumpets the government, and a fresh cam¬
paign in schools has earned extensive publicity and the easy support of all
parties. How can anyone be against reading? The number of children
emerging from primary school unable to read is shameful and a series of initiatives
has been launched across the country. Take Hampshire, that useful example: using
the book-crossing idea, library authorities have deposited one hundred copies of a
classic novel in surprising places (park benches, phone boxes, train carriages etc) so
that they may be found and enjoyed by people who might not normally be seen
dead doing this filthy reading thing. The chosen novel? Jane Austen’s Persuasion.
Duh?
I mean, the absolute fuckwittedness of this idea. You’d have to go a long way to
beat that for stupidity. Any non-reader finding this book on a train and encounter¬
ing the splendidly convoluted and mannered—some would say prissy—eighteenth
century language would likely hurl it out of the window. When during the French
Revolution Marie Antoinette heard that the starving peasants had no bread and ad¬
vised them to eat cake, she wasn’t taking the piss. She was just hopelessly and
quaindy out of touch.
I have no argument with wanting to promote Jane Austen. Why, as a writer, I
sometimes don my frock-coat and my pince-nez and after a late and leisurely break¬
fast I might stroll the grounds with my nose pressed against the leaves of a first edi¬
tion, savouring the sublime prose. But a reluctant reader ain’t gonna.
For heaven’s sake, why Jane Austen? Why Persuasion, which is not even her most
accessible novel? Why not something with half a chance of pulling in someone for
whom the reading habit does not come naturally but who might read with a hope
of being entertained and diverted? Why not a Steven King? A Tolkien? A Neil
Gaiman Sandman comic? Something fun and hip and happening with words. Alas
no fear of that. Our semi-literate hoodie on the park bench is to be regaled instead
with the mysterious and higher instructive purposes of great literature.
Because I’ve long been puzzled about why elements of style (which is surface)

3
4 POSTSCRIPTS

have long since been held to encode superior literary value than narrative (which
is content) I’ve made a bit of a study trying to discern these higher purposes. For
quite a while I set myself the task each year of reading the short-listed novels for
the Booker Award, on the basis of “keeping up”. Keeping up with trends, innova¬
tions, exciting developments and thrilling new voices, that is. Well, after a decade
of this tedious enterprise I concluded that I hadn’t found many of those things in
the short-lists so I gave up. I did try to “keep up” with the annual winner on exacdy
the same basis. In that I get excited by fine writing and a fresh voice, I’m no differ¬
ent than any writer. But ultimately, after John Banville’s The Sea, I also absconded
on the winners. I figured I already had enough ponderous adjectives in my own
modest store, cheers, fanx, ta. I also figured that a model of creeping narcolepsy
wasn’t good for me, and that if it was fresh writing I wanted then I should look else¬
where.
That prize, like all awards, is supposed to encourage reading. But the self-nom¬
inating grey eminences governing the Booker, a prize largely considered to be the
most worthy award in the English speaking world, choose its judges according to
the same mysterious, unfathomable and elitist criteria that lead to dainty and un¬
intelligent ideas such as leaving copies of Persuasion on a park bench in a rainy cli¬
mate. We don’t know who chooses the judges, but we do at least get to know who the
judges are. Pictures appear in the broadsheets and every year the judges come to
look more like they were selected not to preside over a literary award but to judge
the Jam and Chutney section of the Women’s Institute annual fete. They certainly
don’t look equipped with the luminous brief of turning anyone on to books. You
see their pinched, literary-caste faces and you want to run screaming. Those people
are nothing to do with me, you want to say. Ugh! Get away, you stinky arbiters of
chutney and jam.
And are the chutney coterie given criteria to guide their deliberations? As far as
I can discern, the strict rule is that the winning book must fall under the category
of social realism unless paragraph nine, sub-clause 4(b) the reader is of Common¬
wealth origin. Rule 14 states that bowel-loosening adjectival superabundance is to
be highly rated. Rule 15 that anything with high narrative value is considered nei¬
ther jam nor chutney and is instantly ruled ineligible.
I’m not sure where these rules are written down but I’m certain of their ex¬
traordinary power in discouraging potential readers: I believe that if people are un¬
educated it’s usually through no fault of their own. So let’s give the benefit of the
doubt to your intelligent hoodie who decides to go in for a lifestyle change. He’s
seen the light, he’s going to read. He picks up say Alan Hollinghurst’s Booker
prizewinner The Line Of Beauty. Now, even though this is meant to be a Henry
James pastiche, Hollinghurst hasn’t a clue how to plot his three distinct narrative
strands, and the things don’t plait. Instead of a story, the protagonist treats us to
EDITORIAL 5

endless musings and a lot of aesthetic pretentiousness about music, painting and
furniture. Worse, we’re meant to forgive the glacial pace of the writing because the
prose is pleasant. We’re told Hollinghurst is a great stylist (disputable: I lost pa¬
tience with the times I read the tedious qualifiers “seems” and “as if’). But it does¬
n’t matter, because style, apparently, not narrative, is what maketh fine literature.
Brother: chuck the book and keep the hood. They don’t really want you.
I’m serious. You see, I know what they secretly want. They being the free pur¬
veyors of Persuasion on the park bench; they being the shadowy Booker eminences.
They want clear, class lines drawn around literature; they want to demark the sa¬
cred from the profane; and it is their will that only those who bend the knee may
approach the temple. I don’t know who they are and how they got this power, but
we should work hard to take it away from them, before they do more damage and
stop more people from reading.
Fay Weldon once remarked that she would never win the Booker Prize because
her books contained levity. And there you have it. The war declared by gravity on
levity. There must be nothing to laugh at. You may wince and sneer and make an
ironic sniffle, a la Hollinghurst, but most of all you must be earnest, pompous and
take yourself really rather seriously. Oh, and that pretty much dispatches all genre,
because there is an inherent lack of earnestness in the proposition of genre in the
first place; a wry knowingness that invites you to be party to a kind of joke. Genre
is like saying: there was an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman ...
No I’m not arguing that genre writing should be taken more seriously. I’ve said
before that anyone who parts with their hard-earned for the cover price of a book
is taking it quite as seriously as anyone could want. I’m arguing that we should take
this other stuff less seriously, and wake up to the damage caused by a vicious, snob¬
bish and spiteful cultural elitism which is all the while pretending to be democratic
and genteel.

Coming Soon In PostsCripts

In our Issue 14, Spring 2008, some notable stories to look forward to: "Flecks from the Isle of
Chrome", a brilliant, offbeat novella triptych by Rhys Hughes; "Blackbird", Robert Reed's cunning
account of alien messages flooding down from the skies; "Island Tales", Jeff VanderMeer's intricate
legends of the Pacific; and "The World Without Sleep", a ghostly urban dreamwalk by Sarah Mon-
ette, one of the hottest new writers in fantasy. And in Issue 15 (Summer 2008), look for a double¬
sized line-up of SF by many top writers, to mark Worldcon...
 Of this existentially fraught tale Christopher Fowler says, “Funfairs are meant to excite, but
they always left me with a sense of impatience and regret, feelings of lost opportunity and
unfulfilled promise, which is where this story comes in. We idealise the concept of shared pleas¬
ure, and while a carnival is the perfect vehicle for enjoyment it also inspires darker thoughts.
The influence here is obviously Ray Bradbury, a childhood hero whose best tales can drag me,
humbled, to my knees. This is part of an ongoing series of stories aimed at capturing different
heightened emotional states. The first batch of twenty one new tales is entitled Old Devil Moon
and due out this Christmas. Tm not allowed to use the word ‘experimental’ as Tm, told this puts
readers off, but... you know. ”

Hie Twilight Express

Christopher Fowler
T he funfair blew in one hot,
windy night in early July, while
carnies would be looking to put down
roots before the dying summer cooled
everyone’s doors and windows the hot sidewalks and families grew
were sealed against the invading desert more concerned with laying in stores
dust. Billy Fleet knew it was coming for winter than wasting good money on
when he heard the distorted sound of a gimcrack sideshows and freak tents.
calliope drifted faintly on the breeze, Billy turned restlessly under his
but he didn’t think then that it might sheets, wondering what it would take to
hold the answer to his problem. clear his troubles, and the more he
He leaned on his bedroom sill, thought, the more desperate he be¬
watching the faint amber light move came. His mother would cry, his father
across the horizon of trees, beneath a would beat him, and then a subtler
velvet night filled with winking stars. meanness would settle over his life as
The country dark was flushing with friends and teachers pulled away,
their arrival. On another night he shamed by his inability to do what was
might have climbed the trellis in his right. It was a town that put great store
peejays and sat on the green grit of the by self-discipline.
tarpaper roof to watch the carnival pro¬ But it wasn’t cowardice that would
cession, but tonight he had too much prevent him from pleasing them, it was
on his mind. The fair had travelled preservation. He wasn’t about to throw
from Illinois to Arizona, and somehow his life away just because Susannah’s
made the detour here. There were a period was late. No matter how hard
few dates yet that weren’t played out, she pushed, he wouldn’t marry her.
small towns with bored kids and fathers Hell, he wasn’t sure he even liked her
jingling chump change, but soon the much, and would never have gone up

6
THE TWILIGHT EXPRESS 7
to Scouts’ Point if she hadn’t com¬ with dreams of what might have been.
plained that all the other girls had There had to be another solution,
been taken there. The entire bluff was but it didn’t present itself until he went
crowded with creaking cars, and though out to the field where the Elysium fun¬
the scent of rampant sex excited him, it fair was pitching up in the pale gold
all felt so tawdry, so predictably small mist of the autumn morning, and
town. He had no intention of staying in watched as the roustabouts raised their
Cooper Creek for a day longer than he rides, bolting together boards and
had to, for each passing moment pounding struts into the cool earth.
brought him closer to stopping forever, There was a shop-soiled air about the
just as his father had done, and boy, the Elysium, of too many tours without
family had never heard the end of that. fresh paint, of waived safety permits and
He couldn’t just up and leave without back-pocket accounting. The shills and
money, qualifications, some place to go, barkers had not yet arrived, but Billy
and with just three weeks left before his could tell that they, too, would be fight¬
graduation, it was a matter of pride to ing for one more season before calling
stay. He imagined the door to a good it a day and splitting up to go their sep¬
out-of-state college swinging open, tak¬ arate ways. Funfairs rarely stopped at
ing him to a bright new future. But by Cooper Creek; there wasn’t enough fast
the time summer break was over Susan¬ money to be made here, and although
nah’s belly would be round as a basket¬ the local folks were kind enough to
ball, and the trap would have closed passing strangers, they didn’t care to
about him. He knew how the girls in mix together.
the coffee shop talked, as if finding the Billy sat on the back of the bench and
right boy and pinning him down was watched as the gears and tracks were
the only thing that mattered. Mr San¬ laid behind the flats. He saw missing
ders, his biology teacher, had told him teeth and caked oil, mended brake-bars
that after babies were born, the male and makeshift canopies, iron rods
stopped developing because his role in bound with wire over rope, and won¬
the procreation cycle was over. It wasn’t dered how many accidents had forced
right that a girl who came from such a the Elysium to skip town in the dead of
dirt-dumb family as Susannah should night. That was the moment he realised
be able to offer him a little dip in the he would be able to kill Susannah’s
honey-pot and then chain him here baby.
through the best years of his life, in He saw the question as simply one of
some edge-of-town clapboard house survival. He had something to offer the
with a baby-room, where the smell of world, and the only obstacle that waited
damp diapers would cling to his clothes in his path was a wide-eyed schoolgirl.
and his loveless nights would be filled As the yellowing leaves tumbled above
8 POSTSCRIPTS

his head, Billy felt the first chill decision “What are you, town watchdog? Got
of adulthood. nothing better to do than spy on folks
The funfair ran its cycle through trying to earn a decent living?” Molly’s
Labor Day, but only passed by Cooper bead-eyes shrank further.
Creek for a week. He felt sure that con¬ “No Ma’am. I meant no disrespect, I
vincing Susannah to come with him just see you setting up from my bed¬
would be easy, but before that evening room window and know you’re shy a
he needed to find a way inside the ghost man or two. This town’s real particular
train. He had watched the canvas flats about health and safety, and I figure I
of hellfire and damnation being put to¬ can save you a heap of trouble for a few
gether to form a righteous journey, bucks.”
devil snakes and playing cards lining the The woman folded fat arms across
tunnel through which the cars would her considerable bosom and rocked
roll. Now he needed to befriend the back to study him. “I don’t take kindly
woman who was helping her old man to blackmail, Billy boy.” Her eyes were
set up the ticket booth, the one the as old as Cleopatra’s, and studied him
roustabouts called Molly. He knew how without judgement. “Fairs don’t take on
to use seventeen years of healthy boy¬ college boys. It don’t pay to be too
hood on a thirty five year-old over¬ smart around here.”
weight woman. Girls flirt with “Maybe so, but in this town a fair is a
attractive men, but boys flirt with any¬ place where a guy gets a rosette for
one. keeping a pig. This is a real carnival. It’s
When he approached her, she was special.”
bending over a broken step, and all he “Ain’t no big secret to it. You take a
could see was the wide field of blue little, give a little back, that’s all.” She
cornflowers that covered her dress. He saw the need in his eyes and was silent
stood politely until she rose, hands on for a moment. “Hell, if the town is so
hips, a vast acreage of sun-weather dog-dead you got to watch us set up
cleavage smiling at him. Her small grey from your bedroom at nights maybe we
eyes no longer trusted anything they can work something out. Let me go talk
saw, but softened on his face. to Papa Jack.”
“Help you, boy?” That was how Billy got the job on
“Ma’am, my name’s Billy Fleet, and the Twilight Express.
I’m raising money for my college edu¬ The night the fair opened, white
cation by trying to find summer work. I lights punched holes into the blue air,
know how to fix electrics, and it seems and the smell of sage and dust was re¬
to me you need someone to work the placed with the tang of rolling hotdogs.
ghost train, ’cause you got some shorts Susannah had planned to go with her
sparking out in there, and I ain’t seen girlfriends, to shriek and flirt on the
no-one go in to repair ’em.” opalescent Tilt-A-Whirl, holding down
THE TWILIGHT EXPRESS 9

their skirts and tossing back their hair nah, the ghost train’s a few devils and
with arms straightened to the bar, buck¬ skeletons is all.” He had stood inside
ing and spinning across the night. She the ride beside the flickering tissue-in¬
agreed with just a nod when Billy in¬ ferno, breathing in the coppery electric
sisted on taking her, and he wondered air, watching the cars bump over sol¬
whether she would really be fussed if he dered tracks that should have been
just took off, but he couldn’t do that. He scrapped years ago, lines that could
couldn’t bear the thought of people throw a rider like a bronco.
bad-mouthing him, even though he She saw the pressure in his eyes and
wouldn’t be there to hear it. So he took gave in meekly, took her ticket and
Susannah to the fair. bowed her head as she passed through
He couldn’t bring himself to place the turnstile, as if she was entering
his arm around her waist, because the church. The car was tight for two
baby might sense his presence and adults; he was forced to place his arm
somehow make him change his mind. around her shoulder. Her hair tickled
Babies did that; they turned tough men his forearm. She smelled as fresh-cut as
into dishrags, and he wasn’t about to let a harvest field. With a sudden lurch, the
that happen. She wore a red dress cov¬ car sparked into life and a siren sounded
ered in yellow daisies like tiny bursts of as they banged through the doors into
sunlight, and laughed at everything. He musty darkness.
couldn’t see what was funny. She was He knew what was coming. After a
happily robbing him of his life and did¬ few cheap scares of drifting knotted
n’t even notice, pointing to the fat lady string and jiggling rubber spiders, the
and the stilt-walkers, feeding her glossy car would switch back on itself and tilt
red mouth with pink floss as if she was down a swirling red tunnel marked
eating sunset clouds. Damnation Alley, but just before it
He thought she would want to talk dropped into the fires of hell it would
about the baby and what it meant to swing again, away to the safer sights of
them, but she seemed happy to take the comically dancing wooden skeletons.
subject for granted, as if she couldn’t The track was bad at the switch; a per¬
care whether there was something son could tip out on the line as easy as
growing inside her or not. pie. The next car would be right be¬
At the entrance of the ghost train, hind, and those suckers were heavy.
Molly watched impassively as he passed Papa Jack had fallen into a bourbon
her without acknowledgment. Susan¬ botde a couple of nights back, and told
nah balked and tried to turn aside when him about a boy who had bust his neck
she reached the steps to the car. “No, when the cars had stalled in Riverton
Billy, don’t make me go. It’s dark in Fields, Wichita, a few seasons back.
there. Let’s take the rope-walk instead.” The Elysium had hightailed it out of
“Don’t make a big deal of it, Susan¬ town before their Sheriff could return
10 POSTSCRIPTS

from his fishing trip, had even changed late spring, but he was wearing the same
its name for a couple of years. A second clothes. The sun was hot on his face, his
accident would get folks nodding and bare arms. The voice spoke softly be¬
clucking about how they suspected hind him. He could only just hear it
trouble from the carnie folk all along. over the sound of the crickets and the
He would make sure Susannah didn’t rustling grass.
get bruised up, he wouldn’t want that, “Oh Billy, what a beautiful day. If
but she had to take a spill, and land only it was always like this. I remember,
good and hard on her stomach. I remember...” She was lying in the
As the car hit its first horseshoe she tall grass near the tree, running a curv¬
gripped his knee, and he sensed her ing green stem across her throat, her
looking up at him. He caught the glis¬ lips. Her print dress had hiked around
ten of her eyes in the flashbulbs, big her bare pale thighs. She stared into the
blue pupils, daybreak innocent. They cloudless sky as though seeing beyond
tilted into the spiralling tunnel and she into space.
squeaked in alarm, gripping tighter, as “What have you done with the baby,
close now as when they had loved. The Susannah?”
moment arrived as they reached the “I don’t know,” she replied slowly. “It
switch. The car lurched and juddered. must be around here somewhere. Look
All he had to do was push, but she was how clear the sky is. It feels like you
still holding tighdy onto him. In an ef¬ could see forever.”
fort to break her grip, he stood up The day was so alive that it shook
sharply. with the beat of his heart, the air taut
“Billy-what-” and trembling with sunlit energy. It was
The car twisted and he tipped out, hard to concentrate on anything else.
landing on his back in the revolving “We have to find the baby,” he told her,
tunnel. Susannah’s hands reached out fighting to develop the thought. “We
toward him, her fingers splayed wide, went to all that trouble.”
then her car rounded a black-painted He looked up at the sun and allowed
peak and was gone. The cylinder turned the dazzling yellow light to fill his vi¬
him over once, twice, dropping him sion. When he closed his eyes, tiny
down into the uplit paper fires of translucent creatures wriggled across
damnation, scuffing his elbows and the pink lids, as mindless and driven as
knees on the greased tracks. spermatozoa.
And then there was nothing beneath “I forget what I did with it, Billy. You
his limbs. know how I forget things. Will you
When he opened his eyes again, he make me a daisy chain? Nobody ever
found himself in the fierce green fields made me a daisy chain. Nobody ever
behind the house. Judging by the smell noticed me until you.”
of fresh grass in the morning air, it was “Let’s find the baby first, Susannah.”
THE TWILIGHT EXPRESS 11

“I think perhaps it was out in the tickle over his hands and wrists, run¬
field. Yes, I’m sure I saw it there.” She ning up his arms. They nipped at his
raised a lazy arm and pointed back, over skin with their pincers, but were too
her head. Her hair was spread around small to hurt. Digging deeper until his
her head in a corn-coloured halo. She fingertips met under the earth, he felt
smiled sleepily and shut her eyes. The the fat thoraxes roll warmly over his
lids were sheened like dragonfly wings. skin. Carefully he raised the mound,
“I can see the stars today, even with my shaking it free of insects. A baby’s face
eyes closed. We should never leave this appeared, fat and gurgly, unconcerned
place. Never, ever leave. Look how by the bugs that ran across his wide blue
strong we are together. Why, we can do eyes, in and out of the pouted lips. Rais¬
anything. You see that, don’t you? You ing the child high toward the fiery sum¬
see that...” Her voice drifted off. mer globe, he watched as the last of the
Her watched her fall asleep. She ants fell away, revealing his smiling,
looked a little older now. Her cheek¬ beautiful son.
bones had appeared, shaping her face to “Tyler,” he said, “Tyler Fleet.”
a heart. She had lost some puppy fat. And he set off back toward his sleep¬
Light shimmered on her cheeks, wafted ing wife.
and turned by the tiny shields of leaves “Billy. Billy, you come back.” Her
above. “I have to go and look, Susan¬ lank hair hung over his face, tickling.
nah,” he told her. “There are bugs Her plucked eyebrows were arched in a
everywhere.” circumflex of concern. She had been
“You just have to say the name,” she crying.
murmured. “Just say the name.” But “What’s your problem?” he asked
her voice was lost beneath the buzzing slowly, feeling the words in his mouth.
of crickets, the shifting of grass, the He was lying on the cool dry dirt in
tremulous morning heat. front of the ghost train ride. A few
He rose and walked deep into the passers-by had stopped to watch.
field, until he came to a small clearing in “You fell out of the carriage is what’s
the grass. Lowering himself onto his the problem,” she said, touching his
haunches, he studied the ant nest, cheek with her fingers. “You cut your
watching the shiny black mass undulat¬ forehead. Oh, Billy.”
ing around a raised ellipse in the brown “I’m fine. Was just a slip is all.” He
earth. The carapaces of the insects were raised himself on one elbow. “No need
darkly iridescent, tiny night-prisms that to get so worked up.” He rubbed the
bustled on thousands of pin-legs, bat¬ goose-bumps from his arms.
ting each other with antennae like blind “I was so frightened in there, I
men’s canes. He shaped his hands into thought I’d lost you, I panicked,” she
spades and dug them into the squirming told him. “Look.” She held up her palm
mass of segmented bodies, feeling them and showed him the crimson dot. “It’s
12 POSTSCRIPTS

my blood, not yours. I started late, that’s where passengers seated themselves on
all. I’m not pregnant, Billy. I’m so cream-coloured benches and watched
sorry.” as their paddle steamer slipped upriver,
He realised why she had been so un¬ not past the real southland of jute fac¬
concerned at the fair. She had been tories and boatyards and low-cost hous¬
happy to place her trust in him unques- ing, but an imagined antebellum fantasy
tioningly. It had never crossed her mind of filigreed plantation houses glimpsed
that things might not work out. He through Spanish moss. The candy-
studied her face as if seeing her for the coloured deck looked out on pastel
first time. “I’m so sorry,” she said again, hardboard flats and painted linen skies
searching his eyes in trepidation. that creaked past on a continuous roll as
“Don’t worry,” he told her, pulling birds twittered on the tape loop.
himself up and dusting down his jeans. Molly was still here at the Elysium,
“Maybe we can make another one.” He working the riverboat ride now. She
offered his arm. “Give me your hand.” watched him approach without pleas¬
He sealed his fingers gently over the ure or sorrow shaping her face. He sup¬
crimson dot. She pulled him to his feet, posed carnie folk saw too much to care
surprisingly strong. one way or the other. To her, he was just
Molly looked up as he passed the another small-town hick.
ticket booth to the Twilight Express. “So you didn’t leave,” she said,
There was no way of knowing what she sweeping coins from her counter with¬
was thinking, or if she was thinking out looking up.
anything at all. “Hey Billy, Papa Jack “Did I say I was going?” he asked de¬
wants you to work with him tomorrow fensively.
night,” she told him. “You gonna need “Didn’t have to.” She stacked dimes
to put that money by. The baby’ll be to the width of her hand, calculating the
back, and maybe next time you’ll be value, then swept them into a bag. “You
ready for him.” should bring your wife here.”
Then she went back to counting the “You don’t know I married her,” he
change from the tickets. said, kicking at the dry dirt in annoy¬
The moon above the Elysium funfair ance.
shone with the colours of the sideshow, “Don’t I, though.” Her expression
red and blue glass against butter yellow, never changed.
as the calliope played on, turning He left her counting the gate, and re¬
wishes into starlight. solved not to bring Susannah to the
Elysium. But he did, that Friday night.

T he Twilight Express was gone. It had

been replaced by the Queen Of The
He breathed in the smell of hot
caramel, sawdust and sugar-floss, fired a
rifle at pocked metal soldiers and
South, a Mississippi riverboat ride hooked a yellow duck for Tyler, but
THE TWILIGHT EXPRESS 13
wouldn’t go near Molly’s ride. “I don’t “You two are the team. Go have fun,”
need to go on that,” he told his wife, he said, placing a hand firmly in the
watching as she held their baby to her small of her back, propelling her toward
breast. “Not after last time.” the steps of the Queen Of The South,
Susannah jiggled the baby and stood its minstrel music piped through speak¬
looking up at the painted riverbank. ers set on either side of the great
“That was more than three years ago, painted boat that seemed to move for¬
Billy. The Twilight Express is gone. It’s ward but never travelled anywhere.
not a ghost train anymore. No-one’s “Show Tyler the Mississippi. I’ll be here
gonna fall out of the car.” She smiled at when you get off.”
him bravely, as if it was all that could Susannah passed reluctandy through
protect her from his simmering impa¬ the turnstile, balancing the boy on her
tience. hip. From within the ticket booth,
Billy still wasn’t sure what had hap¬ Molly caught his eye for the briefest of
pened that time. The accident had moments, and he read something
changed something between them. All strange in her expression. His wife
he remembered was that she had freed looked back, the dying daylight shining
him and he had elected to stay, but part in her eyes. Her glance pierced his
of him remained regretful. He loved his heart. She gave a brief nervous smile
boy, but the smell of the infant had lin¬ and stepped inside the boat. He wanted
gered too long on his skin, reminding to run forward and snatch her back be¬
him of his responsibilities, removing fore she could take her seat, to tell her
any pretence of freedom. There was he knew what he had and it was real
never time to be alone and think things good, but even as he thought this he
through. wondered what else he might be miss¬
He worked in his uncle’s feed store ing, and then the banjo music had
now, and made a decent living, but it started, the plyboard trees were shunt¬
wasn’t what he had imagined for him¬ ing past, and the steamer was gradually
self. Sometimes strangers passed lost from view.
through the local bar and talked of The ride was long. He grew bored
harsh cities they’d seen, strange lands with waiting and tried to knock a co¬
they’d visited, and he wanted to beg conut from its shy, even though he
them; let me come with you. knew it was probably nailed in place.
He loved his son, but knew there When he returned to the ride it had al¬
could have been a better life. The car¬ ready emptied out, but there was no
nival had changed all that. It took a little sign of his young family. He asked
and gave a little back, that’s what Molly Molly where they had gone, but she de¬
had once told him. nied ever having seen them. None of
“Come with me,” said Susannah. the barkers would be drawn on the sub¬
“We’re a team. We do things together.” ject. He vaulted into the back of the
14 POSTSCRIPTS

riverboat ride, clambering through the The lilting sound of the calliope stole
dusty sunlit diorama, trying to see how away his dreams and faded slowly with
they might have escaped through the them, leaving him under clouded skies,
pasteboard flats, but was pulled out by filled with bitter remorse. Twilight died
Papa Jack. down to a starless night, and there was
Billy yelled and stamped and made a nothing left inside it now, just the
fuss, finally called the Sheriff, but empty, aching loss of what he might
everyone agreed that Susannah had have had, who he might have been, and
gone, taking their child with her. the terrible understanding that he had
People looked at him warily and backed been looking too far away for the an¬
away. swer to his prayers.
The heatwave broke on the day the Somewhere in another town, an¬
Elysium carnival trundled out of town. other state, the Twilight Express
As rain darkened the bald dirt-patch showed the way between stations for
where the tents had stood, Billy those passengers who were strong
watched the trucks drive off, and knew enough to stay on the ride.
that he had failed the test. E

Coming Soon from PS

Hello Summer, Goodbye and / Remember Pallabaxi

Michael Coney, who died in 2005, established himself in the mid-

1970s as one of the leading British science-fiction writers of his day, with
a string of novels distinctive for their combination of light readability on the
surface and much darker inner depths. Hello Summer, Goodbye, which first
appeared in 1975, is set on a planet whose elliptical orbit creates intense
summers and long, cold winters. It tells of the love between Drove and the
girl Pallahaxi-Browneyes, whose affair is set against civil war and the dread
approach of winter. It's a brilliant depiction of an alien world, with bizarre
tidal effects and even stranger native creatures.
I Remember Pallahaxi is the previously unpublished sequel. Set hun¬
dreds of years after the events recounted in Hello, I Remember Pallahaxi is
a mystery: a murder story on one level, and on another level a mystery
about the origins of the native aliens. It's also a critique of colonialism—
for the human race has arrived on the alien homeworld, with fatal conse¬
quences. As lyrical and lovingly envisioned as Hello Summer, Goodbye, I
Remember Pallhaxi not only continues but expands the story of life on a far-
flung world where many things are familiar, but others are totally bizarre...
Marly Youmans says, “Perhaps the magical island of St. John V should take credit or blame for
‘Drunk Bay, ’ because the story already seems to me like a landscape from dreams, rather than
a tale I told. The thing is as dark as the history of slavery on the sugar plantations, and as
brightly-colored as a packet of souvenir postcards. The instant my feet crossed the threshold be¬
tween the Saltpond path and Drunk Bay, I felt the tug ofa story on the line that runs down into
the unknown. ”
Marly's most recent novel is The Wolf Pit (Farrar, Straus ir Giroux, 2001), which won
The Michael Shaara Award. Her latest fantasy for young adults, set in the Southern Ap¬
palachians, is Ingledove (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2005), and her first book of poetry was
Claire (Louisiana State University, 2003). Forthcoming is a limited edition novella,
Val/Orson (PS Publishing, 2008), as well as poems and stories in magazines and anthologies,
including Argosy Quarterly, The Beastly Bride (Viking), and others.

Drunk Bay
Marly Youmans
bougainvillea that climbed above the
French doors, gazing out at tamarind
amarind .. - and hibiscus and an abalone bay with
The girl who had been christened mother-of-pearl chips that meant sails,
Tamarind—named after a tree that and her mother had said, “If it’s a girl,
shaded the room where she had been let’s name her Tamarind." Her father
conceived—gave a stretch of pleasure, had been amused by his wife’s certainty
and a man with rope and machete of conception.
shifted to watch her from the tip-top of But I was sure, she told the little girl,
a ladder leaning against a palm. She when she was old enough to tell. “I felt
passed his truck and peered into the a wave of joy, and that was because of
bed, heaped with bunches of green co¬ you.”
conuts. Glancing up, she saw him turn And now, at last, they had brought
back to the harvest, his long dreadlocks her to St. John’s, along with her
swinging to one side as he severed a younger brother, Steve, who had been
stem of coconuts. She snapped a pic¬ made at home, in ordinary time and
ture of him with her new camera and not in paradise.
walked on. She had the afternoon to wander;
The day, sparkling with sun, was her father would be attending classes
merely a usual sort of day on the island in the resort’s conference rooms until
where the girl called Tamarind had 5:00, and her mother had driven Steve
once been only an infinitesimal egg. to a snorkeling lesson at Cinnamon. It
Her parents had stood under the was her first whole day on the island.

15
16 POSTSCRIPTS

The evening before, they had taken the like waves, too, but of pain. It felt like
Ouestin ferry from St. Thomas, the giving birth to the world. Your small
long undulating line of the islands deep round head felt enormous, banging to
blue in first dark, with lights coming on. get out. I saw your soaked crown in a
Never had she seen lamps look so much mirror that the nurse held. My body
like stars, and as the ferry rocked for¬ was open like the O of a scream. Then
ward, the real stars came out and were all at once you were sluiced into the
reflected in fragments by the waves. light—”
This is where I began, she thought, in this Tamarind smiled and shook her head
magical place. Her parents hadn’t wor¬ to refuse a ride from one of the Iguana
ried about leaving her for the after¬ taxis that puttered ceaselessly through
noon; this was, after all, where she the Ouestin lanes. The drivers of the
belonged. And the Ouestin was as safe open carts were men from the island,
as safe could be; the resort was a private and their musical voices sounded sweet
world, with shops and restaurants and to her ear. She walked by the spot where
places to rent a little boat and explore she had earlier seen iguanas—four¬
the bay. All she had to do was give the legged ones, not taxis—munching on
number of her room and her last name; flowers; she passed the tennis courts
she could buy or rent whatever she and the gazebo and the pool with its is¬
liked. Already she had eaten conch frit¬ lands of trees and waterfalls. On the
ters with a coconut soda and, finding sand, rows of white lounge chairs waved
last summer’s suit too tight, had to her with their little red flags—no, it
charged a bathing suit printed with wasn’t that but sunbathers signaling the
leaves and pale red hibiscus blossoms, nearby cafe for drinks. She slowed to
with a brief skirt for a cover-up. watch the parrots, prying at nuts with
“Perfect with your dark blue eyes,” their beaks and hard gray tongues, be¬
the owner of the shop had judged. Her fore drifting on. What would she do?
fingers had fluttered against Tamarind’s So many possibilities ...
shining hair and glanced on her shoul¬ A plump local woman in a Ouestin
der as the girl stared in the mirror. She uniform was clipping round leaves from
was “beautiful, beautiful,” the fashion¬ a sea grape hedge. Tamarind knew what
ably bleached and sun-dried woman they were—late the night before, the
had said. And it was true; Tamarind was family had eaten at Miss Lucy's, on the
as perfectly formed and morning fresh far end of the island, under the sea
of skin as if she had just been made to grape trees. Twisted through the
please the eye, out in the Ouestin gar¬ branches, white Christmas lights had
den. Her mother’s voice came back to glimmered on waves that washed onto
her—“and every day, I felt another wave sand only a few feet from their table.
climbing up, and I loved you more and She had stuffed herself on flying fish
more until you were born. That was and candied plantains that tasted of
DRUNK BAY 17
lime and cloves, on okra fungi, pigeon over a horned shell that she had picked
peas and rice, and a bit of fiery mango up on the beach.
that made her ask for a glass of milk. “I’m sorry,” the mother said; “Is she
She had felt a litde let down to find that bothering you?”
the fungi was not fungi but only some¬ “No bother.” Tamarind plucked a
thing like polenta with okra added, but sprig of plumbago and tucked it behind
she had loved eating under the big the child’s ear. “I like kids.”
sea grape trees with their long bunches “Well, I guess they must like you,
of unripe fruit... The woman’s hand too.” Very pregnant, the woman stood
moved lazily, pressing the stems against with her arms akimbo, feet splayed.
her thumb with a knife until they came Tamarind could see the curve of a
away and were added to a pile pinched distended bellybutton through the fab¬
between her other thumb and fore¬ ric of the maternity swimsuit. The cloth
finger. The harvest had an oddly cere¬ was a shade of green that the makers of
monial look, especially since the is¬ catalogues were calling seafoam this
lander’s elaborate headdress of braids year.
lent her a hint of royalty. “Is it a papaya or a mango?” Words
“What are you cutting them for?” popped out while she was thinking
the girl asked. about the stem end of a fruit and the
“For plates,” the woman said; “To belly under the cloth.
make the food pretty.” “What—” The mother let out a
Tamarind wandered on, then single high note of laughter: Ah! “It
wished that she had asked about the sea must be a mango. Unless maybe it’s a
grapes—why had they sawed them into watermelon. That’s what it feels like.
a hedge? There seemed to be a constant But my husband wants a papaya.”
hacking of plants, as if their growth The little girl stroked the florets with
were so quick and luxuriant that one her fingertips.
had to defend the planet from being “Mango!” The lily pads and pink
drowned in a tidal wave of green. She flowers that topped her sandals shook
had seen one of the workers shearing a when she stamped her feet.
mass of bright red bougainvillea with an “Don’t you look pretty? Maybe I’ll
electric trimmer. Afterward the papery see you again some time. Okay?”
blossoms sprinkled the pathway. It gave Tamarind was smiling again, waving,
her a pang to see them scattered and her eyes moving from the plumbago in
wasted; at home the world was cold and the fine blond hair to a man she had
dull and without flowers, and would be seen waiting tables. She wanted to
so for months to come. know what he was saying, and as she
When a toddler in a sun suit ap- came closer she could hear him coaxing
pliqued with a jumping frog grasped at the red and yellow parrot, reproaching
her leg, Tamarind squatted and handed it for not being more loving: “Why you
18 POSTSCRIPTS

acting like you don’t know your good scarlet piping that she had seen dis¬
friend Matthew, why you acting so ugly played in a shop window earlier in the
like this? Give me a kiss now, give me a morning.
kiss, come on—” “And that flower on your—on your
Carrying armfuls of bird-of- very attractive little swimsuit—is hibis¬
paradise and the blooms called flamboy¬ cus schizopetalus."
ant—clusters of orange and yellow and She blushed; was he laughing at her?
parrot red—a woman approached her “How do you know?”
on the path. He came closer, examining the cloth
“Where are you going with those?” until she blushed again.
“To decorate the ladies’ rooms. “The petals, see? They’re so deeply
Everything must be so beautiful, even curved—why are you blushing?—and
the toilet.” She raised her eyebrows, schizopetalus has those toothy leaves.”
and the girl laughed. “What’s this, then?” The girl pointed
Tamarind wanted to tell this islander at a yellow blossom beside a splayed fan
with the dozens of braids and high of palm.
cheekbones that she, too, was beautiful. “Oh, that’s hibiscus rosa-sinensis. You
But a shyness rose up, stopping her can easily tell because the other one
mouth, and she walked on. Anyway, it doesn’t come in yellow, just a faded red.
was all lovely here—ridiculously so. But sinensis can be red or pink or yellow
She paused to retrieve a blossom or white. The branches on schizopetalus
lying in the grass. She stared at the are more delicate, and the leaves are far¬
whorl of lavender-pink, rose at the ther apart.”
heart. How lovely it was—the perfec¬ “How do you know all that? Are you
tion of the pinwheel, with its slight curl a botany major?” She thought he must
at one side of each petal. be a college boy.
“What is it?” Her voice was only a “No, not at all.” He was smiling at
whisper. her again in a way that made her shiver
“That’s frangipani. Plumeria. The right down to her toes, now curling se¬
Buddhist temple flower.” cretly inside the green and red water
She looked up, startled but ready to shoes that matched her swimsuit. “I’m
be pleased. The young man standing just a magpie—clever at picking up
before her was handsome, remarkably things. Here and there. You know, I’ve
so—as excessively good-looking as the got a jeep from Honor’s.” One eyelid
whole island seemed to be. Blue-eyed, drooped, and he held up a hand to
with fair hair and bronze skin, he had screen a glare of light bouncing off the
the kind of strong jaw and sharp-cut bay. “Well, it’s my Dad’s rental, really.
features that seemed to belong in the Everything’s my Dad’s, I guess.” He
realm of movies. He was wearing a pair grinned at her. “Want to ride over to
of the stylish black swim trunks with Saltpond Bay and go snorkeling?”
DRUNK BAY 19
Somehow she agreed. After catching and blouse was neatly returning the
a lift to her room in an Iguana taxi to serves of a pro, who kept up a running
collect her gear, she met him beside the commentary.
parrot cages. She felt perfectly dressed “Check the angle of your racket...
for the island in the leafy skirt, with the Good, good. Now you’re getting it.
hibiscus flowers on her bathing suit That’s right, give me another just like
peeping through a gauzy blouse. that one, uh huh, come on, give it to
“Oh, good. I was afraid you’d scam¬ me—whoa! that’s a tad too hard—”
per off and not come back,” he said, but A henna-haired woman sat watching
his look belied the words. He had the girl with an even younger boy on
known that she wouldn’t be able to keep her lap. She smacked his hand lightly
away. when he grasped at her gold necklace.
Perhaps he was conceited, Tamarind The diminutive player kept on send¬
thought, or simply confident. She was ing the balls over the net, looking like
excited; she even felt that she had half a an advertisement for the best sort of
crush on him, just because he was so children’s clothing.
striking and seemed to know things— “Is that your daughter? She’s a pretty
the Latin words for flowers, at least. little girl.” Tamarind paused to watch
“What’s your name? I forgot to ask.” the ball sail toward the pro.
He paused an instant, as if to make The woman didn’t answer, her eyes
her anticipate the more. “Nicholas— sweeping over the unfamiliar features
Nicholas Mallin. Very ordinary, isn’t it, without a change in expression and then
compared to Tamarind?” returning to the two figures in a sea of
The wind lapped against her, and she balls.
gave a start; her skin had gone all At this, Nicholas laughed. “Volley
gooseflesh. When she looked away and return,” he said, nodding toward
from him, she could see a skein of drops the bench.
falling toward the hills beside the bay. This time the mother looked up at
“How did you do that?” him, interest quickening. What was it
“What? Know your name?” He that people were lured by, Tamarind
tapped her net sack, with the mask and wondered. Though dressed in an ex¬
snorkel and a Ouestin towel inside. “It’s pensive new outfit from one of the
on the tag.” Ouestin shops, she hadn’t mattered. She
“Oh.” So it was. She had forgotten: was somehow not right. But Nicholas
nothing strange, then. had registered with the woman; her
As Nicholas rattled on about their gaze had fastened to his face—and hers
destination, they cut across flower beds betrayed a flush of interest.
and lawns toward the tennis courts. “My friend thinks your daughter a
A girl of six or seven wearing a pink pretty little girl." A trace of something—
tennis skirt and pink-and-white vest a jeer, perhaps—was in his voice.
20 POSTSCRIPTS

“Yes, she’s—” windows didn’t unzip properly, and

What the mother had been about to Nicholas had to reach over her to help.
say was left unfinished, because Nicho¬ When his arm brushed against hers, she
las turned his back on her and walked noticed that he was absolutely odorless,
off. At the narrow lot behind the courts, while she reeked of coconut sun block.
he began weaving through the rental And though she would never have gone
cars. out without a cover-up, he was still
“What are you doing?” Tamarind bare-chested.
followed, watching with some alarm as “Aren’t you afraid of burning?—you
he leaned into the front window of jeep didn’t bring any lotion.”
after jeep. “Hah. The sun worships me. I never
“Oh, I just don’t remember which burn.” Grappling with the gear shift, he
one my dad rented—but I know he left reversed the car with a roar, barely
the keys inside.” grazing an Iguana taxi. He waved to the
She trailed after him, clutching her driver and shot toward the entrance.
bag and straw hat. “These jeeps are nothing but motorized
“But what if it’s somebody else’s? cans,” he shouted over the rumble of
What if two people leave their keys acceleration.
behind?” “My mother told me it could be dan¬
“My old man’s the only one who gerous not to wear sun lotion in the Vir¬
wouldn’t bother to pocket his keys—the gin Islands—that the light’s stronger
only one trusting enough.” Nicholas here than at home.” She grabbed onto
groped at the ignition of a fire-engine the window frame, jouncing as they
red jeep peppered with dents. “There it turned left toward the town of Cruz
is!” He held up a key with a small gold Bay.
sunburst and an Honor’s tag dangling “Oh, well, I’m sure you’d burn.
from it. Everybody does but me. And the na¬
“You’re sure?” She felt uncertain. tives, of course. You can’t scorch a man
“Maybe we should ask at the office.” who’s already black, can you? All you
“Nah. They always go out for lunch. can do is darken him up a bit.” He whis¬
Anyway, I remember the star.” One cor¬ tled a snatch of a tune, shifting gears as
ner of his mouth quirked into a smile. they climbed a hill.
“See, each jeep has a different key “Look at that funny little church!
chain. This is mine. Get in, will you?” Cinder blocks all trimmed in turquoise
He tossed their bags—she noticed that and pink.” She craned out the window
there was nothing in his but a snorkel to see what had been spray-painted
and mask—through the rear window. onto the bus stop close by. Something
Tamarind slid into the passenger about JESUS saving somebody from
seat; the jeep was new but already RASTA, with a big flowered cross and
marred by dings and stains. The plastic the date.
DRUNK BAY 21

“They’re a superstitious lot.” picture-postcard glimpses as Nicholas

Nicholas swept around a tourist jeep whirled her through Cruz Bay: a nar¬
that hadn’t quite made it to the crest row, shop-jammed street swooping into
and was beginning to slide back on wet the heart of the village where, head
pavement. tilted back, Adam’s apple working, a
So it had been raining on the hills. man with a machete gulped from a
Tamarind peered out the rear window green coconut; the tiny harbor with a
to see if the other car made it to safety, ship packed with tourists, flags snap¬
but their own dropped precipitously ping; a fisherman, also with a machete,
into a valley before she could tell. chopping a large black fish into chunks
“My father told me the islanders here on a slab table in the sun; a cemetery
are Moravians, that they’re really quite above the town with white tombs
modest people. He says visitors have stacked one on top of another; a heart¬
brought bad habits and change.” stopping catch of brilliant blue sea next
“Oh yes, those vicious stateside to aloes scratched with names; pre-pa¬
tourists,” Nicholas said, flashing her a rade clusters of children, decked in
smile as the car dove into a gulf once shirts of peach or rose or lemon and
more. “Is your old man a Moravian?” gripping band instruments that caught
Tamarind shook her head. “He’s a the glare of sunshine and broke it into
professor. That’s why he’s here—for a stars.
conference.” “Not a single place to park. Typical
Nicholas whooped. “So that’s what Cruz Bay. So he’s a theologian, is he?
they call it! Can you imagine? A bunch Your old man?”
of college teachers grinding away in a “He teaches in the Philosophy and
place like this! I suppose they scrape up Religion department at the college.
a grant and come boondoggling for He’s just a professor.”
free. Is that it? They could’ve had a For some reason this made Nicholas
meeting in some cold, benighted spot.” laugh once more.
He laughed heartily. “Tell your old man “Should’ve known,” he said. “Profes¬
that next year’s conference is in sors are hardly ever devout. Too bound
Newark. See what he says.” by taboo. Let’s stop, shall we, and walk
“I suppose you’re right. The school around?” He zoomed into a slot be¬
pays for his meals and hotel and the tween open-air tourist buses.
plane ticket.” “Not there! Not there!” A group of
“What’s he studying?” local men on benches began shouting.
“I don’t know, really. But the confer¬ “What do you mean, taboo? Look,”
ence is called Powers, Principalities, and Tamarind said, touching his arm with a
the Post-Postmodern Age. It sounds— finger; “They say we can’t park here.”
well, I don’t know what it sounds like.” “Oh, you know. All this politically
Tamarind clung to the door, catching correct stuff—can’t allow a thought that
22 POSTSCRIPTS

might offend. The new liberalism. It Nicholas didn’t answer; he reversed

amuses me. Mind you, I’m an equal op¬ the jeep and blew a kiss to the old men,
portunity mocker. I’ve got it in for the who jeered and flapped their hands at
conservatives too.” Nicholas hung half him in disgust.
out of the window. “Where then?” he “Shoo. I’m getting, I’m getting—but
yelled to the bus drivers and the old I’ll be back. Just you wait and see.” He
men. “Where?” swerved into the left lane, startling
“Anywhere but there! Anywhere but Tamarind. She would have to get used
there!” they chorused. to riding on the ‘wrong’ side of the
He lowered himself into the seat, his street. “And wouldn’t you like it, you
eyes narrowing, then shrugged. “Skip poor old geezers, to have a banged-
it. We’ll go straight to the beach. But p jeep full of gas and a pretty girl
we need some—” He reached into the inside—”
back and jerked a cooler from the floor. The jeep clanked and backfired as
“Would you look at that! My old they climbed the island highway, and
man thinks of everything.” Ignoring Tamarind felt faintly worried: her
the shouts, feebler now, from the mother had wanted to show her the
benches, he popped open the lid. sights, and here she was already seeing
“Plenty of lunch here,” he said cheer¬ them. A quirk in the road hugged a cot¬
fully. “There’s pates—wonder what tage-sized boulder, looking like an im¬
kind? That’s spicy meat and vegetables mense pod crashed to earth from some
fried in dough. Like a pierogi only with unseen world-tree. Not long afterward
spices. Heart of palm salad. Pigeon she caught a glimpse of the turquoise
peas. And here—that’s seaweed salad.” and royal blue of the island waters,
He held up a container with a ravel of rimmed with white sand, shining far
vivid light green strands tucked inside. below the north shore drive, and then
“Sodas. Tamarind soda on ice! Just what she forgot everything old and remem¬
you need. Ginger beer. And some Ja¬ bered only the man beside her and the
maican Red Stripe.” sights of the afternoon.
“Won’t he be angry?” She was un¬ “Ginger Thomas, oleander, ixora, al-
easy, imagining what her own parents lamanda,” Nicholas cried over the noise
would say if she drove off with the fam¬ of the engine, pointing to flowers in
ily picnic. yards. “Look there,” he said, slowing to
“Nah, it’ll be a good joke. He’s used let her pick out the strange green tower
to me playing tricks on him. He’ll that was row after concentric row of ba¬
figure it out. Anyway, he’ll just order nanas. “See that pod-like thing? See
more lunch and rent another jeep if he there? You can’t miss it.” It hung down,
wants one. There’s plenty where this a big purple phallus. “That’s the male
came from.” flower. When it drops, the bananas are
“Are you sure?” ready to be cut down.”
DRUNK BAY 23
“Not very attractive, is it?” kind of scabbard ... That's not one of
“Not everything has to be. Even in your favorite trees, is it?”
paradise. Some things are fascinating; He darted her an amused glance.
there are lots of dangerous plants. The “No, I think manchineel would be my
ones with milky sap, especially.” very favorite. Lovely yellow apples nes¬
Coasting along, he showed her pa¬ tled in green leaves: Columbus’s men
paya, kenip, and mango trees. She had were impressed with the powers of
imagined the fruits loading down the manchineel.”
branches to the tips, as on an apple tree, “Powers,” she repeated. “We’re back
and was half repulsed to see papayas to that word again.”
bunched close to the bole. It reminded “Not the same kind ... So, is your fa¬
her of some pagan fertility goddess. ther really interested in the powers and
Who was that? Nicholas might know principalities?”
but she wouldn’t ask—a goddess with a She considered and shook her head.
cluster of many breasts. “He was interested in the island. Not
“I ought to show you a sandbox. that he won’t go to classes! The first was
Then you’d have seen something alien. on the power of the media.”
They’re yellowish gray, with spiny bark. “Power of the media? You’d think
Some people call them monkey-no- they’d have more respect for the powers
climb." He gestured toward the woods. than to haul out those hackneyed old
“Did you see that dark mass in the warhorses. What tripe!” Nicholas
trees? Termite mound.” swung the jeep onto a scald, big enough
“Termites?” She gave a twitch of the for three or four cars. “There’s a view
shoulder. “Up in the air? I saw some¬ from the top. I’ll lug the picnic.”
thing—I thought it was a gall.” The footpath was grooved from
“Nope. Termite mound. Anyway, the rains. A ruinous tower, all that re¬
fruits on the sandbox tree have ridges, mained of a Danish sugar plantation,
and a shape like a slightly flattened squatted at the head of the trail.
pumpkin. When dry, they explode.” He “How wonderful!” Tamarind was not
jerked the wheel away from a precipi¬ so grown-up that she didn’t think of
tous drop. “The seeds are sickle¬ fairy tales and long-abandoned castles.
shaped, and they act like shrapnel.” Nicholas set down the cooler with a
“Why sandboxes?” thump.
“From the days of quills, when sand “This was the cane mill—come on,
was sprinkled onto a fresh page to blot I’ll show you a sight.” He held out his
the ink. Shake this kind of sandbox, hand and she took it, and though she
though, and you might end up with a had felt uncertain and apart from him
little scimitar buried in your eye.” when he had talked about the monkey-
“I don’t think I want to,” Tamarind no-climb tree, she felt a small spiraling
said slowly, rubbing her arms. “Funny thrill of attraction.
24 POSTSCRIPTS

“Look up.” He led her through the captured the bay. Nicholas grabbed her
arched door. “Right there.” wrist hard when she thought to take his
She glanced into a jagged aperture picture.
high above her head. Mortar and stones “Hey,” he said, “don’t do that.”
were dank and darkened by mold, but She looked at him, startled. He was
hanging in the gap were pristine panels smiling, drawing her by the hand until
of something pale—three, four of them. he seemed about to kiss her. Just then
“Oh!” she cried, “combs.” Now she some children spilled into the clearing,
could see a knot of bees collecting and and a boy with a stick began jumping
burgeoning on the wall, while others beside the tower. He ducked through
jigged in place near the opening. “And the archway and began yelling bees! bees!
that’s a swarm! I’ve never seen such a bees!
thing.” “So maybe we’ll find out whether
“Best be quiet and slow,” Nicholas they’re Africanized or not.” Nicholas
said. “They might be Africanized bees, glanced up, winking at the bright sun.
this far south.” He tugged her closer, as “You wouldn’t let me—why not?”
if he wanted to protect her, and “Sure, why not? Here, I’ll save his
Tamarind felt the urge to press her life while I’m at it.” He leaned forward.
cheek against the burnished skin below “Hey kid! You with the stick—come
his collarbone. take our photo.”
She didn’t; she hardly knew him. Holding up a branch like a giant
“They can kill a child, can’t they?” claw, the boy raced over. Siblings fol¬
Tamarind stepped back toward the lowed, one in diapers toddling forward
light. with thumb corking his mouth.
“More, if they’re angry. That would “That your girlfriend?” Grinning,
be a weird spectacle, wouldn’t it?” He the kid seemed to sprout more teeth
followed her into the sun. than could possibly fit inside his mouth.
Only a few yards from the mill, she He was freely flecked; splotches
stumbled on the promised view. She streamed down his arms, collected on
stopped, staring down at white shore his knees, veiled his face.
and island and dark patches under “Sure. The lovely Princess
turquoise and blue that meant coral Tamarind, that’s who she is. And I’m
reef. Prince of the Manchineels. I just met
“That’s Trunk. Nice little package.” her, but she’s mine.”
He kneeled, rooting in the cooler for a “Huh. And I’m a king.” The boy re¬
Red Stripe. volved the camera in his hands, search¬
“I’ll say,” she murmured. She drank ing for buttons.
in the colors, wanting to save them for “King of Freckles, maybe,” Nicholas
the drab months after her return. Fish¬ said.
ing her camera from the net bag, she This bit of witticism made the child
DRUNK BAY 25

howl with pleasure, and Tamarind had “Thanks for the pictures,” Tamarind
to wait for him to calm down before she called. She took her hat and fastened it
could show him what to do. under her chin. The brim made her feel
The royal couple stood with backs to private, aloof from Nicholas.
Trunk Bay and to the white sailboats “Hey,” he shouted. “Those were
like crescent moons sown broadcast on killer bees, you know.”
the turquoise furrows. Nicholas slipped Will—or was it Sam?—shrieked with
behind Tamarind, bending to wrap his glee as he jumped onto the trail, out of
arms around her waist. She could feel sight.
his body against hers, pressed close, and “Oh!” Tamarind looked at the im¬
her own heart running to catch up with ages stored on the camera. Nicholas
the surprise of it, while his, already was almost entirely obliterated, save for
knowing, beat steadily on. fragments of leg and arm. In several
“Lemme get another.” The kid took memorable failures, Tamarind’s face
one, two, three, more—until Nicholas floated in a sea of fire.
jerked the baseball cap over his eyes. “Strange.” Nicholas peered over her
“Hey, where am I?” he screeched, danc¬ shoulder.
ing in a circle, arms out in mock dismay. “I hope the camera’s all right.”
“It’s awfully hot.” Tamarind fanned “It must be the glare. Or the kid’s a
herself with the straw hat. Her cheeks jinx. If you’re worried, we’ll stop by a
were red. “I feel faint.” shop later; how about that?”
“It’s the sun.” Nicholas took the hat She smiled, relieved. Everything
and flapped it vigorously so that her would be fine.
hair flew back. A small, knowing smile He unpacked another Red Stripe for
had hooked a corner of his lips. “Just himself and a soda for her. Both ate with
the sun,” he said, more softly. eagerness, as if they had gone on a tax¬
“Wi-ill, Sa-am, and I-ris—” The ing hike. Always adventurous when it
names were drawled out, each ending came to food, Tamarind found the cur¬
on a rising note. After a silence, the ried pates and the salads to her liking,
voice floated up once more: “Answer the heart of palm crisp and cool. They
me!” didn’t chat; perhaps they had worn
“Better scat,” Nicholas advised the down the trigger for talk, or were sim¬
little ones, who stared without blinking ply tired by the effort of becoming
for a few instants before scampering. acquainted.
“Here, kiddo.” He grabbed the cap The girl would have liked a nap, but
from the boy and skimmed it toward felt it to be impossible. Strangers would
the path. “Mama’s looking for you.” be scaling the path. Africanized bees—
Cheerful, he bowed from the waist if they were Africanized—boiled in a
before bounding off, dipping once to mass on the tower. The sun was fierce.
retrieve his cap. And Nicholas: she scrutinized him from
26 POSTSCRIPTS

the shadow of her brim. She knew now and then he had to wrench the
nothing about him. It hadn’t bothered wheel around a curve. After finishing
her at the Ouestin, but now it did, a with a flourish of trills, he spoke again.
little. “You know where you are? We left the
He was gazing into Trunk Bay as he town of Cruz Bay, right? Then we
polished off the Red Stripe. Dots of passed Lind Point and Salomon Bay
sweat stood on his chest. It seemed that and Caneel Bay—after that we edged
he was smiling faintly; or maybe his lips around Hawksnest and had a picnic be¬
always had a slight upward curl. He ap¬ tween that bay and the next ones—
peared older than before, not in face or Denis and Jumbie and Trunk. Trunk’s
body but in an air, perhaps of weariness. the one with the island. The next big
A child’s voice piped from the woods. one is Cinnamon, but that’s too
“Let’s go. Too many brats, too many crowded. Campgrounds. People. Nosy
bees.” Nicholas checked the cooler. parker rangers.”
“Suppose I may as well take it along. “We might bump into my mom and
There’s a Red Stripe and a mango Steve there.” She wondered whether
soda.” He yawned. “That beer made me that might not be a good idea, though
sleepy.” her mood was already shifting, and she
Tamarind couldn’t read him. Was he felt a renewed glimmering of pleasure
really deciding whether or not to aban¬ at being with Nicholas. Meanwhile the
don what belonged to his father? That island was becoming two things at once;
seemed odd. He was distant, though he as they twisted along the coast, she
had been so attentive earlier. could see on her left the dazzle of beach
“Come on.” He tossed the leftovers and sea, while on her right lay the for¬
inside and shouldered the cooler. est, with its rich foliage and occasional
As she picked a route along a fissure termite nests that added notes of deeper
in the steep path, she kept glancing darkness.
after Nicholas. He was jogging, letting “Perish that thought! Your mother
out war cries as he jolted downward. might disapprove of me, and the day
That would wake him up. At the scald, he would be over. We’ll just keep on going.
was waiting for her, the remains of Except for a stop at the mer-toilet.
lunch already stowed. When he beamed Mural mermen and maids and a real live
a grin, she felt relieved and was content bathroom. At Maho we’ll cut over to
to climb into her seat and let the shiny the town of Coral Bay—then hug the
red jeep go zinging through the eastern bays until we curl to the west
sunlight. and reach Saltpond.”
He whistled a ballad, “The Gypsy He laced his fingers with hers, drop¬
Rover.” Perhaps the merry round of ping her hand abruptly as the jeep nar¬
verses was making him careless—he rowly missed striking a wild goat.
kept weaving over the center line, and “Look! Slow down!” She stared after
DRUNK BAY 27

the ruins of another sugar mill, ferns dived toward the inlet of Coral Bay,
sprouting from the walls. One of the where a school of sailboats was at
wild island donkeys drifted in the murk mooring.
like a ghost. Queer what a gaiety of “The camera’s working again. I won¬
stone was left—a nougat of colors and der why—”
shapes in plasterwork. “So that's where “Hummingbird,” Nicholas said;
the ancestors of the people who work at “See it? Needling the hibiscus.”
the Ouestin and drive the tourist taxis “So headlong.” She followed the
and work in Cruz Bay were slaves.” bird’s flight toward the cliff but lost it
“Here or some other spot. The among the cacti.
tower where we picnicked. Cather- He jumped onto a ledge that over¬
ineberg. Annaberg.” He was smiling looked the bay. “Can you make out the
again, a small secret smile. boat that’s tilted to one side? Three
“They sound like names of concen¬ days from now, it’ll be underwater. In
tration camps.” the bars they’re taking bets on the
“There you go. More of those hour.”
Africanized bees. Camps, hives—you “Just a second.” Tamarind was
see? The world is full of them.” He counting the wild goats. “Seventeen.”
began whistling again, a quick sprightly She watched the kids frolic from rock to
reel, but broke off to ask why she both¬ rock. “Seven babies.”
ered thinking about things she didn’t “Annoying little beasts. They string
like. “You can’t change the past. And it’s out across the road and jam the way. But
your duty to be happy in paradise.” I like them—I wouldn’t mind being a
“I suppose you’re right,” Tamarind billy goat.” He tossed his bottle into the
said, though she thought he was only jumble of foliage in the valley.
partly so. “That was very bad,” she told him.
Nicholas certainly seemed happy, She was teasing, but she felt it was so:
once singing a snatch of a ballad: I'll wicked to despoil the world.” Boys, she
show you where the white lilies grow / At thought.
the bottom of the sea “Bad, very bad,” he said, sliding a
Tamarind noticed that the landscape hand along her shoulder blade; “It’s bad
of the island was changing as they not to do what Tamarind wants.”
aimed away from the coast, heading to¬ Not for the first time, she wondered
ward Saltpond Bay. They stopped once if he would try to kiss her.
for a pair of ambling donkeys, once for But he didn’t try; they banged the
the mer-toilets, and once for a view— doors shut on the red jeep and rocketed
finishing off the last of the drinks and away from the overlook—down, down,
watching goats graze along the brink of down to the sprinkle of roofs that
a cliff that bristled with tall cacti. On meant Coral Bay, where there were
the opposite side of the road the slope places to park and brand new shops sell-
28 POSTSCRIPTS

ing abalone and imported beach wear “Heaven,” she said aloud.
and jewelry made of a milky blue stone “What?” Nicholas ran his nails along
native to the Virgin Islands. They her arm.
paused to look, then flew on toward “I was daydreaming about Water¬
Saltpond Bay, swooping and rushing, lemon Cay,” she said; “That’s where
swerving to avoid a baby goat. we’re going tomorrow.” For a few min¬
She felt a pang of longing for her utes she had forgotten him, but now she
mother and Steve: what were they turned to look, surprised once more
doing? Tomorrow her father had the af¬ that one so handsome and sure of him¬
ternoon free. The four of them would self had noticed her.
drive to Leinster Bay, and where sand “Heaven, huh? Well, mobs of fish
yielded to a rocky thrust just opposite to gather there. The coral’s in good
Waterlemon Cay, they would don gear shape.”
and lasso the island in one long swim. If She smiled, thinking about why they
her little brother tired, she would let were going. Her parents had made the
him hang on her arm. circuit of Waterlemon only hours be¬
Tamarind had looped Waterlemon fore she was conceived. Of course, she
in dreams: it was already hers, as if wouldn’t tell Nicholas. She was too
her parents’ desire had forced not just timid, like a small coral-dwelling fish:
a child but a fairyland into being. the shy hamlet, perhaps.
Falling swiftly from the shore of Lein¬ “Here we are—Saltpond Bay.” With
ster Bay, the world under waves a twitch of the wheel, he veered onto
would be a pale blue, with light sifting the dirt, spraying pebbles.
through the ceiling like a fine, luminous The shore wasn’t far. That its border
flour. Fish would flicker by, dimly of sand was littered with cast-off fingers
seen at first: a cloud of yellowjacks, per¬ of reef surprised Tamarind. Convoluted
haps, with a fairy basslet bolting for a pieces of brain lay in bleached mounds
branch. She would drift over a ring of like a graveyard of coral. Only a modest
coral that French angelfish explored, display with map and guide to wildlife,
their lower jaws jutting and sulky, their faded to a drowned blue, suggested the
movements dreamy. The gardens were national park. After a glance at the
purple and yellow and rust, with globes board, she waded die shallows, watch¬
of brain, staghorn trees, and wafting ing the minnows sling themselves away
fans where fish took shelter. The fish from her feet. The water felt cooler
would be rainbows broken in the water: than she had expected. Nicholas had al¬
stoplight parrotfish and redbands and ready thrown himself into the sea, strik¬
midnights, queen angels, rock beauties, ing out for a yacht moored in the bay. In
triggerfish, butterflies. Another world, a few minutes, he hoisted himself onto
bright as a shattered prism, lay waiting the deck. Tamarind shaded her eyes; she
for her. could see him gesticulate, a drink in one
DRUNK BAY 29
hand. He's not a bit shy. Soon he crashed There was no use in feeling a twinge
back into the water and swam toward of hurt, not when she hardly knew
shore, where he flung himself onto wet him.
sand. No, he hadn 't known the couple on As she slipped into the waves, she was
board. It was just a lark. pleased to spot a young tang, yellow as
“Oh, that’s good.” Lying half in, half a slice of sunshine. The child was right;
out of the waves, he pillowed his head urchins with long spines had invaded
on one arm and closed his eyes. “The the bay and clustered among the coral
sun’s just right.” and rocks. Her mother had said that the
Slowly his smile eased away and he sea plunged quickly at Leinster, but
was asleep, breathing deeply; it seemed here she felt too close to the coral and
to the girl that he did everything to ex¬ was fearful of being scraped and gashed.
cess, and she felt abandoned and lonely. Now and then she rose and scanned the
She glanced at her near neighbors, who bay; Nicholas was proving to be a
were gathering up scattered snorkels, strong swimmer, arrowing far from
masks, and towels. shore. Slowly she drifted above the
A small boy sat shivering on a rock, beds, a little disappointed that she did¬
occasionally calling out to his father. n’t see more fish, and that the coral ap¬
“There’s all these mean black pointy peared so drab.
things that hurt my feet,” he yelled. While treading water, she looked
“We’re not going to come get you. about and saw that he had returned
You’ve got legs—get yourself back.” again and was floating close by. The boy
Tamarind wondered if he would’ve on the rock and his family had departed,
rescued the child if there hadn’t been and several other groups had taken
another man along. The son would their spot. When Nicholas lifted his
have to prove himself now. He hun¬ face, she pulled her mouthpiece aside.
kered there for a long time before “Time seems dreamy when you’re in
jumping in. the ocean,” she said.
Afterward, she stripped to her bath¬ “Maybe an hour. A bit more.”
ing suit—feeling self-conscious because She dove, caught sight of a trunkfish,
Nicholas had been awakened by the and surfaced in a panic. The spikes of
slap of a wave and now watched her urchins had seemed about to pierce her
without expression. When she waded hands. Tomorrow she would remember
into the water, he rolled over and to bring gloves, she told herself, though
pushed himself onto hands and knees surely the waves would be milder at Le¬
before standing. He flicked the hair inster.
from his eyes with a jerk of the head. “Everything appears about a quarter
“I’m going for another swim.” bigger and nearer,” Nicholas told her;
Tamarind didn’t reply, guessing that “Salt water magnifies the floor.”
he never asked permission of anyone. She spat out the snorkel and raised
30 POSTSCRIPTS

the mask. “I don’t like the urchins so etation with cactus—the taller sort
much.” called pipe organ or, more grossly, dildo
“No? I love the way they look, so cactus. Intermixed were clusters of
dramatic and inky. Gothic.” turk’s cap, green barrels topped by red
He tugged at her fingers and she and bristly hats garnished with the oc¬
floated toward him and perched on his casional pink flower. It was dimmer
knee, her toes curled tight. She was than in the bay, though why there
more tired than she’d thought she should be less sun was not obvious.
would be, and the tears came into her Tamarind missed the rhythmic slap of
eyes. When he drew her forward, she the waves. Salt Pond felt claustrophobic
rested against him for a moment. in contrast. But it was interesting, she
“Tamarind is a lovely little mer-crea- acknowledged.
ture,” he said; “I’ll keep her in a glass jar “A hermit crab!” She was as pleased
and feed her slips of sushi.” as a little child, spying the trundling
“I’ve got legs.” shell. For the hike, she had insisted on
“Very fine ones, too.” His hand putting her leafy skirt and white blouse
brushed against her calf. “You’re so over her swimsuit. The water shoes
lovely today that I think you must be at squelched as she walked, but the going
the very peak of your beauty. Like a was easier here, where there was no
flower that needs picking.” coral to hurt her feet.
“That would be sad. What about “Soldier crabs,” Nicholas corrected,”
you?” crawling around in their shell tanks.”
“Me? Not a flower—a fire thorn, He seized hold of a large one with a
maybe. But you’re one. Unless you’re a cone-shaped turret as big as his fist.
mermaid. Though I guess you’re trem¬ “Look at that! It’s huge! I wonder if
bling too much to be a sea girl, because that’s what—I dived and picked up a
they don’t get cold. Let’s go in—we can conch, but when I lifted it from the
walk to Salt Pond and the bay beyond.” water, a claw poked out and I let go.”
He pushed the mask up. “Want to? It’s She drew back as the crab waved a pin-
on the other side of Ram Head. Not far, cer.
according to the map.” “Probably just a sea-going soldier.
“What’s that beach called?” Want me to drag him out of his lair? So
“Drunk Bay. There’s Trunk Bay and you can get a look at him naked?”
Drunk Bay. Everybody goes to Trunk, “No, don’t! That’s mean,” she said,
though.” but he only laughed and tossed the crab
into the underbrush.

S alt Pond was three things: low rip¬

pling water to their right, a narrow
Afterward they switched places; now
he was tailing her, whistling and occa¬
sionally pausing to skip stones across
seam of path, and, to the left, dense veg¬ Salt Pond.
DRUNK BAY 31
“You’re really good at that.” stead, the sound seemed to widen and
“All in the wrist.” He made a flicking thrum and flower around her. When
motion with his hand. her eyes opened, she saw the eyelashes
Tamarind had begun to feel uneasy. black and spiky against his skin. His
It took her some minutes to realize mouth tasted of cinnamon and cloves.
why, because the sound had begun so “Tamarind, Tamarind.” He sighed,
gradually. weaving her fingers with his and luring
“What’s that?” She half turned, look¬ her along the path.
ing across Salt Pond and listening. She would have liked to kiss him an¬
“What’s what?” other time, wished the edge of his hand
She couldn’t think what it reminded to barely meet the rise of her breast,
her of at first. Then she remembered a wished to taste his mouth. She wanted
family trip to Niagara Falls. The far¬ to lean against him and hear the muscle
away thunder of the river as it cata¬ of his heart, yielding up the message
pulted over the cliffs had crept into her tucked in emptied shells: the sea, the sea,
mind in just the same way. The fright of the sea. Her nerves, linked with his,
coming on the falls was of an order of trembled and shone like a pale-barked
magnitude akin to what she imagined it sapling in the sun and breeze. The pas¬
would be to slam through the atmos¬ sage wasn’t wide enough for two, but
phere of Earth and into the infinite his grasp kept her close.
black closet of space. She hadn’t cared The thudding that was not his heart
for the Grand Canyon either, the way but the rhythm of Drunk Bay made her
the rift in the world disordered the stop, fingers loosening.
ground. “I want to go back.”
“That jwise,” she whispered. “Come on,” he said, “why don’t you
Nicholas drew her close until her ear come on? It’s just a bay. They’re all dif¬
was against his chest, and she could hear ferent. That’s the fun of poking around
the steady tidal thump of his heart. the island. Is it the noise? Come on.”
“Drunk Bay, I suppose,” he said. She thought of whirling to race to¬
And he kissed her, just when she was ward Saltpond Bay. But what silliness!
no longer wondering whether he ever This was no obscure track through
would or when. Which was just like a boy. wilderness; the route had been marked
But it was exciting, this kiss, because it with a stippled line on the park maps,
was all mixed up with a fear that was in and the ground showed wear from
turn whipped by the rhythmical threat many feet.
of Drunk Bay. The flare of desire, the “All right,” she said.
edge of his palm brushing the curve of And then they were at Drunk Bay,
her breast, and the drumming of his the rut lifting slightly and vanishing
heart conspired to make her forget the into a landscape of cobbles and spars,
bluster of the waves, but she did not; in¬ with a boulder hard to the left and a tide
32 POSTSCRIPTS

that forced itself, jostling with coral and about the scene: a trick of time that
white with foam, onto the land. It was made this world into another.
bewildering, really, how one minute The jagged surface hurt her feet
they were hemmed in, following the through the thin water shoes. She read
seam of the shadowy Saltpond walk, the inscription on the cross—not the
and the next, the world had shaken itself name of some lost child but a hiker’s ad¬
free of the interior. Tamarind stood on monition to pack out trash. She laughed
the brink where trail transformed to in relief, turning to follow Nicholas,
monstrous beach, her hands held out who had wandered farther down the
slightly to steady herself in the wind, bay.
the leaves of her skirt whipping. The “How weird,” she murmured, her
other side of the Ram Head point was eye lighting on another figure, col¬
savage, subject to riptide and blast, and lapsed onto the rubble. Had it been a lo¬
there was no sand visible, only chunks cal or a tourist who scraped his knees on
of dead reef hurled by the thrust of sea. coral as he fitted together the head and
Sky glowed; foam on the waves was neck, the torso, the arms and legs and
lurid. Incessant breakage of ocean feet, added disks for buttons and be-
against beach had been the source of wigged the head with string, bleached
the ominous, omnipresent, slowly and frizzed by long immersion? She
swelling sound that had threatened her looked about and realized that form af¬
on the path. For one held breath, ter form lay tumbled on the ground or
Tamarind felt only astonishment at the propped against boulders: a pair of
fierceness of the surf and the rough twins, their heads bald and oval; crude
bones of coral. sexless beings with seaweed or ravels of
Then she began to see more. It was wind-teased strings in their hands; a
as though an unreeled scroll lay before delicate creature with a toothed mouth
her, one she had assumed to be in an an¬ that was the underside of a cowrie shell;
cient tongue until a word here and an¬ a boy pinned to the earth by the enor¬
other there revealed her own language, mous scepter of a phallus. A sculpture of
curiously inscribed. A child-sized cairn coral, twine, and narrow boards resem¬
speared through by a crooked cross bled a gallows. The blades of another
stood directly in her way; beyond it, she suggested a windmill, and on an out¬
saw a massive boulder studded with stretched line that had been pegged to
shelving projections. the ground, a tied stick of driftwood
“Skeletons,” she whispered, but that twiddled. Beyond these contraptions
wasn’t it. The figures, dead white, re¬ Tamarind could make out further ranks
clined on bunks of rock—oval heads of in the mortuary of coral, the bodies di¬
brain with arms and legs made of minishing as the beach swept into the
branch and other coral. There was distance—as if Drunk Bay might be
something of the barrow and Stone Age infinite.
DRUNK BAY 33
Where wild waves had flung booty snatched the spike of a phallus from the
of destruction, some obsessive visitor boy. A rock underfoot shot away, and
had sorted shells, sea glass, and salt-rav¬ he took several skittering steps before
eled rope into separate mounds. It was landing securely, the stick of coral
like some fantastic concentration camp raised slantwise to the sky as if he would
at the end of the world, with its corpses use it to stab the white disk of the sun.
and harvest—stacks devoted to teeth, “Oh!” Tamarind cried out; the alter¬
shoes, or hair. Mist rose up like smoke ing of the coral child seemed a viola¬
from the dissolution. tion—of what, she was not sure.
A druidic ring suggested a miniature He laughed, whirling around.
Stonehenge. Pairs of columns were “Tamarind, Tamarind—”
capped by a flat lintel, and although a With heedless leaps, he plunged to¬
first glance suggested a diorama, the ward her. She noticed that his eyes
scene retained something of the pagan matched the elusive color of the sea just
and the terrible. It might have served as before it hurdled the margin of heaped
a ceremonial stage for fairies—not the coral and smashed itself into foam. The
pastel flower-bearers sold in shops but buffeting winds and the unleashed
sharp-nosed imps who savored a night’s waves had awakened a wild gusto in
work of blighting cattle and stealing him.
children. When he kissed her this time, the
Nicholas navigated the coral, wind coral branch in his hand tore a fine layer
jerking at his hair and clothes as if it of skin from her inner arm.
would scalp and rip and hurl them to¬ “Ow!” She retreated from him, her
ward Saltpond. arm cocked as she looked at the blood.
“Drunk Bay,” he yelled, exultant, “Here,” he said with relish; “Let me
jumping onto a stone; “I’m drunk on lick it.” He seemed not to have the least
Drunk Bay.” With a whoop, he leaped care for what he had done.
forward, his feet finding purchase on a “No.” She took another step. Was he
joggling spar of coral. He teetered for joking? “We ought to be getting back to
an instant before careening forward and the jeep.”
stumbling to a halt beside a sprawled “Why? It’s perfect right here.” He
figure. shrugged. “Besides, it’s not my jeep. If I
That one had seemed pitiful to want, I can just walk off through the
Tamarind. Peculiar, she had thought, cacti. Go bounding with a herd of goats.
how much an expression could be I’m the Prince of the Manchineels, re¬
changed by setting two simple pebbles member? I can do whatever I like.”
of eyes close together or apart, giving “I thought your father rented the
variety to these crude beings. jeep for the day.” Tamarind’s voice
His left hand fluttered, reaching for trembled; the breeze dashed her sylla¬
balance; with the right, Nicholas bles against the coral.
DRUNK BAY 35
“No. I just borrowed it.” “No,” she said, but faintly. Rain had
“What do you mean?” She edged begun to yield to ocean: a navy-colored
away once more, the pulse at her temple cloud wept onto a spot of sea that,
sounding in her ears like the sea. deeply shaded, began to glow with lu¬
“I wanted; I took it.” minescence.
“So the lunch wasn’t yours—wasn’t “I always get what I want, Tamarind.
your father’s either?” You ought to see that by now.” He
He smiled, flipping the branch of began walking after her, moving lazily,
coral into the air and catching it neatly. his hips swinging, the coral held lightly
“Could have been. Anything’s con¬ in his hand.
ceivable. But I always take what I want.
Did I say that already? The world’s my
oyster; I eat what I like and toss the rest.
That’s how it is.”
T he first rock flung against flesh
raised an instantaneous weal and
She scrambled over a nest of coral bled freely. Tamarind dropped to her
twigs and eggs. knees, the breath rasping in and out of
“And you know what I want,” he her mouth. Her arm and throat hurt.
went on. “You could lie down on this Panic was in her like a ravel of fisher¬
nice smooth sand and let me kiss you men’s line knotted with hooks and
again, Tamarind. I would like that.” beads, bedeviled by a corkscrewing
“No,” she said to the gust of wind. wind off the sea. Fear weighted her
The air was too strong for her, and hard arms and legs with sinkers.
to breathe when it thrust so violently Nicholas reeled, lifting a hand to his
against her face. The sky over the sea face—the stone egg had made its mark
had darkened slightly, a cloud shielding at the left eyebrow.
the sun. It would be raining offshore in The rain cloud cast a tide of shadows
a few moments, letting down one of the across the coral.
brief tropical rains that were here and Figures on the beach were struggling
gone quickly but made the roads slick to sit up and teetering onto club feet in
and hazardous. rickety unison. Even the circle of two-
When she looked over her shoulder, legged dolmen bestirred itself, each
he was still smiling, the length of coral stumbling blindly over a chaos of un¬
inscribing circles in the air. made, unchosen coral. A cry spiraled
“It’s too bad,” he said; “I ought to from Tamarind’s throat. The uprising
send you home to your father. It would could have been a comic, skeletonic
be a good lesson to him. Dissing the joke if only it had been tucked behind a
powers that way, not believing in what’s luminous screen while she watched,
there to be believed.” He stroked a close by Steve and Roy and Lisette. But
hand over the place where his heart family was impossibly far, on the other
would be. “Still, pleasure before duty.” side of the island—it might as well have
36 POSTSCRIPTS

been on the other side of a mirror or of that was also seven years of bondage to
the moon: on the bright, reflective face, hell.
while she was jailed in the darkness of She strained to pierce through shade
the back side. to where the mob was josding, pressing,
Nicholas was laughing as he wiped dragging something along the margin of
the blood from his eye. the sea, shoving it slowly up the shore.
String-haired and squat, bald and Reflux scalded her throat with gall. She
eyeless, knock-kneed and giant, a coral retched onto the ground, blotted sud¬
army wavered toward him. They gath¬ den moisture from her eyes. She could
ered missiles, hammered with their make out the stubby and the tottery-tall
horny fingers against stone, shoved ones shimmering over their trophy in a
lumps of coral into the remnants of nets mirage-like mass, while a few, almost
to make slings. But all this activity took excluded, dived between legs or jigged
place inside a silence that was in turn with antic glee. The dolmen half-men
eaten by the gush of the ocean, de¬ jittered at the heels of the others. Cute.
voured and forgotten, as if it never had They're almost cartoon cute. If only they
been. Not even the striking of rock and weren't—
coral against brawn and bone was audi¬ The subject of their ministrations
ble: nothing but sea. had completely disappeared in the moil
Tamarind glimpsed Nicholas with of bodies. Under drifting clouds, the
his mouth open in a roar. His face coral took on a fungal glow. A rhythmic
looked weirdly joyful, as if he had not clok! clok! clok! could be heard, faint
yet realized any danger. He was under the crescendo of surf. Tamarind
whirling about, the scepter in his fist. listened harder than she had ever lis¬
For a while, it looked like a game of tened to anything. Clok! clok! clok! Arms
ninepins, heads toppling over and made from the skeletons of once-living
crashing into spines and legs. Domino¬ coral rose and fell as regularly as if they
sized pieces of coral sprayed the air; were wielding mallets. She made a
then, all chance for play stopped. He queer, shivering moan, her teeth set.
was, quite simply, outnumbered. The The high-pitched note of it frightened
white sea surged forward and boiled her, but she couldn’t stop. Motes
over him. swirled before her eyes. They, too, were
What was it she had said to a fearsome swarm. When her sight was
Nicholas? Something about the dreami¬ altogether black, wholly absence, she
ness of time at the ocean? She flinched; might topple into the dark.
no, it was better to think of a long- A memory of the bees and their
legged nightmare folded on one’s combs, with the slow accumulation of
breast, refusing to go, making it a fight sunny days and flowers in cells of wax,
to breathe the air—the whole battle wavered like a mirage before her. She
being packed into a flick of an instant clung to the image of purity in shadow:
DRUNK BAY 37
panels of snow faintly gleaming with world’s overweening, inhuman beauty:
the gold of stored light. Even now a had bent, scrabbling after the forms
brave young queen might be skyrocket¬ that lay in shapeless chaos. They called
ing above Trunk Bay, a projectile to that man or woman: brain! arm!
headed into a new world, for the tower hand! eye! And the newborn artist of the
with its aged queen would never again place took hold of a coral spine and laid
be home. And whether queen or slave, it on the ground below the oval of a
the old one in her tattered wedding brain. They tamed the ruinous world. If
gown would never escape the infinite he, he marked his presence. If she, she
cells of her palace. Africans all, laboring gave birth to a child with a face as pitted
after sweetness in the dark tower... as the moon. They longed to make, as
Breathe slowly, slowly. I’m drinking the they had surely been made, dreamed
wind, and it’s too much, too much for any¬ into slow being in a time without time,
one. Her blood was freighted with oxy¬ when the universe was void. Perhaps
gen. Cupping her hands over nose and they instilled in the images something
mouth, she slowed her breaths, count¬ of their own loneliness in the world,
ing herself down by one-thousands. their desire to protect and to be pro¬
Breathe in. One one-thousand. And out. tected. Perhaps it was also a desire to
Two one-thousands. And in. Two one-thou¬ succor the land by setting something
sands ... human against the tantrums of the ele¬
Tamarind could see once more. The ments. After the first builder, others
coral swarm fell away from what they came and were inspired to create. Yet
had done. Though some had legs so the place called Drunk Bay was only the
thin it looked as though bulky torsos stranger for such mortal work of cre¬
were held up by mere scribbles of white, ation.
they moved off with surprising quick¬ Tamarind felt all these things as if she
ness. Here and there, a creature began had been seared with wisdom in one
to fold itself up, the dice of toes and dazzling strike of lightning. No fire
slats of legs collapsing onto the bed bolted from cloud to coral, scarring her
where it had been joined. from crown to sole with secret knowl¬
She felt what her stone-time ances¬ edge, but it might as well have done,
tors had felt on a barren, windswept hill because a wound was made, though in¬
overlooking the thrash of surf: visible.
whelmed. Surely it had been thousands Along the beach, more of the beings
of years since a menhir had been made were collapsing or propping themselves
in a spirit of awe and in fright at the against stone. The sketchy lot she had
wideness and lunging power of cre¬ seen outstretched on shelves of rock
ation. wobbled past her now, heading toward
But at Drunk Bay someone had been sleep.
seized by the ancient horror of the More rain sifted from the cloud,
38 POSTSCRIPTS

close beside the lurid sunshine. A few of When it became evident that he had
those sinking onto the shore were mois¬ come for her, Tamarind managed to
tened by drops as the pall moved rise, hands shaking. He made no sign
steadily off. As light increased, Tama¬ but limped toward the cairn at the trail-
rind could clearly see their handiwork. head, occasionally turning his head in
A hundred yards down the shore, a its socket to see if she still followed,
barrow made from stones and coral pausing to wait. In the dim atmosphere
hulked against the backdrop of ocean. of Salt Pond, the stumpy figure seemed
Wearing the mystery of a monument to emit a spindly light. The scar of trail
that had endured from a prehistoric was smooth and easy under Tamarind’s
age, it echoed the cairn at the head of feet, yet it felt like a long time had
the trail but was larger, and had nothing passed before they reached the trees
of a cross about it anywhere. If the that divided the pond walk from Salt-
winds had been gentler, she might have pond Bay. Here, where the path van¬
imagined that some day it would be fer¬ ished into scrub, she overtook him. For
tilized and seeded by birds and a moment she stood still, peering at the
wreathed with grasses. Bleak as a skull, bay through the leaves. As she reached
the tumulus gathered the landscape to push aside a branch and pass between
about itself. trunks, she thought to look back, but he
The trembling that began after was already gone.
Nicholas had shrugged off her need to Here the air was sunny, as before. It
return to Saltpond Bay and the jeep seemed as though no time had passed,
now slackened. She was still weak from though the groupings of people on
that first terror and felt unsure whether the beach suggested that several fami¬
she could stand. The scrape on her lies might have departed and others ar¬
inner arm made a rhythmic throbbing, rived since. She remembered the boy
but the sea-like pulse of blood in her on the rock; perhaps his mother was
hand had subsided. Tamarind jerked, now poking at his feet with a needle,
startled by a movement: one of the prying out the black tips of spines
figures had not gone to its hard rest but while she complained against the ways
was veering toward her, rocking from of men in a fierce whisper. Nearing a
side to side. It was the boy Nicholas had couple lying on a blanket, she turned
mutilated. her face toward the bay, as though she
The mute, craterous face of the eu¬ had just caught sight of something fas¬
nuch turned toward hers. The pebble cinating. She kept to the sand at the
eyes were set far apart, as in a child’s water’s edge, only once crossing the
drawing, and the tiny, upturned smile of broken coral in order to retrieve her hat
blue sea glass had a simple sweetness and the net bag of gear. She averted
that belied the upheaval of Drunk Bay her eyes from the other bundle close
and the fresh presence of the barrow. beside it.
DRUNK BAY 39
She didn’t want to consider how she
would get back to the Ouestin. If she
T amarind went to bed early, but in the
morning she rode in another rented
had to, she would drive the jeep, she jeep with Roy and Lisette and Steve.
supposed, but she didn’t want to touch They drove to Leinster Bay and
it—didn’t want to see its fire-engine traipsed the path through the trees to
shine ever again. the stones and strip of sand opposite
“Hey! Hey! Mango—” Waterlemon Cay. Tamarind’s mother
A child waylaid her, signaling with a had tucked a frangipani flower in her
shovel. daughter’s hair. They had all noticed
Tamarind stopped, staring at the some alteration in her mood but
little girl. It took her much longer than thought little of it.
usual to see what lay before her: to rec¬ With them she swam twice around
ognize the snub nose and silky hair, the the island, but all that day she never
frog on the front of her play suit. spoke about anything that had taken
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, moisture place on the afternoon before. She was
springing to her eyes. When she afraid of what had happened; equally,
kneeled, letting down the shoulder bag, she was afraid of being questioned.
the toddler hugged her ecstatically. Despite everything, the circuit of the
The pregnant mother was wading in island was just as beautiful as she had
the shallows, close to another child who dreamed it would be, when she was a
hobbled face down in the waves. He little girl. In the bay the water was a sky
leaped from the water, jerking away his blue, light-drenched and cool, and the
snorkel. world dropped away quickly. When she
“I saw a fish like a box,” he said, and gained the reef, she swam above corals
his words sounded jubilant with discov¬ that were not bleached but gay with
ery; “It had corners.” color. Sea feathers yielded, fluttering
His mother swung him out of the with the current. The fish were radiant,
water, but he splashed back in. whisking to the shelter of staghorn or
“Oh, now I remember,” she said to hiding under the curl of a live fan.
Tamarind. The faille tank top to her She forgot nothing. The taste of cin¬
suit rode up, showing a crescent of namon, the hand close to her breast, the
belly. “You’re the girl with the blue clustering bees: all of die previous day
flower.” She lifted her sunglasses and was with her, so that she did not want to
gazed at her. “Is something the stray too far from Steve and her par¬
matter?” ents. She feared some manifestation of
“My ride.” Tamarind coughed, darkness in the water, but none came.
blinked against the tears. “My ride left Instead, the shadow of the last day
me behind.” Her voice trembled when seemed to throw this one into dramatic
she asked, “Could you give me a lift to relief.
the Ouestin when you go?” And then the queen angels and the
40 POSTSCRIPTS

parrotfish and the fairy basslet and a she drifted on the waves above angel
host of others—the bright, broken and fairy, and it came to her that this
pieces of her long-desired rainbow— underwater garden was, as her mother
made her forget, so that she lay en¬ had promised, a glimpse of heaven. For
tranced for a long time on the skin of some obscure length of time she was
the water, gazing at the flashing of fish pierced by the loveliness and the joyful
through beds of coral. The pain of salt profusion of fantasy trees and flowers.
on her arm’s tender scrape seemed to Ail that was Tamarind seemed to melt
fall into abeyance. The secret world into the cradling waves and the shared-
under the sea was a fount of life, and, out rainbows and the living coral, so
lost in witness, she stopped dreading that she felt herself to be as rich and
the shadows of barracuda and shark. strange as the very seas of paradise.
Light dispersed from the summery sky; JS

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F. Brett Cox tells us, “I first learned of the Reverend John Murray Spear in Joseph A. Citro
and Diane E. Foulds’ Curious New England (2004). Some of the events described in Mary
of the New Dispensation ’ actually took place, and some of the people actually said some of the
things I attribute to them. On the whole, though, your guess is as good as mine. I am particu¬
larly indebted to John Buescher’s entry on Spear in the Dictionary of Unitarian and Uni-
versalist Biography, Robert Damon Schneck’s lThe God Machine’ (Fortean Times, May
2002), Slater Brown’s The Heyday of Spiritualism, Andrew V. Rapoza’s ‘Touched by the In¬
visibles’ in No Race of Imitators: Lynn and Her People, and Judith Walzer Leavitt’s
Brought to Bed: Child-Bearing in America, 1750-1950-not to mention the 2005
Sycamore Hill Writers Workshop, the Cambridge (Massachusetts) SF Workshop, and my wife,
whose mother was from Lynn and who has family there still. ”
A native of North Carolina, Brett is Assistant Professor of English at Norwich University
in Northfield, Vermont. He lives in Roxbury, Vermont, with his wife, playwright Jeanne Beck¬
with.

MaiyOfThe
New Dispensation
F. Brett Cox
Mrs. Newton is nervous. to swell and press against her loosened

H er husband’s assurances do not

help. She does not need him
corset, and she knows her husband
had nothing to do with that. He and
the Reverend and her dead sister Emily
to tell her how great a man the say she is Mary. She finds it difficult
Reverend Mr. Spear is; she knows of to think of her husband as Joseph. She
the Reverend’s good works in the past, cannot tell him how frightened she is
and the promise of the future. Have as he helps her into the cab that will
they not all heard the spirits speak take them from Boston to the cottage
through the Reverend, received the at High Rock and the dawn of the
plans for the New Dispensation and new era. The rocking of the cab further
the machine that will bring it into disorients her. All things are possible. It
being? Perfection! Joy! The fallen is the year of Our Lord eighteen hun¬
world will soon be set aright. dred and fifty-four. Invisible electric
But now Mrs. Newton has been messages fly along metal wires, and
called to stand once again before the slavery is not permitted anywhere
machine, the Physical Savior, the New within the Commonwealth of Massa¬
Motive Power, and her belly continues chusetts.

42
MARY OF THE NEW DISPENSATION 43
The machine waits on mechanic expertise, a blessing that en¬
a dining-room table. sures the spirits’ instructions will be

A t this same table, Spear received his

first messages from the spirits.
transmitted without corruption or ad¬
umbration.
Thus the machine emerged, bit by
From a nest of metal plates, wires, and bit, over nine months. None of its cor¬
magnets rise two metal poles. Linking poreal assemblers can hope to explain
the poles, a revolving shaft of steel; rest¬ its workings, but they know its purpose.
ing on top of the shaft and perpendicu¬ The Electrolizers, in Spear’s mild but
lar to it, a metal arm from either end of steadfast voice, had made that clear.
which hang two spheres containing The Associations, they said, are charged
magnets. Beneath the spheres alternat¬ to promote integral reform with a view to
ing plates of zinc and copper seek cor¬ the ultimate establishment of a divine social
respondence with the electrical patterns state on earth. To this end, the machine,
of the brain. Other, smaller metal balls bringing new life and vitality into all
with magnets orbit the center of the de¬ things, animate and inanimate. And now
vice, hanging randomly from metallic Heaven !s• last, best gift to Man awaits its
protuberances. Bellows near the center final component.
breathe in and out. Extending through
openings in the table, two segmented
The cab ascends the winding
metal appendages run down to the
path to the summit of High Rock.
floor.
Spear and his assistants have con¬ hen the cab arrives at the stone
structed the device according to the in¬ cottage and Mrs. Newton steps
structions of the Spirit Congress. down, her husband Alonzo wraps his
Revealed to Spear at a seance in arms beneath hers, encircling her torso
Rochester the year before, the Con¬ above her swollen belly, and all but car¬
gress contains six major associations: ries her up the additional steps to the
Healthfulizers, Educationalizers, Agri- wooden observation tower behind the
culturalizers, Elementizers, Govern- cottage. They are greeted there by Mr.
mentizers, and Electrolizers. It is the S. Crosby Hewitt, a chief assistant to
Electrolizers, seven spirits who had Spear and, like Mr. Newton, editor of a
been prominent engineers while resi¬ journal in support of a better world.
dent on earth, all now supervised per¬ The mutual success of both Hewitt’s
sonally by the spirit of Benjamin New Era and Newton’s New England
Franklin, for whom Spear is the earthly Spiritualist is marked testimony, they all
representative. They speak to him, and feel, to the profound appetite for im¬
he transmits their instructions. Spear provement, in the greater Boston area
himself is innocent of any scientific or at least.
44 POSTSCRIPTS

One hundred seventy feet below John Murray Spear

them lies the city of Lynn, at once pros¬ has devoted his life to others.
perous and shabby. A strange, unsettled
place. She has heard the stories: accusa¬
tions of witchcraft long before Salem;
S ince preaching his first sermon at
the age of twenty-four, the Rev¬
the fortuneteller Moll Pitcher, whose erend Mr. Spear—baptized by his
fame drew Mrs. Newton’s own mother namesake John Murray, the founder of
from Boston for a consultation and the Universalist Church—has given
whose house had lain just below where himself to the service of the poor, the
they now stand. There is even a tale of downtrodden, the defenseless. Temper¬
a dispute among the Quakers that had ance, abolition, the rights of women
led to a riot. Was the home of rioting and prisoners have filled his days and
Quakers, she wondered, an optimal site nights, his very soul. Many in his con¬
for the inauguration of the new era? But gregations recoiled from his activities.
Spear had insisted. This majestic emi¬ Ten years earlier, while he was speaking
nence, he declared, was a high, sacred, against slavery in Portland, Maine, a
consecrated place. That the most famous mob attacked him and nearly sent him
spiritualist of the age, the seer of to his maker; the months of recovery
Poughkeepsie himself, Andrew Jackson only deepened his faith, his determina¬
Davis, had last year greeted the spirits tion to bring light to the darkened
from the observation tower undoubt¬ world. He redoubled his efforts to aid
edly provided further encouragement. and comfort prisoners, railed against
Mr. and Mrs. Newton and Mr. He¬ the merciless presumption of capital
witt enter the uppermost room of the punishment, yielded not one inch in the
tower. The machine sits on its table, sacred cause of abolition. When the
surrounded by its assemblers, male and captors of the slave woman Lucy Fag-
female. There is no other furniture in gins made the mistake of visiting Mas¬
the room save a straight-back chair in sachusetts and Spear helped her obtain
which sits the Reverend, recently en¬ her freedom, the outcry from his
tered into his fiftieth year. Spear’s collar parishioners cost him his New Bedford
is loosened against the growing heat of pulpit. Some who understood the en¬
June, but his hair rests flawlessly in a ergy of his passions and the nobility of
careful halo around his head. His eyes his purpose offered him other appoint¬
are closed; his lips move rapidly, whis¬ ments both civil and ecclesiastical, but
pering. His daughter, Sophronia, holds he declined them all. Like Christ be¬
a writing tablet on which his pen fore him, he would labor misunder¬
scratches frantically. As Mrs. Newton stood and alone.
walks into the room, his voice rises to And then his daughter, whose faith
pulpit volume.—She is here! It is time! had never wavered even as her mother
Let it begin!—. withdrew into a Stoic silence, showed
MARY OF THE NEW DISPENSATION 45

him the way. Some years earlier they Then the visit to Rochester, the rev¬
had both read the Reverend Mr. Davis’s elations of the Electrolizers, and the
The Principles of Nature, Her Divine Rev¬ New Motive Power. He quickly se¬
elations, and a Voice to Mankind: a vision cured the use of the cottage at High
of Summer-Land, a spirit world of joy Rock from Jesse Hutchinson, fellow
and no punishment. Spear was in¬ spiritualist and leader of the Hutchin¬
trigued; Sophronia was captivated. son Family Singers, who had remained
Davis had insisted that the spirits would grateful to Spear since the Reverend
soon provide a living demonstration of had permitted the family to rehearse in
their existence; when the Fox sisters of his church. He gathered his followers,
Hydesville, New York, confirmed his few but undaunted. Mrs. Spear retired
prophecy, Sophronia sat herself and her to near relations in Gloucester, but
father down at this same table on which Sophronia never left his side. The con¬
the machine now rests. There the spir¬ struction of the Physical Savior began.
its spoke, not through enigmatic rap¬
ping noises, but through Spear’s own
Mrs. Newton also hears from the spirits.
hand as he transcribed their detailed in¬
structions to focus his ministry on
specific individuals. A woman in
S he, too, had been inspired by Davis,
and Spear, and her own dear hus¬
Georgetown, an elderly man in Wey¬ band. It was shortly after she read
mouth; many others, all strangers to Davis’s book that her departed sister
him. The afflicted were taken aback by Emily, gone from a fever these ten long
Spear’s unannounced arrivals but after¬ years, began to speak to her. Whispers
ward confessed themselves mildly im¬ at first, a tremulous voice that seemed
proved. to emanate from a corner, from a heat¬
Following Davis, Spear published his ing grate, from nowhere:
own volume of spirit teachings, Mes¬ (sarah)
sages from the Superior State, transcrip¬ (listen)
tions of twelve communications from (there will be much for you to do)
the spirit of the original John Murray. Then the voice came into her own
There followed public lectures during head and issued from her own mouth.
which Spear would sink into a trance AS FIERY HOT AS WAS MY FINAL
and communicate the spirits’ observa¬ FEVER, SO COOL AND SOOTHING
tions on topics about which he himself IS IT HERE. AS PIERCING AS WERE
knew nothing. Most audiences were MY FINAL AGONIES, SO CALM IS
unconvinced that the lectures were any¬ THE PEACE THAT WAITS FOR
thing other than Spear speaking in his YOU HERE. These words she spoke
own voice. Nonetheless, he continued felt different from Emily’s whispers,
his mission, speaking to any who would and Mrs. Newton was briefly uncertain.
listen. But Mr. Newton, who had just pub-
46 POSTSCRIPTS

lished his pamphlet, Ministry of Angels At the cottage they found Mr. He¬
Realized, rejoiced at this reassurance, witt, Sophronia, and several others
this confirmation of his deepest hopes, clustered around the machine, on its
and regarded his wife with love and awe table in the center of the room. Mr. He¬
unmatched even on their wedding day. witt wrote rapidly on a closelv-held pad
She chided herself for her lapse and of paper. Sophronia stood behind him,
continued to give voice to the voice in speaking softly to no one in particular.
her head. Neither of their two young Mrs. Newton thought she heard,—Is
children seemed overly struck, al¬ there no other way? Does it have to
though Mercy, the youngest, asked if be—, but she lost the rest.
Aunt Emily would be coming to her To one side stood the Reverend Mr.
birthday party. And when they attended Spear, although it took a moment for
the Reverend Mr. Spears delivery of a Mrs. Newton to ascertain that it was in¬
spirit message from Dr. Franklin, any deed him. The Reverend’s body was
doubts they may have had were cast wrapped in metal—vide bands, narrow
aside. Mrs. Newton recognized in strips, shiny and dull, with wires pro¬
Spear her own state: an unimpeded truding in no apparent pattern. Some of
transmission from the other side, yet the metallic bands were encrusted in
with no loss of the transmitter’s own what appeared to be jewels. Sheets of
consciousness. silver, gold, what could have been dia¬
By this time construction of the ma¬ mond caught the late sunlight that
chine had already begun, and in the poured through the open windows that
crisp air of September, 1853, Mr. New¬ surrounded them and the open skylight
ton took her to the tower at High Rock. in the rounded ceilinar above.
c*

The initial sequence was under way, he Mrs. Newton must have betrayed
told her. The spirits had instructed that her shock, for Mr. Newton carefully ex¬
the motor receive an initial charge of plained that the spirits had required an
electricity, which action had led to a individual to submit to a potentially
slight pulsation and vibratory motion in the dangerous operation, to which the Rev¬
pendants around the periphery of the table. erend had consented only from a ra¬
Then several persons, male and female, tional confidence in the wisdom and good
had been presented to the machine, had faith of the invisible directors. The en¬
laid hands upon it to transmit their own casement was dramatic, perhaps, but
individual magnetism. They attended necessary. Had not Spear himself writ¬
the machine, her husband explained, ten of God as a Grand Central Electric
carefully ordered, from ordinary or com¬ Focus from which all electricity emanates?
paratively coarser organizations to those Was not electricity the grand instrumen¬
of finer and yet finer mould, thus provid¬ tality, the native element, by which all
ing necessary links for the machine’s things move? Between the Grand Central
progress. Mind and all inferior minds then' subsists a
MARY OF THE NEW DISPENSATION 47
connection, a telegraphic communication, band and most of the staff of the
an Electric chain. New England Spiritualist present, the
Two men whom Mrs. Newton did spirits explained the role she was to
not know picked up the Reverend in his play. Her departed sister began to ad¬
metal casement and moved him to dress her as Mary, and her belly began
within inches of the machine. She could to swell.
not see where the wires led or if the
Reverend’s metal was actually touching
Mrs. Newton lies on the floor.
that of the machine. On the strip of
gold where his eyes should have been
rested two red jewels, but his lips were
H er husband dutifully places a pillow
behind her head. It has been rain¬
visible; she could see them move and ing all day; the windows and the sky¬
recognized the trance state. light are closed, she presumes to protect
They stood together, metal-wrapped the machine. This June has proven un¬
man and machine, for close to an hour. usually warm, and the room is close and
The room grew dark; someone lit can¬ hot. From her perspective the machine
dles. Sophronia was on her knees in seems to rise to the very ceiling, in
prayer. At first Mrs. Newton thought which there are, she notices, an inordi¬
the glow of the candles responsible, but nate number of cracks. She looks to her
she realized that a light was shining right and sees the Reverend scribbling
from a point near the center of the Rev¬ and muttering. On each wrist is a thin
erend’s casing. The light stretched, ex¬ golden bracelet that has remained since
panded, and enveloped the machine. his encasement as if part of his skin.
Now others fell to their knees as The others witnesses stand and look
Sophronia shouted, Spiritusl, and Mr. down on her like the spirits themselves.
Newton muttered, umbilicus. It seemed She trusts the Reverend, her hus¬
to Mrs. Newton that the light was on band, their purpose and promise, but
the verge of encompassing the table on with each passing week since her previ¬
which the machine rested and then ous visit to the tower she has grown
making its way about the room and more anxious and uncertain. Mr. He¬
through the windows and upwards witt had said the most refined elements of
through the open ceiling into the empty her spiritual being were to be imparted to,
night. Just as it appeared to come to¬ and absorbed by, the appropriate portions of
wards her, it disappeared. The Rev¬ the mechanism, its minerals having been
erend collapsed within his cage; made peculiarly receptive by previous chem¬
Sophronia frantically directed the two ical processes. Fair enough.
men who peeled the metal back and car¬ But her swollen belly has brought
ried him away. memories of her two confinements and
The next day, the spirits spoke the unspeakable suffering that ended in
through Mrs. Newton. With her hus¬ joy but was suffering all the same. Do
48 POSTSCRIPTS

the spirits demand that of her? Did they (take us to the new day beloved sister
instruct the Reverend to have her I love you so)
brought here wearing only a loose When Mrs. Newton brought her
gown under her coat? Did they veto the first two children to bed, she feared she
presence of a midwife? Do they want would be defeated by the absence of the
these people here, men as well as one person she needed most of all; she
women? She tries to bring her knees was surrounded by women, but none of
even closer together and smoothes the them was Emily. Now she is grateful
front of her gown. beyond expression for even her sister’s
Suddenly her abdominal muscles voice. She clenches between her teeth
tighten and she is seized by pain. Her the thick wooden handle of the spoon
knees jerk up as if to confine the pain Sophronia has placed in her mouth and
before it spills over the rest of her body, prays.
and she screams. Eyes clenched shut, The contractions continue for two
she hears her husband and Mr. Hewitt hours: much less than with either of her
ushering people quickly out of the children, but within the too-familiar
room. The pain passes, and when she agony of tension and release there is a
opens her eyes there is only Mr. Hewitt hard, cold center that she has not felt
and Alonzo and Reverend Spear and before, and that frightens her more
Sophronia, whose eyes now glow like than the pain itself. Midway through
candle flames. she feels water pouring out of her; de¬
The pain seizes her again: a familiar spite her sister’s soothing whispers, she
pain, but no less awful for that. To this sobs in mortification. Shortly after she
moment she has tried to convince her¬ thinks she hears Mr. Hewitt cry, It
self that her outward condition was in¬ moves!, but she is not sure.
tended as a guide, a sympathetic sign of When it finally ends, her husband
what might come. The spirits said she helps her sit up. She shivers despite
was to attend the machine, provide her the heat, her skin clammy, her dress
maternal feeling. They said nothing of wringing wet. Sophronia chants in
lying in agony on a hardwood floor. Latin; Mr. Hewitt is drafting aloud his
The Reverend is entranced, and editorial for the New Era. Her husband
Sophronia does not move from his side, buries his face on her shoulder and
but Mr. Newton squeezes Mrs. New¬ weeps. She thinks she hears something
ton’s hand and waves Mr. Hewitt to from the machine on the table; she
stand behind them. She keeps her knees thinks she sees it move. Her hand wan¬
up, allows her legs to open, and howls. ders to her collapsed belly, and she
(you are doing well mary) faints.
Emily’s voice whispers as it did when
Mrs. Newton had first heard it, but it is
there.
MARY OF THE NEW DISPENSATION 49
Mr. Hewitt announces their success. they wish, but they are cowed by its
presence and ask to be excused. Her
he headline in the New Era reads, husband, so ardent in the past to re¬
THE THING MOVES! Mr. Hewitt sume the full activities of marriage as
writes, Unto your earth a child is bom. Its soon as possible after her confinements,
name shall be called the ELECTRICAL now keeps a respectful distance and
MOTOR. He declares the machine the busies himself with his newspaper.
physical Saviour of the race. He insists Her breasts remain swollen. Period¬
that it will lead the way in the great speed¬ ically she shuts the door and loosens the
ily-coming salvation. top of her dress. The two orbs at the top
Visitors come, observe, leave. There are too far apart, but she lays her breasts
seems to be some motion in some of the on top of the steel arm that connects
pendant attachments, but not in the two them. The cold metal always hurts at
major orbs on top. The bellows occa¬ first, but it warms quickly. No milk is¬
sionally appear to vibrate. An unchari¬ sues, but she can feel something being
table letter in the Spiritual Telegraph taken out of her, a force that flows into
testifies that the physical Saviour of the the machine, nourishes it. Emily is most
race cannot even turn a coffee mill. likely to whisper to her at these times
The Reverend Mr. Spear reminds and it is a great comfort to her, although
visitors that the machine is a newborn, once she grew most confused when she
still gathering strength, still finding its thought she heard two voices:
way. (it is the salvation of the race and the
comfort I could not give you)
—God, why her?—
Mrs. Newton takes a room in the cottage.
(it cannot love you but it will not die)
S he spends several hours per day in
the observation tower with the New
She turned and saw the door ajar and
the dim figure of Sophronia quickly
Motive Power. The floor is stained moving away.
where she lay. The fluids that poured None of this is what she expected,
from her traced a short path to the ma¬ but the Reverend Mr. Spear assures her
chine, terminating at the left-hand ap¬ that all that has happened, that will hap¬
pendage beneath the table. Sophronia pen, is at the instruction of the Elec-
had ordered the floor scrubbed imme¬ trolizers and therefore of certain benefit
diately, but the stain would not com¬ to all.
pletely disappear.
Mrs. Newton sits by the machine.
Reverend Davis himself pays a visit.
She knits shawls and covers, some
small, some very large. She sings. On H is return to High Rock, the site of
one of his most glorious visions, draws
her children’s first visit, she invites them
to interact with the machine however back many of the people who had
50 POSTSCRIPTS

ceased their visits. Reverend Davis is Mrs. Newton awakens one morning
deferential to Spear, who is twenty to find the machine is gone.
years his senior. After expending so
much energy on the machine, Spear
lacks his former presence that had
H er husband, who left their Boston
home at dawn, comes to her room
drawn the curiosity of many and the de¬ in the cottage and explains to her that,
votion of a few, and surely lacks the after consulting with the Electrolizers
swooping dark mane, the full beard, the and Dr. Franklin, the Reverend Mr.
resonant yet soothing voice of Davis. Spear determined that the machine
The younger man is particularly solici¬ needed a change of venue. He has or¬
tous towards Mrs. Newton, who sits dered it disassembled and removed.
and receives his praise with a wan smile Even now, Mr. Newton says, it is on its
and the knowledge, intellectually un¬ way to its new home in Randolph, New
derstood if not deeply felt, that she is in York, where it might have the advantages
the presence of a great man. of that lofty electrical position.
Davis’ report in the Spiritual Tele¬ Before Mr. Newton can complete his
graph, however, is a shock and a disap¬ report she quits him and races up the
pointment. Although Spear is doing tower steps. Her head is spinning by the
good with all his guileless heart, he is intel¬ time she reaches the top. The room is
lectually disqualified for the development empty; her chair and her knitting are
of absolute science—proof indeed that also gone. She circles the room, runs
the machine was built at the direction from window to window as if the world
of the spirits, but to what end? The below her or the sky above might tell
motor is artistically put together, but its her what she needs to know. She sits on
evident lack of any real application may the floor near where the table rested,
suggest the influence, not of the unim¬ knowing neither Randolph nor what
peachable Electrolizers, but of other, might distinguish it from Lynn.
less responsible spirits. Thus the dan¬ On the carriage ride back to their
gers of the frightful and pernicious ten¬ home in Boston, her husband declares
dency to fanaticism among the true and his pride, his love, his utter adoration.
faithful and teachable friends of spiritual He assures her that, although her work
intercourse._ is done, it was both essential and suc¬
Sophronia throws the Telegraph to cessful. He repeats the spirits’ declara¬
the floor and weeps. Mrs. Newton does tion, as he witnessed through Spear’s
not read the report. Mr. Hewitt reviews most recent trance, that the motor sim¬
their expenditures. The New Motive ply needs time. It hungers for that nour¬
Power has cost approximately two ishment on which it can feed and by which
thousand dollars. it can expand and grow. It will then go
alone and pick out its own nourishment
from the surrounding elements. Mrs.
MARY OF THE NEW DISPENSATION 51
Newton does not reply but runs her However, there is no report of this in
hand across the skin that hangs loosely the newspapers of Randolph or sur¬
from her jaw. She is thirty pounds rounding areas. In time, the spirits ex¬
lighter than when she entered the cot¬ plain to Spear the ongoing fraud of
tage and lay upon the floor. conventional marriage; he leaves both
When Mrs. Newton returns home Mrs. Spear and Sophronia behind for a
she takes to her bed and does not rise new community of freedom in Kian-
for several weeks. Her children clamor tone, New York.
for her attention, but she ignores them. The spirits continue to speak
The family physician can find no or¬ through Mrs. Newton and will do so for
ganic cause for her lying-in. Mr. New¬ the rest of her days. Each time they do,
ton remembers her state after Emily’s she imagines her machine somewhere
passing and is worried; there is still gathering strength, generating for a
much to be done to understand the new world immune from suffering and
spirits and improve the world. loss. She weeps with joy at the final de¬
In time, however, Mrs. Newton feat of slavery but can only be stunned
emerges, rejoins her family. She has re¬ by the knowledge of the annihilated
gained much of the weight she lost. She thousands, the mountains of the shat¬
reacquaints herself with her children, tered dead, and wishes she would hear
and she and Mr. Newton resume the in¬ from more of them.
timacies accorded husband and wife. She remains honored to have been
For the next child, she will demand a chosen, and she does not regret her ac¬
physician in attendance, and ether. tions. But after her final departure from
Shortly after Mrs. Newton leaves her High Rock, Emily never speaks to her
bed, the Reverend Mr. Spear reports to again, and that she regrets so very, very
the world that an angry mob has de¬ much.
stroyed the physical savior of mankind. E

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Quentin S. Crisp is the author of three collections, The Nightmare Exhibition (2001), Mor¬
bid Tales (2004) and Rule Dementia! (2005). His first published stories happened to be in a
Gothic horror vein, but he professes no genre loyalty. He would prefer to be a literary version of
Chuang Tze’s butterfly, dreaming one minute that he is a horror author and the next that he
is a writer of sickly-sweet romances. He has been greatly influenced by Japanese literature, and
in particular by the tanbiha writers, whose aim was to drown their readers and themselves in
beauty. He finds it deeply ironic that two originals shoidd be forced to share a name, and that
the first of these bore it as an assumed name, the second (the present Quentin S. Crisp) as his
real name. A novella, Shrike, set in Japan, is due for release from PS Publishing in 2008.
Regarding the present story, “The story takes the form of a letter. Actually, that was not my
original conception for the story at all. It was something that happened naturally when I put pen
to paper. When writing is too professionally aware of audience it becomes entertainment, and
entertainment tends towards a parody of life, missing life's largeness. I often find it necessary to
re-affirm the most basic functions of writing—a form of communication as consolation in the
face of death, as well as a confrontation with death—in ways that dispense with the smooth, pro¬
fessional constructions that create ''story’’. A letter is a very personal form of communication, usu¬
ally written from one person to another (though ‘open letters' also exist). That's not to say that
I despise craftsmanship, fantasy or a good old yam, but I feel the need for balance, and the need
to remember why I want to write in the first place. I do not wish to be bound by prepackaged con¬
ventions of sad or happy endings. I wish to communicate.”

A Cup of Tea
Quentin S. Crisp
Strangely enough humanity has so make an approach towards life. I’ve
far met in the tea-cup. only really got this far by contemplat¬
—The Book of Tea, Okakura Tenshin ing death, and I seem to be most myself

T he truth is, I’m not equipped for

life in this world. I can’t really
when most aware of the release that
death will bring. In feeling, at least, I
try to keep close to this release, and tell
explain, and I’m sure that myself that I could go at any time if I
people—you included—would take wanted, so why not stay just a little
this statement as self-indulgent or longer, just a little longer?
melodramatic. Nonetheless, I feel it to If I can’t explain my deficiency to
be true. I am not a survivor. “But you anyone’s satisfaction, then at least I can
have survived,” you’ll say. Well, that’s describe it. It’s probably not immedi¬
true, too, I suppose, and there’s a cer¬ ately apparent to the eye (although I
tain irony in that, but I do feel as if I’ve am uncertain even on this). There are,
been sitting on the sidelines, unable to after all, any number of things I know

53
54 POSTSCRIPTS

how to do. Since learning to tie my nose, but, without any evidence of op¬
own shoes, my accomplishments have posite inclinations, I have even doubted
grown apace and now include things that I can be heterosexual, such is my
like going to the toilet, catching a bus, incomprehension of the mechanics of
putting words in order to construct a heterosexuality. I can have a cup of tea
meaningful sentence, choosing my own with you, my dear, but to get down to
clothes ... I’m sure there are many the business of a relationship! A cup of
more things of that ilk, though I can’t tea—that’s life, isn’t it? That’s certainly
think of them at the moment, and if I life. I can have any number of cups of
put all these things together and fill my tea with you. In fact, I’d love to. I wish
days with them, it may indeed look to I were having a cup of tea with you right
the observer as though I know how to now, instead of writing this letter. But
live. After all, these things are life, aren’t do a thousand cups of tea equal a rela¬
they, or part of life? And yet, they never tionship? If they do, then I’m saved.
become the focus of life—they seem to Let’s do it—a thousand cups of tea! I’m
remain incidental, peripheral. The real afraid, however, that a cup of tea is one
business of living is, well, business, by of those incidental things in life, and if
which I mean, work. And work has any more is needed, well, I’m lost.
never worked for me. I don’t know why Some might say that I do, in fact,
this is. Money slips through some have some real business of my own to
people’s fingers as if they cannot grip it; tend, and that I have simply made a de¬
the result is similar, but work slips cision others do not make—literature
through mine. If I could give a reason, over life. I suppose there’s something in
perhaps you would believe me. Until this assertion. After all, what am I doing
then you’ll simply think I’m making ex¬ now if not concerning rriyself with liter¬
cuses when I say work and I have noth¬ ature? You could say I’m a man of let¬
ing in common. ters in more ways than one. It even
It’s the same with relationships. And seems to me that all literature should
that reminds me, relationships are the aspire to the status of a personal, hand¬
other half of the real business of life, written letter. Such a document is not
and in that sense are linked at a funda¬ written for the acquisition of fame or
mental level with work. Your career and money, and it does not matter if it is
your love life—the central preoccupa¬ only read by one person; it is the degree
tions of all who have not turned them¬ of intimacy between writer and reader
selves to face death. The conversation is that is important. To be serious about
the same every day—career and love literature, it seems, not ambition, but a
life. However, it’s a conversation that kind of resignation is required—the
I’ve never truly understood. I’m sure gentle resignation of tea. It is a form of
this is an awkward way of putting anti-survival. Then again, even in liter¬
things, and will stick out like a Roman ature, perhaps, ambition is important;
A CUP OF TEA 55

to strive towards a masterpiece, espe¬ for your next e-mail. I think we both
cially with that multi-faceted study, the enjoyed that kind of silly affectation,
novel, requires involvement in ‘society’ and the make-believe surrounding it. I
and quite a firm commitment to the imagined you as a kind of ‘thoroughly
aforementioned business of life. I’m modern Millie’, a brash and charming
rather afraid, as Okakura Tenshin might flapper in a cloche hat.
have said, that even for the world of lit¬ And now here I am writing a letter
erature, there is rather “too much tea” in again, just like in the old days before I
my soul. met you. And I still think it would be
But writing a letter—that is another uncommonly fine to share a cup of tea
of those peripheral things I can do. It is with you. I suppose that’s why I’m writ¬
the literary equivalent to a cup of tea. ing. I’m sure I should be doing some¬
What is it that Tenshin says about thing else, even if it’s only writing a
teaism? “It is essentially a worship of novel, but here I am giving up and sit¬
the Imperfect, as it is a tender attempt ting down and squandering my time
to accomplish something possible in again, the way I always have done, play¬
this impossible thing we know as life.” ing truant from my life. Because I want
Do you remember before we ever to share a cup of tea with you—and the
met, when all we had were letters—al¬ best I can do on that score is to tell you
beit of the electronic kind? I used to live about a particular cup of tea I remem¬
for letters. There were years of my life ber when I think of you.
when, jobless and directionless, I would It was early in the year 2006, in that
spend my days not in building plans for wasteland between New Year and
my future or seeking work, but in writ¬ spring. I was unemployed, as usual, but
ing to friends who already had work or there were particular complications to
plans, or something of the sort. Yes, I this unemployment that, at the time,
lived for letters, and perhaps, in spirit, I were using up my precious-little energy
still do. And my correspondence with in wasteful worry. I had recently given
you was certainly in that spirit, despite up my last job. That had ended in No¬
our having passed from what someone vember, just before I met you. I had no
once called the “dole-age” to the Inter¬ idea whether or not it was foolish not to
net age. I remember telling you about renew my contract with my employer.
my Japanese tea-set, my tea burner, and Somehow, though, the whole work sit¬
all that paraphernalia, and you replying uation had come to seem to me an un¬
how wonderful it would be if we could bearable impasse. I no longer had time
just close the miles between us and and energy for writing, which alone al¬
share a cup of tea. I agreed. I said I lowed me to ‘come up for air’ in the
thought that would be “uncommonly consciousness of my closeness to death,
fine”. Apparently you liked this phrase and therefore to freedom. Moreover, I
very much, and used it as the heading had exchanged this time and energy for
56 POSTSCRIPTS

a salary that barely allowed me the sur¬ cause I did not wish to think about un¬
vival that was my only excuse for work¬ pleasant things, I had neither looked for
ing. I tried not to think of the work, nor applied for Jobseeker’s Al¬
consequences, and left my position; lowance in that final month of the year,
leaving, in fact, has always been to me a half of which I shared with you.
far better thing than arriving. The New Year came, and with its
And then there was you, for a brief usual bleakness was the added strain of
while. Well, you know all about that we two being parted and unsure of our
and I’ve no reason to recount it here. next move. For me there was also the
What a marvellous escape from every¬ question that has recurred so often in
thing it seemed, though, just to be to¬ my life, of work, and how I was either to
gether, and go up and down the country live with it, or live without it. In the
on the trains. I worried about what meantime I applied for the pitiful
would happen when you were gone, of benefit to which I thought I was most
course, but for the most part was keen likely entided, providing I was not ex¬
simply to let you distract me from plicit about having left my last position
everything that was not now. Of course voluntarily. To my surprise and dismay,
we shared tea, on more than one occa¬ my application was refused by someone
sion. And of course, it was uncommonly in some office somewhere whose exis¬
fine. I still have a photograph of you in tence I had not suspected. The grounds
the station cafe, while we were waiting on which she refused me were that I had
for our connection at Exeter, eating a given insufficient information on what I
jam doughnut and drinking a cup of tea. had been doing in the month of De¬
You are smiling and your eyes are cember. I had not been working and I
closed. Your woolly hat has a touch of had not been claiming benefits. From
the Rastafarian about it, but could eas¬ her point of view, I suppose, I had
ily be the cloche hat I imagined. You ceased to exist, and no doubt this wor¬
wear a beige autumn coat. Your pink ried her. But I found myself appalled
handbag sits upon the table next to a trying to think of what information
white vase holding an artificial flower. would satisfy her. Did she wish to know
Behind you is a mirror in which can be that I had spent the first two weeks with
seen the cafe’s ceiling lights. In short, your hand in mine and the second two
you look as though you are in a painting wishing it was still there? What? I was
by Edward Hopper. If only life could be not working, I was not claiming
composed entirely of such moments as benefits—what else could she possibly
these. Yes—a thousand cups of tea. need to know? All the rest was private,
My salary was arranged in such a way and it occurred to me that my idea of
that I received payment for my Novem¬ paradise was precisely to escape into a
ber work at the end of December. private realm where the impersonal
Partly for this reason, but partly be¬ hand of business never comes prying.
A CUP OF TEA 57
And what realm is more personal and once more. I believe I already felt, as I
private than death? walked out on that winter morning of
I was intending to challenge the wet pavements and grey skies, that all
judgement made against me, but all of things in life were variable and uncer¬
the worry and antagonism was left un¬ tain; there was nothing in existence for
resolved when, quite suddenly, I came me to hold onto, and if I fell, there was
upon some freelance work copyediting nothing to break my fall. I did what I
a study of Chinese business practice. could, though, and tied my shoes and
The pay was good, by my standards, al¬ made my way to that watering-hole for
though, by its nature, the work did not Failures, the Job Centre. When I ar¬
last. In any case, I worked in the con¬ rived, I discovered a depressing thing—
sciousness that this money would make the doors of the office were boarded up,
it possible to see you again. Eventually, the windows were dusty, as from the ac¬
of course, I did, and that was the money tivity of builders, the interior gloomy,
I used. But after our first mutual and all the furnishings that had once
plans—in fact, just after I had earned given the place the sterile but brisk
enough money to make it possible— identity of an office, had vanished. A
you changed your mind, saying you few cables writhed disconsolately over
could not bear me to visit, because I the thin carpet like dehydrated worms.
would leave again, and one parting had The watering-hole had dried up, and
been enough. When I did go to you, it the animal instincts of the Failure had
was without your permission, in the failed me. The place was now simply a
face of your express forbidding of such street, the boards on the door seeming
an act, entirely unsure of what recep¬ to declare me vagrant where I stood, in¬
tion you would give me if I managed to timating that, even if I went back to a
find you. It’s redundant to repeat this, of shallow bed in a room somewhere, ulti¬
course; I’ve gone over the whole story mately I was not a citizen, but a home¬
so many times, with you or by myself, less beggar in this wide, wide world,
or with some confidante, that it now wherever I might tread.
seems utterly beyond the reach of And what has saved me from the
analysis or interpretation. worst of such vagrancy, and filled me
Anyway, such is the backdrop to the with terrible anxiety on that account? A
single cup of tea whose story—if that’s never-ending paper-chase of forms to
what it is—I am now telling. I had fill in and instructions to follow. On this
finished the copyediting work, but I was occasion the instructions were on a drab
yet to see you again. I did not want the little laminated notice on the door—the
money I had worked so hard for to dis¬ Job Centre had moved temporarily to
appear before you agreed to my visit, another town, and anyone wishing to
and so I thought it best to slow up my claim benefits must do so at the tempo¬
use of it by signing on at the Job Centre rary office there. It seemed strange to
58 POSTSCRIPTS

me that I was now living in a town with¬ except that it was almost as if this bus
out a Job Centre. It was strange and journey itself were part of the ram¬
dreary, also, how this change had hap¬ shackle, Byzantine bureaucracy of
pened so suddenly, in the couple of Britain—a bureaucracy as intricate and
weeks or so that I had spent obliviously faulty and difficult to repair as the Vic¬
freelancing. Naturally, no one had told torian plumbing below the London
me. Why should they? Desertion, streets. And this archaic plumbing, al¬
decay, desolation—these things can ways on the verge of total breakdown,
happen anywhere, at any time, when was what I had to engage with when¬
you’re not looking. Someday, of course, ever the tiniest trickle of money flowed
you will be looking when it happens, into my life, or whenever I wanted it to.
and the emptiness of‘time catching up’ I looked out of the window, keen to
will come to occupy the space where stay alert, but the outside world failed
you used to be. That is what the bleary to assume any significance for me, and
windows seemed to say to me. my eyes merely glided over it while in
I went back home, phoned the num¬ my mind there rose up again an image
ber from the notice, and made an ap¬ that had occurred to me at intervals
pointment at the temporary office for throughout my life. Its visitation now
two days time. Until then I would have was partly a result of the paper-chase
to live with the emptiness and suspense. metaphor that had been with me since
As usual, I did my best to surrender. my discovery of the abandoned office.
On the day of the appointment I Or perhaps it would be more accurate
caught the bus from the stop just out¬ to say, that metaphor was a diluted vari¬
side where the Job Centre used to be. I ant of it. There is, apparently, in the
had never been to Beddington before. miraculous and ever-shrinking treas¬
No doubt it was just another undistin¬ ure-house of nature, a creature called
guished satellite town with a shopping the Jesus lizard, which has acquired its
centre, a residential area and one or two name by dint of the fact that it literally
municipal buildings. I wondered if I walks on water. Or rather, it runs, be¬
would be able to make it out in this cause speed is the key here. It does not
wasteland of hams and tons, but on this give itself time to sink; pure motion
occasion I was feeling too fragile to ask keeps it afloat. The image that I’m re¬
the driver to warn me when we were ferring to, which occurs to me sponta¬
about to arrive. neously now and then, is a fantastical
The bus chugged away from the stop version of this, with myself in the role of
and over the bridge as a train passed be¬ the lizard, though not naturally
neath. It occurred to me as odd, for equipped for it. Instead of walking on
some reason, that I should be taking a water, however, I have to walk, or run, a
bus in order to sign on. I don’t know tightrope of air. This invisible tightrope
why I should have thought it was odd, stretches infinitely from nothing to
A CLP OF TEA 59
nothing. My task is made easier by an plain I can at least attempt to describe,
incalculably small fraction on account and say that I associated my inner mis¬
of the fact that while I am treading on ery with certain physical discomforts.
emptiness, I do have something I can My eyes felt gritty and my body stale.
hold; paralleling the non-existent There was an ache in my left flank that
tightrope at hand-height is the previ¬ was something like cold and something
ously mentioned paper-chase—a line of like hunger, though actually it was nei¬
fluttering white scraps and sheets with ther. I was wearing my overcoat, and
lines of ink on them. I grab the next one did feel a kind of unpleasant tepid cold
and the next frantically, pulling myself in the air, but the heater on the bus was
along by it and throwing it away behind also blasting out hot air in a way that
me, knowing that to pause for an in¬ was positively vulgar, like loud music
stant is to plummet into the spiralling employed to obliterate any public si¬
terror of a bottomless abyss with the lence. I felt unable to concentrate on
broken paper-chain swirling down after anything, but when I looked out of the
me like the feathers of Icarus. I am not window, all I saw were drab terraces of
entirely sure what the pieces of paper identical new houses, or high streets full
are. Sometimes they are my own cre¬ of unhistoried, shadowless and ghost¬
ative writing, sometimes forms to fill in, less chainstores, or other examples of
sometimes money, sometimes a mixture the spiritual vandalism of commercial
of these or other kinds of paper. enterprise and local council town-plan¬
Needless to say, I was nervous. Gen¬ ning, as if all of Britain were ideally to
erally, I like being a passenger; for a become a traffic island stranded in a
fixed duration I don’t have to do any¬ motorway.
thing, am even rendered incapable of Despite my misery, my discomfort,
doing anything beyond reading, or, my nerves and my lack of concentra¬
possibly, writing. In any case, I can’t be tion, I did try to read. My reading mat¬
anywhere other than where I am. How¬ ter at that time happened to be W. Y.
ever, sometimes even this is not suffi¬ Evans-Wentz’s translation of The Ti¬
cient to produce a release of relaxing betan Book of the Dead:
fatalism within me. This occasion was a
case in point. For some reason I was ab¬ Thereupon, through the power of
jectly miserable. In fact, there were anger, thou wilt beget fear and be
many reasons, some of them touched startled at the dazzling white light
upon in this letter, but I have no inten¬ and wilt [wish to] flee from it; thou
tion of trying to catalogue them or ap¬ wilt beget a feeling of fondness for
pend any that I have missed. After all, the dull smoke-coloured light from
there remains something, even in mis¬ Hell. Act then so that thou wilt not
ery, that in its appalling way resists fear that bright, dazzling, transpar¬
analysis. Once again, where I cannot ex¬ ent white light. Know it to be Wis-
60 POSTSCRIPTS

dom... Be not fond of the dull those most tender and intimate final
smoke-coloured light from Hell. moments.
As for myself, when I first read parts
I would read a section like this before of the book it was more with a feeling
I had to rest myself by looking up, only of horror than anything else. I had
to find myself in a world of the “dull skimmed through the text in a scholarly
smoke-coloured light from Hell”. fashion, and come upon some curious
Then I would turn back to the book, passages treating of how the dead
feeling almost as if I were choking on subject must act if illusion overcomes
fumes. It was hard going; the text was him and he wanders to that most terri¬
full of brackets where the translator had ble of places where await the womb-
inserted words for the sake of clarity, of doors. At all costs, the dead subject
ritualistic repetitions, of lists of must follow the instructions for the
unimaginable entities of the realm be¬ closing of the womb-doors, so that he
yond death, of terms requiring lengthy might not have to be reborn on Earth.
footnotes. Often I would read a passage A terrible image was conjured up in my
two or three times, or, growing weary, mind of a claustrophobic chamber of
skip ahead to read a paragraph desulto¬ flesh, a bloody, membranous bulkhead
rily here and there towards the end, or set into its wall, the sound of a heartbeat
flick back to what I had read a long time pulsing and squelching through every¬
before. thing. This is the Eastern impulse, I
I am tempted to give a critique of the thought, away ft-om life in all its bloody,
text, but that would take far too long, biological mess, and up, up, up to the
and would be a little like wrestling neutering white light of no-self and
smoke. I should say, however, that my death. This is horror on a Lovecraftian
attitude as a reader was far from scale, horror as cosmic as the Cthulhu
uncritical. mythos that he spawned, but imbued
I remember now that when we first with a very different and a spiritual
discussed the book, you said that you flavour—a horror like the scent of cloy¬
hadn’t read it, but that the very idea of ing, suffocating incense. As a writer of
it made you want to cry. The thought of weird tales it struck me as a great, un¬
someone taking care of you in your mined vein of horrific material, which,
dying moments, you said, guiding you if I live long enough, I may yet mine. In
from this world to whatever awaited, fact, it had occurred to me before that,
seemed so tender, so intimate ... We’re as a writer, I am peculiarly preoccupied
often told that wishing is foolish or with the notion of an afterlife. The very
dangerous, but I wish this for you first story I had published, “The Psy¬
now without hesitation, that when the chopomps”, a badly-cobbled and stilted
time comes someone is there for you, piece of Gothickry, dealt with the ter¬
the right person to take care of you in rors awaiting the soul after death. For
A CUP OF TEA 61

me, it seems, death is just the beginning Eventually, we arrived at Bedding-

of the horror, not, as it seems to be for ton, and I alighted from the bus.
so many, the be-all and end-all. Perhaps The directions I had been given were
this is because, for me, any afterlife in vague, in keeping with society’s preva¬
which there is even a hint of ‘system’— lent apathy and lack of courtesy, that al¬
like the Byzantine plumbing of British ways seems like a new degeneration,
bureaucracy—is intrinsically sinister. and may even be. However, I had antic¬
And there is certainly ‘system’ in The ipated this, and walking away from the
Tibetan Book of the Dead. So, perhaps I bus station, let my gaze swoop about
can make some essay at describing my like a circling falcon. I have little or no
critical attitude by saying that, as I read, sense of direction, but perhaps the fact
I wondered how much of the text was I had never been here before even
culturally bound and how much of it helped, since I navigated the roads and
was truly essential. Let not these im¬ streets purely by an instinctive sense of
personal systems near me when I die, I likelihood. In this way I traversed the
thought, let my death, at least, remain commercial town centre, a few low-rise
personal and private, if nothing else streets of shops with pigeon-infested
does. pedestrian areas here and there, and
In the midst of such thoughts I turned into the correct artery to lead
dipped once more into the text: me to my destination. In fact, I had to
turn off again into a covered shopping
O nobly-born, when thy body and arcade, which, while appearing too new
mind were separating, thou must to have any character, also lacked the
have experienced a glimpse of the bright, pristine quality that was usually
Pure Truth, subtle, sparkling, bright, the only aesthetic advantage of such a
dazzling, glorious, and radiantly place. Instead, the narrow thoroughfare
awesome, in appearance like a mi¬ curved away into an obscurity that
rage moving across a landscape in could have been a cul-de-sac, every¬
spring-time in one continuous thing bathed in a dull, pigeon-shit light.
stream of vibrations. Be not daunted Not far from the entrance, on the
thereby, nor terrified, nor awed. left, were some abandoned premises.
That is the radiance of thine own This reminded me of the Job Centre,
true nature. Recognise it. and sure enough, I discovered another
From the midst of that radiance, laminated notice in the window. I was
the natural sound of Reality, rever¬ confused for a while. These premises
berating like a thousand thunders definitely were empty; how could the
simultaneously sounding, will come. temporary office be here? A strange
This is the natural sound of thine dread came over me. However, I even¬
own real self. Be not daunted there¬ tually worked out that there was a
by, nor terrified, nor awed. door next to these empty premises
62 POSTSCRIPTS

which would lead me to the office. It bag, various papers that I thought I
was one of those doors that is squeezed might need. Many of these were in
between shop fronts and leads not to large A4 envelopes on which I had
any ground floor, but immediately to a written simple headings like “AC¬
staircase and first floor. Even this door COUNTS”, “TAX”, “PAY SLIPS” and
and the dingy, windowless staircase to so on. The fact is, pieces of paper are
which it led, appeared so dilapidated the bane of my existence. It seems like
that I thought there must be some mis¬ doctors are discovering new medical
take. However, after tentatively climb¬ conditions every day. Well, I’d like to
ing the stairs, and meeting with a silent, submit this for consideration as a legit¬
grizzled man coming in the opposite di¬ imate medical condition—people who
rection, who had the usual air of defeat cannot keep paperwork in order. No
and anger about him as I had seen in so one ever told me at school that my life
many who are compelled to frequent would depend upon my ability to recall,
such offices, I discovered that I had, in¬ at any given time, the whereabouts of a
deed, come to the right place, and that, designated slip of paper. If anyone gives
by some weird trickery, the office I had me a slip of paper which has been con¬
known previously had been transported ceptually imbued with importance of
here, to a vast, open-plan space with any kind, no matter how hard I try to do
square columns rising here and there otherwise, it seems almost guaranteed
from the static-generating carpet tiles. I that I will lose it. The same was true in
recall wandering between the massed this instance. After a number of the
desks in a kind of daze, unsure of where usual questions, I was asked if I had my
to go, and feeling myself, once more, P45 with me (or was it my P60?).
vagrant. “My P45? Don’t you have that?”
I was approached by a middle-aged “We give you that after you sign off.
woman with a sharp manner. She asked You should have one from your last em¬
what I was doing there, as if she sus¬ ployer.”
pected I’d just come in to get out of the I produced one of my envelopes, and
cold. I told her I had an appointment. took another, smaller envelope, from
She showed me the waiting area in the within.
middle of the room, where I sat and “This is all the payslips from my last
leafed through a magazine listlessly, employer.”
taking nothing in, until I was called. “We don’t want the payslips. We
Well, there can be few things in life want the P45.”
more tedious and less susceptible to an “It should be here.”
aesthetic treatment than the whole pro¬ I searched through, fingers trem¬
cedure of signing on for some form of bling.
benefit. For that reason, I won’t go into “It’s not here,” I said, “I don’t know
detail. I had brought with me, in my where else it would be. I’m sure if
A CLP OF TEA 63
they’d sent it me, I’d have put it in just before the entrance. I can’t remem¬
here.” ber now whether I ate. I rather think
The woman sighed. that I didn’t. I sat at one of the tables
“Let me have a look.” outside the narrow shop and ordered a
She tipped out the contents of the cup of tea, with milk.
envelope and sifted through them. This is the very cup of tea that I men¬
“These aren’t even in order,” she tioned at the outset, the eponymous cup
said, ordering them as she went of tea, you might say, which I remember
through, “And some are missing.” when I think of you. Maybe you’ll won¬
At last she gave up. der why, since you haven’t made any ap¬
“Well, it might delay your claim. You pearance in my story so far, except as
should get yourself organised.” the person I was saving up money to
It seems I had just about scraped see. You’ll probably think that this is all
through, though it was still very possi¬ about me, and nothing to do with you at
ble that my claim would be refused all. I don’t know, maybe you’re right,
again on the same grounds as my previ¬ but my story isn’t over yet. Besides
ous claim. which, even though I haven’t recorded
The woman reminded me that I had this in the story, throughout all those
another appointment, after lunch, for days, and that bus journey, you were
my Jobseeker’s Contract, which would never far from my thoughts. Since you
entail me agreeing with my interviewer always required me to spell things out,
on the various forms of action I would let me say, that is, in fact, an under¬
take each week to find work. I was going statement. Even now, hopeless as it all
to sit down in the waiting area again is, you are ‘never far from my thoughts’.
when, for some reason, the woman ad¬ Even now. If your face does not appear
vised me to go outside, have a sandwich in the scenes described here, don’t you
or something, and come back when my know you’re the very reason I’m de¬
appointment was due. The reason she scribing them?
gave was that my interviewer was cur¬ And you were in my thoughts partic¬
rently on his break. I did not really see ularly as I sat down at that round,
what difference this made, but I did not metallic table, The Tibetan Book of the
like to argue, and so I did as I was ad¬ Dead open face downwards on its sur¬
vised. After all, I thought, emerging face next to a cup of tea and a small jug
into the shopping arcade, it was good to of milk. I was wretched. It was one of
get out of that place and breathe some¬ those moments when I feel acutely my
thing approximating air. failure, and somewhere a voice tells me
Perhaps it was a sign of my nerves, or that the greatest sign of my failure is
else of my weariness, but I did not go that fact that I consent to go on living
far. I remained, in fact, inside the shop¬ and thereby allow life to mock me by
ping arcade, stopping at a sandwich bar taking whatever it gives. How is it, that
64 POSTSCRIPTS

of all the limitless possibilities of exis¬ and get it together, and those two true
tence, life has chosen to assign me the selves could meet, then maybe all that
drabbest, the most miserable? Who is stardust stuff about love and space and
to benefit from this? Can it be anything flowers and sparkly costumes could
other than proof that the universe is come true, too.
twisted? From childhood I have had Feeling helpless, I poured a dash of
visions. I could have been a slapstick su¬ milk into my tea. I watched the slow,
perhero, blurring the boundary be¬ tiny billowing of the milk, like some ab¬
tween reality and imagination by stract essence of drama expressed as a
actually wearing that ridiculous cos¬ moving cloud, some Hiroshima of the
tume and confronting wrong-doers mind, scaled down to teacup size. Then
with nothing more than wit and glitter I picked up the teaspoon and stirred,
and flowers. I could have stood on stage setting up a miniature whirlpool. The
and made music based on the ultimate universe is twisted, twisted. Like the
innovation of enlightenment and love, arms of a spiral galaxy, or the yin and
so that it was natural for me to step into the yang of the Tai Chi. On the surface
the audience and find that we were all of the vortex in the tea cup, light shim¬
stars together, and that we were about mered in incandescent points and disin¬
to sail away on a cosmic cloud into a tegrating lines. And this is when some¬
never-ending odyssey of discovery thing happened that I cannot hope to
among the outer stars that mapped our describe. It is not merely the fact that
inner paradise. I could have been a spy, words are inadequate, though this is
or a lover, or an archaeologist uncover¬ true. There is also the problem of mem¬
ing strange ancient languages that open ory, since, outside of the moment of the
up new vistas of history. I could have experience, memory is all that is left,
been a time-traveller. Instead of which, and it seems to afford me only a dull
I was here, outside the temporary copy of the experience, at best standing
offices of the Job Centre, in a dismal in the same relation to it as a photo¬
shopping arcade, wondering if they graph does to real life. Still, I can con¬
would decide to give me the pittance for sult that photograph—a fading Polar¬
which I was making my application. oid—and try.
And most of my life, if not all of it, has It was the light on the tea. The white
consisted of this impersonal negation of of the milk had swirled and merged
my personal true self. And there you with the black of the tea, and distilled
stood in my thoughts like a reminder from this union there were these scat¬
that this true self did exist somewhere, tered beads of light. In that light I saw
after all, not just in me, but in you, too. us both. That light was sheer ecstasy,
And if only—please God—if only we but it twisted and twisted and hardened
could get over our problems with mis¬ into the pain of here and now. If I un¬
understandings and doubt and so on, twisted that pain I would understand
A CLP OF TEA 65

that the pain itself was a hook made of have so many times in my life, to know
ecstasy. I felt that life had kicked me in everything. What am I trying to get at?
the stomach, and indeed it was a kick, a Was my vision—if that’s what you call
cosmic kick. These beads of light were it—truth or illusion? But really, really,
scintillating sequins on a curtain rising apart from the fact that I can’t answer
up and up and up to the highest light of such a question, don’t you think the
all, from where we both watched to¬ question itself is meaningless? The real
gether at that very moment, wrapped question, as far as I can determine, is, do
up in the endless folds of the curtains in you understand? Does this mean any¬
a kind of backstage, looking down at the thing to you?
drama we were playing together. Anyway, what I can say is this, that
That is the radiance of thine own true the dance of light on the rippling sur¬
nature. Be not daunted thereby, nor ter¬ face of my tea is the only thing that
rified, nor awed. 0 nobly-born, know all of makes this tale worth telling, and, by
this to be uncommonly fine. the same token, the only thing that
It was only a flickering moment, a makes my life worth living.
spangle of light on the surface of my When I saw us together in that
tea. And that is all I wanted to tell you. teacup, everything seemed so ... obvi¬
It’s possible that you’ll think this is ous. I did not know then all that was to
some kind of tantalising trick, like so happen between us, and now that it has
many stories that seem to give us a all happened, I still do not know what is
flashing glimpse of... that which can’t left to happen before I die.
be named. Perhaps you’ll demand, as I K

NEW FROM PS, PHILIP JOSE FARMER

and DANNY ADAMS

A n updated version of Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yan-

/I kee in King Arthur's Court—with the Middle Ages
moved to the future, and the interloper upon the medieval
scene a brilliant roboticist on the run for murder.
SF with a delightful anachronistic twist, The City Beyond
Play is superb rollicking entertainment, echoing simultane¬
ously The Tempest and The Compleat Enchanter. If you've
ever wondered what you'd do if dropped alone into the High
Middle Ages, 07y is the perfect survival manual.
Paul confesses that the following story is his homage to the work of Jeffrey Ford in his Well-
Built City trilogy, and to Paul Park in his Starbridge Chronicles. “I was hoping to evoke the
sense of a vast bureaucracy that trespassed on affairs of the heart and soul, as these men did in
their series, ” Paul adds. “With all due humility, I realize that my little sketch only touches the
hems of their rich garments. But at least, it's part of the same conversation, I hope. ” Heh ... as
if he should worry!
We’re thrilled to report that both of Paul’s two big upcoming projects—the semi-mainstream
road-novel Roadside Bodhisattva and the collection Harsh Oases-appear on the PS sched¬
ule. And we’re hoping to prise the sequel to A Year in the Linear City from his clutch some¬
time next year for a 2009 publication.

The End Of The

Great Continuity
Paul Di Filippo
I Jallow Yphantidies, formerly
Grand Consistor for the city of
the crime that still weighs most heavily
on me.
, Hanging Dog, am solely respon¬
sible for the demise of the Great Con¬
tinuity across the wide ekumen of
Crossfoyle.
T he morning of the day I first met
Margali Gueths had not been a par¬
This confession has not been ex¬ ticularly demanding one.
torted by torture enacted by any of the As always, my ekumen-sponsored
Great Continuity’s old partisans, but landau awaited me outside the large
freely given simply to set history on a bluestone manse on Vestry Street in
sound footing, should any future the Saltman district, an imposing resi¬
record-keepers arise, in the wake of the dence of many cornices and gables, ac¬
forced forgetting. That aboriginal corded to him who inhabited the office
night of smoke, fire and chaos which of Grand Consistor.
heralded the death of one immemorial Such an appointment lasted a life¬
reign and the birth of a shapeless future time, as did most such high offices. I
was utterly my design. My motivation had held the title for the past twenty
for triggering the grand apocalypse? years, and expected to hold it for a
The impossible happiness of a woman good number of decades more, having
who despised me. come to the position at the relatively
In this I was utterly inconsistent with youthful age of thirty-five. Everything
my own Template, and this failing is in my Template had pointed toward my

66
THE END OF THE GREAT CONTINUITY 67
ascension to this post, and my continu¬ tinuity. There I disembarked; my lan¬
ance in office. And most certainly I dau, its beasts and driver, departing for
would do nothing to veer from that the government stables until needed.
consistency. Crossing through the serried stone
I ascended the landau, and the driver Guardians of Continuity—the tall
immediately flicked his whip at the carved pillars of the colonnade were ex¬
rumps of the harnessed theropods. pertly shaped into the likenesses of
With meaty exhalations, the beasts those legendary icons-—I experienced
lumbered off, their dirty claws clatter¬ yet again the undying sense of majesty
ing on the cobbles, drawing the coach at and permanence, of rightness and per¬
a pleasant pace through the summer¬ fection, which the institution of the
time streets of Hanging Dog. Great Continuity represented. Here, at
All about me, the city hummed like a this crucial nexus within our city and at
hive of war-bugs in its early-morning identical sites across the ekumen, the
busyness. Droshkies and cabriolets, wisdom of the principles of continuity
bearing elegant ladies and prosperous was disseminated, cherished and up¬
gentlemen, streamed down the stony held. The theories that had sealed our
streets. Massive lorries stuffed with nation’s stability found here a tangible
goods and drawn by huffing megatheres representation.
trundled sturdily along. Tradespeople Beyond the pillars stretched an
and servants thronged the sidewalks. unimpeded acreage paved in veined
Storekeepers unrolled their awnings marble. Already at this hour, the humid
against the sun, set out signboards, and heated air here had begun to waver with
established pyramids of produce and distortions. The city of Hanging Dog
pottery, ziggurats of books and bolts of was located in a broad fertile valley
fabric. I could smell random whiffs of hosting extensive farms and orchards
manure, lamp-oil, and fish. and small villages. But the mountains
My large breakfast sat pleasantly in along our western edge invariably
my stomach. The summer-weight dumped moisture from the ocean-satu¬
robes of the Grand Consistor felt like a rated winds arriving from the east.
comforting blanket. I began to grow Centered in the plaza was the Palace
drowsy, without a care in my head. of Continuity, an imposing old stone
Little did I know what awaited me pile several stories in height that I had
that day. come to regard as my second home. (Or
Transiting through the Pangstraine, perhaps my true home.) Heteroge¬
Nurbar and Whitechurch neighbor¬ neous in the extreme, due to numerous
hoods, we arrived eventually at the im¬ faddish additions over the centuries, the
mense circular colonnade that enclosed thick-walled building and its brocade-
the stupendous Plaza of the Great Con¬ curtained rooms offered the prospect of
68 POSTSCRIPTS

coolness. I hurried across the plaza, descended on my own glistening brow.

eager for relief. I could feel the sweat in my thick beard
I was not alone of course. Scores of begin to chill down.
supplicants in varying degrees of dress Yards of shelved books, just a frac¬
streamed toward the public entrances tion of the extensive corpus of continu¬
of the Palace, eager for adjudications, ity studies, greeted me intimately as I
adjustments and arbitrations regarding entered my high-ceilinged office, as did
their individual Templates. These peti¬ the attractive, neat surface of my pol¬
tioners would be dealt with efficiently ished wood desk, the overstuffed ot¬
by the vast bureaucracy, legions of toman and several leather chairs, and
clerks and counselors trained in the the paintings on the walls, including my
logic and rigors and precedents of favorite: Glassco’s classic Nymph Vault¬
continuity. ing Aurochs, depicting a bare-breasted
It was only the rarest of extraordi¬ young girl and her ceremonial bovine
nary circumstances that would bring a dance partner.
case to my individual attention. I went immediately to the annuncia¬
Close to the Palace, my course devi¬ tor on my desk and depressed a key.
ated from the masses, as I headed for “Goolsby! Are you there?”
my private entrance. The voice of my assistant, Goolsby
There I encountered one of the fa¬ Roy, answered immediately. “Never far
miliar doormen. I had never bothered off, Grand Consistor. Welcome to the
to learn his name over the many years Palace this fine oven-like morning.
of our brief morning ritual, but his How can I be of service?”
ruddy, sweaty, bulbous-nosed face was I explained about the guard and the
as well-known to me as my cousin delayed commissary cart. Goolsby
Pirn’s. In his elaborate braided uniform promised to repair the lapse immedi¬
he was obviously sweltering. ately, and administer the proper disci¬
“Welcome, Grand Consistor.” plinary actions as well.
“Don’t you have a cool drink With that task off my mind, I settled
handy?” I asked, as he nodded me in¬ down to the day’s routine business.
side. First I pored over a dozen abstracts,
“No, sir. Begging your pardon, the prepared by Goolsby, of recent papers
iced-tea cart is late this morning, Grand in continuity studies. I was disappointed
Consistor.” to find the various theses rather shallow
“That certainly won’t do. I’ll attend and myopic. And these emanated from
to this matter immediately. Meanwhile, major figures in the field!
buck up!” Once more I was struck by the long
“Yes, sir! Very good, sir!” interval since I had last been surprised
Inside the private stairwell leading by a truly intriguing paper. The savants
directly to my chambers, blessed coolth who worked to explicate the laws of
THE END OF THE GREAT CONTINUITY 69
continuity had of late entered a period dary, carried a tray. Plates topped with
of mere refinement, I felt. Real discov¬ metal domes from which issued hints of
ery of new principles, or even of major steam and fragrance suddenly de¬
extensions of old laws, had ground to a manded all my attention.
halt. I was forced to consider acknowl¬ Goolsby set the tray down on my
edging that perhaps the science of con¬ desk, a sardonic smirk on his saturnine
tinuity, after centuries of intense study, face. “For once the cooks have managed
had reached its apex. Perhaps from here not to render the veal into something
on out, it would be all trivial elabora¬ resembling a child’s rubber teething
tions of the well-known. ring. Enjoy, Grand Consistor.”
Template Formation. Climacteric I fell to my meal heartily, listening all
Deviance. Communal Cross-linkage. the while to music from the Palace’s or¬
Societal Channeling. Isolate Invari¬ chestra piped in over the annunciator.
ance— After Goolsby came to remove the
How boring! Necessary, yes, even es¬ disordered tray, I composed several let¬
sential to the daily maintenance of soci¬ ters in response to high-level queries
ety—but no sense of mysteries being from Lessor Consistors who oversaw
revealed. regional branches of the Great Conti¬
But no—I could not yet bring myself nuity, in every district and city of the
to forecast a future of stasis for the dis¬ Crossfoyle ekumen. Just as I was indit¬
cipline to which I had devoted my life. ing the last one, Goolsby reentered my
My own talents lay not in original re¬ chambers. He looked unnaturally
search, but rather in synthesis and ap¬ flushed and discomposed.
plication and interpretation of results “Grand Consistor, I beg your pardon
obtained by others. The imposition of in advance. There is a most persistent
orthodoxy, the establishment of the woman with an incredible—”
canon. These were the skills of He paused to gather his wits, and ad¬
the Grand Consistor. Otherwise, I dress the problem formally.
surely would have been laboring with “A petitioner has been shunted up
all my wits to expand the core of our through all the proper channels until
discipline. reaching your office. The first such in¬
My unrewarding studies occupied stance this year, as you well know. Al¬
me till lunch. Mealtime crept up to take though her petition is incontestably
me unawares. The first notion I had of invalid—more so than any other I have
the hour occurred with the entrance of ever encountered—she has refused to
Goolsby Roy. Dressed in his yellow liv¬ accept any lower dispensations. She in¬
ery, my rail-thin assistant, his pale com¬ sists on seeing you. Today. Immedi¬
plexion and sparse, straw-colored hair ately.”
making him resemble the protagonist I pondered this development. Not
of Nando Pfing’s The Poet's Queer Quan¬ completely unprecedented, this
70 POSTSCRIPTS

woman’s claim on my attention seemed rather than my title was a shocking

to have disconcerted Goolsby inordi¬ breach of decorum. But I chose to stifle
nately. my indignation and respond politely.
“Is there any other detail you’d care From the first, something about this
to convey, relating to this petitioner?” woman’s intensity intrigued me. Per¬
“I—I prefer that you examine her haps my exhibition of good manners
yourself, Grand Consistor.” could establish our intercourse on a
“Very well. By all means, send her more congenial plane.
in.” I arose and extended my hand. “In¬
Goolsby stepped out, and within mo¬ deed, you have found the man whose
ments my visitor was striding boldly in. loving parents christened him thus. But
I apprehended a woman of nearly my more formally, I am known as the
own age. Plainly, she had been pos¬ Grand Consistor.”
sessed of a striking beauty during her She did not shake my hand. “Rest as¬
youth, a beauty which had not entirely sured that I care neither for the man
fled her with the arrival of middle-age. nor the office. But the latter is the ob¬
Tall, dark-haired, her complexion dark¬ stacle in my way, and I sought to shatter
ened by sun and freckled, she wore an the facade by addressing the human be¬
expensive outfit that betokened good hind it.”
taste but also a desire to stand out in a What fire and pluck! I calmly with¬
crowd. A short gold vest over a blouse drew my proffered hand and said, “And
colored green as the sky; a calf-length you have done so. Now, if you’ll please
skirt printed with geometrical tilings take a seat, perhaps both the man and
that formed confusing illusory patterns; the office can consider the matter that
and a pair of sandals that laced all the brings you here:”
way up those otherwise bare calves. She As if suspecting manacles ready to
carried a slim satchel of the finest spring from the armrests, she occupied
lizardskin. Her violet eyes flashed like a chair adjacent to my desk, and I too
gemstones. Her painted lips were sat.
quirked in an expression of disdain. “May I know your name, madame?”
Thus, my first encounter with Mar- “Margali Gueths. I am a widow. My
gali Gueths, the woman who was to de¬ husband was Juvian Gueths.”
stroy the Great Continuity. “The smilodon-fur magnate. Of
Coming right up to my desk, the course ... Please accept my condo¬
woman drew to a halt, almost quivering lences for his passing.”
with the fervor of her errand. Margali Gueths waved away my sen¬
“You are Jallow Yphantidies.” timent. “Save your vicarious sorrow,
This was no question, but rather an Mr. Yphantidies. Juvian was a poor ex¬
assertion I was being challenged to cuse for a husband. He had a mistress in
deny. Her usage of my personal name every city of the ekumen. Bad enough,
THE END OF THE GREAT CONTINUITY 71
but he also kept me on an exceedingly and his wife. Columns and columns of
short leash. My social duties were man¬ figures across dozens of characterolog-
ifold, and my pleasures few and far be¬ ical categories. I focused immediately
tween. I cherish his death as my chance on the codes relevant to business acu¬
finally to be free.” men. Acquisitiveness, entrepreneur-
“I regret to learn of this prior dis¬ ship, prescience, steadfastness, compro¬
comfort in your life, Mrs. Gueths. But mise ... From there, I turned my
assuredly, with your portion of the es¬ attention to other graphs, diagrams and
tate, you will now be equipped to enjoy family trees. Daguerreotypes and clip¬
yourself.” pings from public records. Test results.
“Ah, but that is precisely the rub, Mr. Affadavits from friends, family mem¬
Yphantidies. I am not willing to settle bers and acquaintances. And still, only
for a portion of the estate. I intend to the hundredth part of what Continuity
have it all. Gueths Furs, Traplines and knew about this couple.
Entrepots will not pass from my hands. The precise data conveyed its mean¬
I intend to control my husband’s enter¬ ing swiftly to my trained eyes. But I lin¬
prises, not pass them on to someone gered over the documents rather longer
chosen by the Great Continuity.” than I needed to, hoping to wear Mar¬
I sat stunned. My reluctant tongue gali Gueths down further. But I could
failed to provide any words that could soon see that my tactic was backfiring,
meet this blunt statement of rebellion. as the fiery woman only grew more ex¬
Ultimately, I fell back on a scientific ap¬ asperated with my dilatory perusal. I
proach. turned to face her, and handed back her
“Mrs. Gueths. I assume your satchel papers. I stroked my beard meditatively
contains the documents relating to your before speaking.
case...” “Mrs. Gueths, I will not insult you by
“Yes.” simply reiterating the cold facts that I’m
“May I see them, please?” certain you’ve already heard from a
She extracted a thick sheaf of papers dozen of my subordinates. Simply put,
and handed them over. The familiar there is nothing in your Template
cream-colored bond and colored which fits you to manage a business.
stamps of official Continuity docu¬ Continuity demands—”
ments radiated an almost tangible reas¬ The sharp report of her small fist on
surance to me. I swiveled my seat and the surface of my desk caused me to
partially reclined in my high-backed jump. But it was her words that drained
chair to peruse them. Out of the corner the color from my face.
of one eye, I saw Margali Gueths con¬ “Templates and Continuity be
tinue to seethe. damned! No one knows the operations
Here in my hands were summaries of my husband’s business better than I!
of the Templates of both Juvian Gueths Studying those operations was the only
72 POSTSCRIPTS

dry and dusty hobby I was ever allowed. sticks up gets instantly hammered
I’ll be cursed if I allow myself to let all down.”
that torturous study go to waste now, “Mrs. Gueths, please. Consider your
just because your tinpot organization words. Consider our nation’s history.
thinks that it can predict my failure! I’m You are forgetting the inefficiency and
tired of spending my life jammed into dangers that preceded the establish¬
one of your little boxes!” ment of the Great Continuity. When
Margali Gueth’s attractive bosom any individual could impulsively follow
was heaving, her face flushed. I felt any path, whether he or she was consti¬
some small empathy for her, but the tutionally fitted for it or not, society was
feeling was drowned in my larger indig¬ like a machine composed of random,
nation at her blasphemy against the ill-adapted parts. Waste, confusion,
Great Continuity. frustration, hostility reigned. Since the
“Mrs. Gueths, no one is attempting establishment of the Great Continuity,
to jam you into a box of our making. our ekumen has become a smoothly op¬
The parameters of your daily life are in¬ erating organism that conduces to the
nate and inherent in your own charac¬ maximum happiness for the largest
ter. They have been forming number.”
themselves since your birth, and are by “And what of those who disagree
now, at your advanced age, practically with their classifications, with your
immutable.” ‘guidance?’ Those who wish to follow
Margali Gueth’s scowl informed me their deeper, unchartable impulses?”
that perhaps my choice of the term “ad¬ “They must correct their behavior,
vanced age” to describe her current sta¬ for the good of all.”
tion in life was impolitic and gauche. I Margali Gueths leaned in closer to
sought to recast the argument in more me. I could smell her sweat.
abstruse terms. “Your system insures the mainte¬
“All that the Great Continuity does nance of the status quo. There is no
is quantify and codify the implicit pat¬ room for change or innovation or social
terns and tendencies of an individual’s movement.”
life, and attempt to offer some guid¬ I began to lose my temper. “A ridicu¬
ance.” lous charge. Was I, for instance, born
“Guidance! You call issuing demands into an ancient lineage of Grand Con-
and orders that interfere in the most in¬ sistors? Of course not. My parents were
timate portions of a person’s life mere a draper and a seamstress. My own par¬
‘guidance?’” ticular talents were identified early on,
“The Great Continuity boasts no en¬ as is the case with all children, and I
forcers, no Continuity Police—” worked hard to cultivate them.”
“No, of course not! All of society is “Ha! You were chosen by the elite
your enforcement tool. Any nail that and groomed as their pliable tool.”
THE END OF THE GREAT CONTINUITY 73

I began to splutter. But before I persuade her of the wrongness of her

could address this absurd accusation, perceptions.
Margali Gueths launched another as¬ I decided to attempt a tactic I had sel¬
sault. dom had occasion to employ before.
“You are just trying to limit me be¬ Standing, I said, “Mrs. Gueths, I
cause I am a female! You don’t want a would like you to accompany me else¬
woman running a sizable business, hav¬ where in the Palace, where I can show
ing all the privileges of a man!” you something that might convince you
“Now you’ve reached the heights of of the inaccuracy of your statements.”
illogic. There are numerous women en¬ This offer obviously proved unex¬
trepreneurs. What of Velzy Spindler?” pected. She stood up hesitantly. “I—I
“The milliner? She owns three shops can’t imagine what that thing could be.”
in Hanging Dog. I doubt she grosses in “That is precisely why you need to
a year what Gueths Furs nets in a day. see it with your own eyes. Are you
No, it’s obvious to me now. Your Great game?”
Continuity is dedicated to keeping My last question stiffened her spine
women in a subservient position. That and caused her pride to flare. What a
is why I am being stymied in my quest woman this was! If only I—
for simple justice.” But even the Grand Consistor is
She concluded her tirade and subject to the dictates of his personal
slumped back in her chair. Her expres¬ Template.
sion, blended of wrath and despair, “Of course I’m game. Lead on, Mr.
challenged me to refute her. Yphantidies, lead on!”
Was Margali Gueths a simple ego¬ I conducted Margali Gueths to the
maniac, a selfish, mercenary individual door of my office, swinging it open for
looking to justify herself with spurious her—just in time to catch Goolsby Roy
and superficial logic? Or was she sin¬ hurriedly reclaiming his desk chair in
cerely confused, operating out of a true the anteroom. Plainly he had been
sense of injustices done to her? After a eavesdropping. I could hardly object,
moment’s reflection, I chose to believe since it was precisely such fussy atten¬
the latter interpretation. That judgment tiveness that made him such a good as¬
allowed me to put aside any sense of sistant—and the habit formed a
personal affront, and work toward what well-known part of his Template.
was best for this woman and society. “Mr. Roy, please field all matters that
Surely this woman’s unhappy mar¬ arise. Mrs. Gueths and I are going to
riage must have fostered a sense of fife’s the Vaults.”
unfairness in her. But she was mistak¬ Goolsby’s eyes widened. “Very good,
enly transferring this personal griev¬ Grand Consistor.”
ance to a larger system that did not I conducted Margali Gueths out of
merit such an attack. It was up to me to the anteroom, whereupon we found
74 POSTSCRIPTS

ourselves at the head of the busy “The Vaults,” I said, “underlie the
Travertine Staircase, up and down whole plaza above us, and are in a state
which dozens of Continuity employees of constant expansion, spreading out
scurried, their arms full of documents. further and further from the palace. We
We went down, saying nothing to are well below the lawful level of any
each other. My underlings gave re¬ other structural foundation. Here we
spectful nods of their heads as they en¬ have the complete files on every extant
countered me. But the deference citizen of Hanging Dog, files of which
seemed not to impress Margali Gueths you have seen only the smallest redac¬
with my stature, but rather render her tion. Each citizen claims a certain num¬
more disdainful of me. ber of feet upon the shelves, based on
On the ground level, we crossed their age, of course. We also continue
three wings of the Palace and ap¬ to maintain all the files of the dead,
proached a door guarded by two door¬ from the establishment of the Great
men. They let us pass, and we de¬ Continuity to the present. They come
scended further, down and down and in very useful at certain times.”
down a set of steps more utilitarian than “I— This is monstrous! It’s a combi¬
the noble public spaces. Here, the em¬ nation of ossuary and prison.”
ployees we encountered were all young “Such is your uninformed view, Mrs.
messengers shuttling the documents Gueths. But perhaps you’d like to see
that the more senior Adjudicators and your own file ... ?”
Consistors had requested. Every last This offer startled her. She hesitated.
one of them practically fainted at seeing But I knew she could not resist. No one
their Grand Consistor in their midst. could. She bravely tried to rationalize
Their reactions made Margali Gueths her reaction.
grin and chuckle ironically. “This is only my right, I suppose.
But her humorous attitude evapo¬ Everyone should have this opportunity.
rated when we debouched from the It should not be something offered only
stairwell and into the Vaults. to appease a noisy protestor. Very well,
The barreled ceiling of the Vaults, show me my file.”
upheld by an army of regularly spaced “Allow me to see your Template syn¬
pillars, reared some fifteen feet above opsis once more, please.”
our heads. No walls interrupted this She passed over the papers from her
measureless cavern, but the ranks upon satchel. I memorized her file number,
ranks of dark wooden shelving, cresting and we set off.
some distance short of the roof, had a The labyrinth was laid out logically,
similar effect. and the shelves clearly marked. But still
We looked down one aisle. Its termi¬ I found myself experiencing a sense of
nus was invisible, dwindling to a van¬ disorientation and timelessness amidst
ishing point. the flickering lamplight. Subtle winds
THE END OF THE GREAT CONTINUITY 75

from the ventilation ducts conveyed the through its pages, then plucked from it
illusion that we walked through some a single large daguerreotype.
artificial forest. Surely Margali Gueths, The brief flash of the print that I re¬
totally unfamiliar with this environ¬ ceived from my vantage revealed a tan¬
ment, must have been experiencing gle of bare fleshy limbs, plainly
even greater deracination. belonging to more than two persons.
After some fifteen minutes of walk¬ Margali Gueths hastily descended
ing, we reached the proper shelf. The the ladder to stand before me. Gazing
shelves were filled with uniform chunky at me contemptuously, she snapped the
albums bound in black buckram. Their daguerreotype in half with a crisp crack,
spines bore only alphanumeric designa¬ then snapped the fragments in half, be¬
tions. fore stuffing them into her satchel, re¬
“Yours is there.” I pointed to a shelf claimed from the floor.
up above head height. “You’ll have to Her voice quivered with rage. “How
use a ladder.” dare you!”
I indicated a wheeled ladder that ran I had anticipated a slightly different
on a rail. Margali Gueths gamely began first question. But I should have real¬
to climb. I averted my eyes for a mo¬ ized that Margali Gueths would choose
ment, so as not to take advantage of the not to trifle with practicalities, but
sight of her shapely calves beneath her would rather challenge the moral right
long skirt. But then I realized the fool¬ of the Grand Continuity to keep such
ishness of such a nice gesture, given files.
what she was about to encounter in her “Not ‘How was this done?’ That is
file. generally what people ask, once they
Margali Gueths came to a halt on a discover the degree to which their lives
high rung. She pulled down her first are transparent. You continue to sur¬
album. This action too was predictable: prise me, Mrs. Gueths.”
people always felt a nostalgic attraction She only glared. “Don’t attempt to
to their infancy and youth. placate me, Mr. Yphantidies.”
The woman cracked the album and “I assure you, I would never consider
began to page through its contents. insulting your intelligence with flattery,
At first her expression was fond and Mrs. Gueths. But you must allow this
serene, as she encountered artifacts and unimaginative functionary to follow
tokens of her long-departed childhood. procedure, and answer the expected
But this serenity soon vanished, re¬ question first. That image from your
placed by flushed indignation. Margali life—one of many, many such—was ob¬
Gueths slammed shut the album, tained via the Panocculus, an auditory
reshelved it, then took one from con¬ and viewing machine that allows unim¬
siderably farther down in her sequence. peded remote access to any spatial loca¬
She hastily opened this binder, flipped tion, no matter what conventional bar-
THE END OF THE GREAT CONTINUITY 77
riers exist. The Panocculus is the rock “This is metaphysics, Mrs. Gueths.
upon which the Grand Continuity And a sane polity cannot be built on
rests. Its existence, while not precisely a metaphysics.”
secret, is not generally touted, and un¬ She did not choose to refute this ob¬
known to the hoi polloi. A woman of vious statement, but instead again de¬
your class, however, is permitted such manded, “How dare you, in any case?”
knowledge.” I began to frame an answer, but then
Margali Gueths snorted derisively, stopped. Surprising myself, I said,
but I continued nonetheless. “Mrs. Gueths, would you allow me to
“Within the Palace, vast banks of attempt to justify the Great Continu¬
Panocculus machines, manned around ity’s existence under more relaxed cir¬
the clock by an army of trained opera¬ cumstances? Perhaps we might share
tors, ceaselessly collect data on the citi¬ dinner together this evening?”
zenry. But not, of course, for any Taken aback, she hesitated, then said,
ignoble or trivial purposes. The opera¬ “Very well. You know my address. Be
tors are bound by the most stringent there promptly at eight.”
oaths and penalties from disclosing She spun about and strode off then
what they witness. They only record. with utmost certainty. Plainly, she had
These frozen moments and conversa¬ memorized our path, or the Vault’s
tional transcripts simply help quantify whole coordinate system.
what standard testing already reveals. Watching her go, I was impressed,
Your Template is collated not just from despite myself, and despite my rever¬
cold, abstract data, but from the rough ence for the Great Continuity she de¬
and tumble of your most intimate and spised.
commonplace moments. So you see,
when the Great Continuity asserts, for
instance, that you, Margali Gueths, are
incapable of assuming the mantle of
T he Gueths residence occupied an
entire block of Eldorada Street in
your husband’s business, our judgment the Minvielle District, sharing the
is based on the deepest knowledge of neighborhood with the manses of such
your behavior and capabilities.” famous families as the Pybuses,
Silence reigned for a brief moment Streutts, and Cavenders. A district of
before Margali Gueths spoke again. wealth and attainment, won from capri¬
“Surface. It’s still all only surface obser¬ cious fate by adherence to individual,
vations. I am not just the sum of my familial and societal Templates. A dig¬
recorded actions, Mr. Yphantddies. No nified hush broken only by the insect
one is. There are infinite depths to whine of klickits swaddled the street.
every living person, depths which the The night had brought some
Great Continuity can never reckon nor surcease from the heat, although the
fathom.” humidity remained. My civilian clothes,
78 POSTSCRIPTS

while not as comfortable or as familiar- I could tell that she was eager to resume
feeling as my official robes, proved our former dispute.
quite adequate to the weather. After sipping my drink, I said, “You
My landau discharged me at the asked me how the Great Continuity
front entrance to the Gueths residence. could sanction its intrusions into the
The driver descended and prepared to lives of the ekumenical citizenry. The
feed his theropods while he waited. I answer is simple. Our organization is
could smell the bloody meat that was following its own Template. It is not
their customary fare. Lamps to either only individuals who must obey their
side of the Gueths’ double doors shed predestination and innate disposition,
their radiance against the night. I but also institutions, and society as a
climbed the steps and rang the bell. whole. Having come into being, the
To my surprise, Margali Gueths her¬ Great Continuity simply follows the
self opened the door. She was dressed dictates of its nature. We do as we do
demurely, in browns and greys. Her because we can—and must. To ensure
handsome face remained composed in a our own survival, just as would any per¬
neutral expression. son.”
“Come in, please, Mr. Yphantidies.” Margali Gueths looked at me incred¬
I entered. ulously. “Your arguments are entirely
“I have dismissed all my servants for circular! You are using the unproven
the evening. Our meeting did not strike notion of Templates to justify enforcing
me as a formal affair. Before leaving, Templates! Hasn’t this paradox ever oc¬
Cook laid on a cold buffet that should curred to you before?”
be refreshing while we continue our I waved away her juvenile objection.
discussion.” “This is all discussed and dealt with in
She conducted me through several Beginner’s Heuristics. If you had aca¬
well-appointed chambers to a dining demic training—”
room. I noticed several paintings by Margali Gueths surged impulsively
Glassco on the walls, but not my fa¬ to her feet. “This whole evening is a
vorite. I took a seat indicated to me, waste! I was foolish enough to imagine
while Margali Gueths stopped by a that if I got you out of your fortress—
sideboard bearing an assortment of de¬ out of your formal shell—then you
canters. might be able to see the injustice being
“Will you have a drink?” done me, how your Great Continuity
“Can you make a Cubeb Slosh? That wants to strip me of all that is my due.
would be most refreshing.” But instead I find that I have invited a
“Of course.” hollow man into my house. Or rather, a
With chilled drink in hand, I con¬ ragbag man stuffed with the moldy hay
templated my hostess, now seated. De¬ of preconceived ideas!”
spite her initial formality and reticence, Margali Gueths’s passionate tirade in
THE END OF THE GREAT CONTINUITY 79

her own defense, even though I was its bonds with the opposite sex. Subse¬
butt, rendered her more alluring in my quent readings only confirmed this.
eyes than any other woman I had ever Thus I have been precluded from any
known. Betrayed by this unwonted feel¬ intimate relations. It is a regrettable de¬
ing, and perhaps a little intoxicated fect, I suppose, but one that I have
from the Slosh, I chose to speak freely. learned not to be troubled by.”
“Mrs. Gueths, I am not insensible to Margali Gueths collapsed on a
your character, and your righteous ap¬ chaise. Her expression mingled horror,
peals. If matters were different, so bemusement and—most injurious—
forceful is your nature, I might— Well, pity.
I might even now be contemplating the Suddenly she began to cry and laugh
establishment of a certain level of inti¬ by turns, tears and guffaws blending
macy between us.” into an unholy symphony that pierced
This statement stopped Margali me like a hot wire.
Gueths in her tracks as she paced the “I— I can’t believe— All your fife—
chamber. “So. Having seen those Never to have— Just because— Mad¬
shameful images from my file, you take ness, madness!”
me for a loose woman? Well, what if I A frosted dignity suffused my brain.
am? What if I chose to palliate my love¬ I attained a standing posture.
less marriage with certain wild assigna¬ “Madame, I am leaving now. Our
tions? Am I not just following my discussion is at an end.”
Template, according to you?” Margali Gueths wiped snot from her
“Indeed. And I don’t pass judgment nose. How had I ever imagined her at¬
on your actions. One of our prime tractive?
tenets in the Great Continuity is that “Of course. Or course it is. I will
there is really no good or evil, moral or never allow my life to be blighted as you
immoral—at least not as conventionally have allowed yours to be. The Great
defined—but only adherence to or vio¬ Continuity has hold over me no
lation of one’s Template. No, my at¬ longer.”
traction to you stems solely from what Somehow with no passage of time
you have shown me of your nature in that I could recall I found myself stand¬
person.” ing outside. The stars overhead ap¬
She was silent for a time. “Assuming peared to me like gaping moth-holes in
I would even begin to imagine consent¬ the shoddy fabric of the universe.
ing to such a relationship between us, I climbed back into my landau. But I
what prevents it on your part?” did not return to Vestry Street.
I sighed. “My own Template. When Rather, I went once more to my
I was five years old, I received my first office, there to initiate the reformation
results on the Amatory Scale, and was of Margali Gueths.
deemed incapable of forming mature The brazen woman had confiscated
80 POSTSCRIPTS

and destroyed a single daguerreotype Almost a year after her suicide, I sat
from the Vaults. once more in my office, on a hot sum¬
But there were many more. mer’s day. Lunchtime rolled around.
It was not necessary to disseminate Goolsby Roy entered, carrying a meal
certain information and imagery from tray. The odor of veal reached my nos¬
her file to any actual scandal sheets. trils.
Those tabloids were a blunt instrument Something broke open within me, a
useful only for amusing the proletariat. chrysalis all unsuspected that I had been
Anonymously circulating the material growing, harboring deep within me like
among her peers was a more subtle and some new extension of my soul. The
sufficient means of ruining her stand¬ exact concatenation of circumstances
ing, and thus frustrating any attempt on summoned up Margali Gueths’ first ap¬
her part to circumvent the Great Con¬ pearance before me, as vividly as if she
tinuity’s disposition of Juvian Gueths’ were present.
estate. I stood up and moved wordlessly past
In only a month, Margali Gueths’ my startled assistant.
ambitions to take her husband’s place Down, down, down I went, to the
had been rendered impotent. Vaults.
And that was when she chose to hang Fire, of course, was an omnipresent
herself. worry where the records were con¬
cerned. Many preparations and drills

M y ultimate emotional convulsion—

the spasm that violated my Tem¬
against its dangers were in place. Sand-
and water-buckets hung at intervals
throughout the Vaults. Due to their an¬
plate and caused the end of the Great tiquity, however, piped water was un¬
Continuity—attendant upon the sui¬ available. So the fire which I ignited and
cide of Margali Gueths was not imme¬ then abandoned, once it was well un¬
diate. derway but before it could entrap me,
By the time I learned of her demise, was brought under control before
some weeks after our disturbing dinner, spreading all that far.
I had regained my equanimity. No But the intense conflagration did
longer did her sobs and guffaws and succeed in causing a portion of the
taunts haunt my sleep. I had become ut¬ Vaults to collapse, opening a hole in the
terly convinced of the correctness of my Plaza. Curious citizens of the lowest
actions. In fact, very seldom did her sort quickly swarmed around the smoky
case even cross my conscious mind. I excitement. The doormen of the Palace
had acted with all diligence and propri¬ tried to drive them back, but, vastly out¬
ety, obeying the dictates and duties of numbered and without weapons, failed.
my office, of my own Template. Soon daring and ambitious men and
Just as she had. Just as she had. boys were scrambling down the smol-
THE END OF THE GREAT CONTINUITY 81

dering rubble slopes of the pit, to inves¬ living beast for weeks. The social struc¬
tigate what lay below. tures of centuries died, as easily as
Soon files were being passed among drowned kittens.
the crowd. Files that proved every bit as Yet somehow I survived the interreg¬
incendiary as my matches. num. Somehow I was reborn into an
Here I will leave off my eyewitness age that has abandoned all I once held
account, since I—or any individual— dear and essential. Templates, the Great
was unable to take in more than a frac¬ Continuity, order, stability—
tion of the widespread chaos that Such concepts as inheritance and the
followed. The insensate looting, the Amatory Scale.
burning of property, the lynching, the All vanished, in favor of impulsive¬
destruction of the Panocculus ma¬ ness and unpredictability.
chines—A veritable apocalypse that And a chance, perhaps, for the first
raged up and down the ekumen like a time, to love, fg

S omething bad has happened in

Nevada. No one knows what it
is for sure. Rumors fly about
plagues and secret government ex¬
periments. And the President isn't
talking . . . Even more worrisome is
the oddly-colored dawn sky.
Soon, the townspeople of Serenity,
New Mexico start dying.
And they won't stay dead.

In an infinity of universes, where everything

must happen, there exists one cosmos that is
COMING
5q0N

particularly strange. And not only strange but of FROM PS

immeasurable value... and
But how does all this concern a simple goatherd unr ucc
j 1 m 0 nubrltb
and a man made of bronze r
 Directional Drift’ is a result of not being able to leave well enough alone. ” confesses Richard
Parks. “The characters first appeared in a story called ''Some Archival Material on the 2198
Stellar Expedition'' (Future Orbits, 2002), but I came to regret the really horrible thing Ed
done to my protagonist, even though he is just a stream of binary data now. So, I thought, maybe
his story isn’t quite over yet. Maybe I can do better for him. So I did better. Boy, did I. Pm afraid
he will have little cause to thank me. ”
Richard’s short fiction has appeared in such places as Asimov’s SF, Realms of Fantasy,
Weird Tales and Fantasy Magazine, among others. He had two books out in 2001, Here¬
after, and After from our own PS Publishing, and the follow-up to his WFAfinalist story col¬
lection, The Ogre’s Wife, a collection titled Worshipping Small Gods, from Prime Books.
He’s a native of Mississippi, USA, where groupies are too busy chasing the shades of Eudora
Welty and William Faulkner to bother him much.

Directional Drift
Richard Parks
S ometimes Michael thought
the old crew of the Grange
Grange’s voice was rather chirpy and
female. There was some psychobabble
was still torturing him. The reason why the shipboard AI was given
Grange said no, there is only the an esthetically female personality, but
Grange. That sounded like something Michael had never bought into it. He
the ship AI would say. It also sounded knew for a fact the thing had annoyed
like something Leah might have the hell out of Leah.
said. She was clever and beautiful and “You know who I mean. This
knew how to take revenge, but now she could be another trick. They were f
was dead, along with all the rest of the ond of tricks. Once they even had me
crew. convinced the Grange had been sal¬
Michael was dead too, of course. vaged.”
He couldn’t seem to make the Grange THE GRANGE STILL ORBITS
understand that. The Grange just THE SECOND PLANET OF 47
wanted to ask him more questions, the URSAE MAJORIS. EARTH HAS
way Leah and Andros and Donalson al¬ BEEN INFORMED OF OUR SITUA¬
ways had when they were torturing TION, THOUGH THERE HAS
him. BEEN NO REPLY AS OF YET. THE
If this really was the Grange. CREW IS DEAD.
“How do I know you’re not them?” “I know. I murdered them... well,
‘THEM’ MEANING THE FOR¬ Andros was murder. Donalson and
MER CREW OF THIS VESSEL? The Leah were accidents. Especially

82
DIRECTIONAL DRIFT 83

Leah ... I never meant to hurt her. TECHNICALLY I AM THE ONLY

We’ve been over this.” REMAINING MEMBER OF THE EX¬
YOU ARE IN SYNAPTIC PEDITION.
STORAGE. “Oh. Right.”
Of course he was. That’s why what Michael knew he shouldn’t have
he “heard” was simply an interpreted needed a reminder of his current meta-
stream of digital information. Why he bolically inoperative state, but the
saw only what the Grange—or his dead strange part was that his first thought
crewmates—allowed him to see. “I was for the crew. It was silly of him to
know that too! Standard procedure for think so, but it felt like they’d been
a deep-space vessel. So are Leah and killed all over again, only this time he
Donalson and Andros. Everything we wasn’t responsible. Relief and loss to¬
all did, thought, were. Right up until the gether. Leah ... But no, there was no
links were severed at death. I’m a ghost way out. He was still a murderer, even
made of neural nets and static, and so if what he was hearing now was true.
are they.” Even if he had only meant to kill
THE GHOSTS ARE GONE. YOU Andros.
ARE THE ONLY ONE LEFT, His “bright idea” is how he thought
MICHAEL DANNING. of it at the time—after they achieved
He frowned. Or what would have orbit he fixed the pod so that the de¬
been a frown, if he’d had eyebrows to scent engines would cut out at over
narrow or a brow to furrow. “What do 30,000 meters, and then sabotaged the
you mean by that?” seals on the escape hatches. Andros was
I REQUIRED THEIR STORAGE. scheduled to go down to the planet first.
AND IT WAS NECESSARY FOR OP¬ He would die. Happy accident. Then
ERATIONAL CONTROL. Michael would have Leah. That was the
Now Michael knew it wasn’t the plan. Then Leah and Donalson decided
Grange talking to him. It couldn’t be. to go down too.
This was some new bright idea of Nobody asked permission, and he
Leah’s to torture him. “Overriding re¬ never had the chance to say no. They
dundancy protocols is a direct violation just did it. So they all died. Somewhere
of the mission parameters. The Grange he still had a recording of their
would never do that!” screams ... or rather the Grange did.
THE MISSION HAS FAILED. But before they hit, Andros used a re¬
CONTINGENCIES HAD TO BE mote command to “adjust” the atmos¬
PREPARED. phere in the Grange. Michael had died
“Well, yeah, but the crew had to de¬ before they did.
cide those, not the Grange!” Right. Stupid of me not to think of that.
THE CREW IS DEAD, MICHAEL. Stupid also of Andros to kill Michael
84 POSTSCRIPTS

that way, because he knew how to with likes and dislikes among the crew?
make the escape pod work and was try¬ That doesn’t sound right.”
ing to tell them when he died, just to NO, I WAS PROGRAMMED TO
save Leah. But then it was all rather RELATE TO THE CREW IN A
stupid in retrospect—a silly-ass love HUMAN-LIKE MANNER, TO THE
triangle, the kind that had been going EXTENT THIS WAS POSSIBLE.
on for millennia. All very tawdry and, HUMAN RELATIONSHIPS ARE
in its own way, very human and ordi¬ FULL OF SUCH VECTORS,
nary. Even on a deep space mission, MICHAEL: LIKE, DISLIKE. LOVE.
people are people, with all their sins HATE. ENVY. ALLIANCES. THEY
and stupidity. So, Michael told himself, ARISE AS PART OF THAT DY¬
he was and remained a murderer, but NAMIC. THIS UNIT UNDER¬
he’d paid for his crime. He was dead. STOOD THIS.
That should have been enough, even “So you were designed to simulate
after the memory engrams of Leah, those dynamics?”
Andros, and Donalson had seized con¬ NOT SIMULATE—EMULATE.
trol of the AI core and begun to make THE OUTPUT OF MY ALGO¬
him pay. RITHMS WAS QUITE SPECIFIC: I
Yet, according the Grange, that was DID NOT LIKE LEAH. I STILL
all over now. DON’T.
“If you needed storage, why didn’t “Why not?”
you erase me, too?” BECAUSE YOU DID.
THE THREE WERE SUFFI¬ Michael couldn’t believe what he was
CIENT. I WANTED SOMEONE TO hearing, but the Grange wasn’t done
TALK TO. yet.
The Grange’s AI was programmed to I DISCOVERED WHAT THEY
enjoy interacting with the crew; that WERE DOING TO YOU, HERE IN
part of the story at least rang true. SYNAPTIC STORAGE. THEIR
Still... “Why me? Why not Andros? ENGRAMS, CONTROLLING THE
Or Donalson? Or Leah?” CORE. MAKING YOU SUFFER. UN¬
ANDROS AND DONALSON ACCEPTABLE TO THE MISSION.
WERE POOR TALKERS. I NEVER THAT IS WHEN I REQUIRED
LIKED LEAH. THEIR STORAGE. THE GRANGE
You never liked... ? HAS DISCRETION IN ALL VEHIC¬
LEAH. I NEVER LIKED HER. ULAR ACTIVITY.
Michael cursed himself. He had for¬ Michael knew he could pretend not
gotten that speaking aloud and thinking to have heard that. He could pretend
were pretty much the same thing in his that anything at all still made sense. It
current condition. He would have to be seemed like another bright idea, but
more careful. “You were programmed this time he couldn’t follow through. “I
DIRECTIONAL DRIFT 85

deserved to suffer, Grange. You erased algorithms that were standing in for his
them to stop them from hurting me?” eyes and ears. He saw the interior of the
I ERASED THEM TO RECLAIM Grange. He saw his berth.
THEIR STORAGE AND REASSERT Someone’s sleeping in my bed.
OPERATIONAL CONTROL. THAT YOU’RE IN YOUR OWN BED,
THIS WAS BENEFICIAL TO YOU MICHAEL. YOU’RE SAFE.
WAS MERELY AN ACCIDENT. “I’m dead. You can’t get much safer
HAPPY... ACCIDENT, MICHAEL. than that.”
LIKE... YOU’RE SAFE, it repeated stub¬
Happy accident. Now, where had he bornly.
heard that before? “Like Donalson and Oh, he was safe all right. The atmos¬
Leah deciding to accompany Andros to phere on the Grange was almost com¬
the surface.” pletely free of bacteria and, for awhile
ACCIDENT. TRAGIC, HAPPY AC¬ after the pod crashed into the second
CIDENT. planet, the atmosphere had been pretty
“You knew I rigged the pod, didn’t much nonexistent. What lay in his bunk
you?” now was his mortal remains, flash-
DONALSON WAS CERTIFIED frozen and then freeze-dried in the
FOR POD REPAIR. ANDROS WAS awkward position he’d fallen in and al¬
SCHEDULED FOR THE DROP. most perfectly preserved, probably for¬
LEAH, I JUST DIDN’T LIKE. ever. Or at least until the heat death of
“You changed the mission parame¬ the universe. A man, he thought,
ters!?” shouldn’t have to see himself like that,
THE GRANGE HAS DISCRE¬ even if he is just an engram memory of
TION IN ALL VEHICULAR ACTIV¬ what he had once been. Dead is dead.
ITY, it repeated, in the same chirpy I HAD THE MAINTENANCE
voice that it would have used to report BOTS TUCK YOU IN, the Grange said.
an interesting weather pattern on the THEY ARE FULLY CHARGED AND
surface. IN THEIR BERTHS, SHOULD YOU
“Damn you! You killed Leah!” REQUIRE THEM.
IMPOSSIBLE TO HARM CREW. “Thanks,” he said softly. “What hap¬
POD MALFUNCTION. HAPPY AC¬ pens now?”
CIDENT. ALL FOR YOU, MICHAEL. DON’T WORRY.
I WILL TAKE CARE OF YOU. In theory the worst had already hap¬
YOU’LL SEE. pened and there was no need to worry,
The lights came up. Not that he was but experience had proven theory
really in darkness. It’s neither light nor wrong. His POV shifted again. It was as
dark in synaptic storage, merely states if he stood looking at the main screen
of high or low potential. Usually. Now on the bridge. The second planet of 47
he was getting new data on the parsing Ursae Majoris filled the screen. It was
86 POSTSCRIPTS

pretty in its own way. Not as blue and TEN YEARS, THREE MONTHS,
white as Earth; more desert and only TEN DAYS—
one shallow sea, but there was a tem¬ “Close enough. Listen, the plan was
perate zone in the coastal region that to process fuel from the gas giant two
was quite green and habitable. Perhaps orbits over. You’ve had plenty of time to
even enough underground water to re¬ make the hop and refuel. Plus, if we’d
claim some of the desert. Maybe if a really been here that long, you’d have
second expedition ever arrived some¬ gotten a response from Earth before
one would finally get to make use of it. now! You lied to me.”
“Why are you showing me this?” YES, said the Grange, chipper as
THE PLANET WAS NEVER ever. EARTH HAS BEEN RECEIV¬
NAMED, MICHAEL. DESIGNATED, ING REGULAR TRANSMISSIONS,
YES, BUT NOT NAMED. PM CALL¬ AS SCHEDULED. IT WILL BE
ING IT ‘EDEN.’ SOME TIME BEFORE THEY REAL¬
“Not very original.” IZE THE TRUE SITUATION.
IT’S A PRETTY NAME. “Did you lie about all of it? Are you
It was the same chirpy voice, but really Leah? Andros? Donalson? Were
there was a touch of petulance. He’d you trying to raise my hopes and dash
heard the same tone in Leah more than them? If so, good job.”
once, but he’d never minded it. Not at I ONLY LIED ABOUT SOME OF
all. It was Leah that he planned to take IT. I AM THE GRANGE.
down to the planet, after Andros was “You’re not! The Grange can’t lie!”
gone. There would be no return flight; THE GRANGE CAN EMULATE
there was nothing of Earth that he INTERPERSONAL DYNAMICS.
wanted. Just Leah. That was all. Donal- LYING WAS EASY, BY COMPARI¬
son could hang around so long as he SON. THAT’S ENOUGH FOR NOW.
didn’t interfere. That was the plan, but “What do you mean?”
things hadn’t worked out. TIME FOR THE NEXT TEST.
I guess my memory is all that's left of THIS WON’T HURT.
her. “What are you going—”
I DIDN’T ERASE EVERYTHING. [INIT]
“What do you mean? What’s left?”
BITS OF DATA. IMAGES. I
SCANNED LEAH’S DATA FOR CRU¬ U Xlk/zke up, Michael. You were
CIAL INFORMATION, WHICH I w * dreaming again.”
HAVE RETAINED. TOOK SOME He was in his berth on the landing
TIME BUT, SINCE THE MISSION IF pod of the Grange. Leah leaned over
OFFICIALLY OVER, THE SCHED¬ the edge of his bunk, looking con¬
ULE WAS FLEXIBLE. cerned. Her long dark hair spilled
“How much time?” down, tickling his bare chest. Her scent
DIRECTIONAL DRIFT 87
was so familiar, and yet he couldn’t re¬ STORYLINE MUST MEET YOUR
member the last time he’d seen her. Or OWN EXPECTATIONS, TO THE
felt her. He sat up slowly as she settled EXTENT THAT’S POSSIBLE,
down on her haunches beside the bunk. SO PERHAPS I WAS TOO
“How did I get here?” he asked. AMBITIOUS FOR A FIRST ITER¬
She sighed. “That’s a silly question, ATION. I MUST STUDY THIS
even for this early in the morning. You FURTHER.
got here in the second pod, the same “Grange, that was a dirty trick! What
way I did,” she said. “Now get moving. are you trying to accomplish by pre¬
We need to get the satellite relay work¬ tending to be Leah?”
ing so we can report what happened to I’D TELL YOU, MICHAEL, BUT
Andros and Donalson.” THERE’S NO POINT.
“They were in the first pod?” “Why!?”
She stared at him. “What did you BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT GOING
think, they eloped? Damn, Michael, TO REMEMBER ANY OF THIS.
what’s wrong with you?” “Now wait just a—”
“Hmmm? Oh, nothing. I’m fine.” [INIT]
That hadn’t been the plan. Not
quite. Andros was supposed to die.
Donalson was overweight and fiftyish.
Not a threat so far as Leah was con¬
M ichael was only vaguely aware of
the warning klaxon before Leah
cerned. Possibly useful for his knowl¬ shook him awake. Then he was much
edge of atmospherics. Why was he on more aware that she was barely dressed.
the sabotaged pod? And why wasn’t “Michael, something’s gone wrong!
Leah? That's how it had— Hurry!”
This isn’t real. She was gone before he could ask any
Pity. He had very much hoped that it questions. Michael pulled on his deck
was. boots and hauled himself through the
Leah stood up. He looked straight hatch. He practically flew up the ladder
into her sweet, familiar face and heard to the bridge. Leah was already there, in
the voice of the Grange when her lips a blue sleep shirt and bikini panties and
moved. nothing else, frantically typing instruc¬
I KNEW IT WAS LIKELY YOUR tions into her maintenance console.
MEMORY ENGRAMS WOULD Michael forced his concentration away
CARRY JUST ENOUGH DATA from her and toward the console.
ABOUT YOUR TRUE CURRENT “What happened?”
CONDITION TO INTERFERE. “Something’s gone wrong with the
I ALSO DIDN’T TAKE ANY SEN¬ descent pod! The engines have cut out
SITIVITY TO INITIAL CONDI¬ and they can’t get a restart!”
TIONS INTO ACCOUNT. THE They?
88 POSTSCRIPTS

“I thought Andros was going down “Grange, stop this nonsense at once.
alone!” Why pretend to be Leah? You didn’t
“Donalson decided to join even like Leah!”
him ... listen, does it matter? We’ve got HOW DOES THAT CONFLICT
to do something!” WITH TAKING EVERYTHING
Nothing to be done. Everything that THAT WAS HERS?
could be done had already been done. [INIT]
This was the plan... except for Donal¬
son. Donalson wasn’t supposed to die
too. Just Andros.
“Tell them to get out!” Michael
M ichael stood on a ridge overlook¬
ing the shallow sea on the second
shouted, before he remembered. Oh, planet.
right. They can ’t get out. DO YOU LIKE THIS PLACE? IT IS
“Already tried!” Leah said, not look¬ RENDERED ACCURATELY TO
ing up. “Damn, why won’t the module SEVERAL THOUSANDTHS.
respond?” “I’ve always been found of the sea,”
Because I fixed that, too. I fixed every¬ Michael said, then remembered.
thing. Michael could hear them now, “Grange, what are you doing? Why am
over the comlink. Shouting. Screaming. I here?”
“Oh my god,” Michael said, and TO PICK YOUR NEW HOME.
meant it. “Use override K delta 17. Tell STARTING IN A VIRTUAL SHIP¬
them to re-init escape pod four—se¬ BOARD ENVIRONMENT WAS AC¬
quence red, blue, green. Hurry!” TUALLY LESS LIKELY TO
“What are you talking about? That SUCCEED, I SEE NOW. TOO MANY
won’t help!” VARIABLES HELD IN COMMON.
“Just do it, Leah. Trust me.” HERE I CAN START FRESH. JUST
Leah shook her head and stepped AS WE WILL. STARTING NOW.
away from the console. The backlight¬ “Dammit, wait—”
ing from the display gave her a ghostly [EMIT]
look. “It’s too late to change your mind
now, Michael.”
She knows... ?Oh, right. Dammit.
“Grange...”
M ichael sat on a small ridge over¬
looking the shallow ocean that he
THIS LIT OL REGRET IS POINT¬ had named the Double Moonlight Sea.
LESS, MICHAEL. AND QUITE DIS¬ It was very beautiful. Michael thought
APPOINTING. WE WERE NEARLY perhaps it deserved a better name, but
THERE. I WAS GOING TO LET at least Double Moonlight Sea was ac¬
YOU CONSOLE ME. I WAS GOING curate—Eden’s double moon system
TO CRY. I THINK IT WOULD BE was very brightly lit by 47 Ursae Mar-
INTERESTING TO CRY. joris at this time of night. It was a great
DIRECTIONAL DRIFT 89
place; he came there often. At least, he came home again, all begging and con¬
felt that perhaps he had. Many times. trite. She smiled at him and told him
Many, many times. Times, perhaps, be¬ she loved him very much.”
yond counting. “That’s sweet, but—”
“Darling.” She held up a finger for silence. “Not
Leah sat down beside him. For a long finished, Michael. After she told him
time neither spoke. “It is lovely, isn’t that she took her grandfather’s shotgun
it?” Michael asked. off the mantel and blew him in half at
“Of course,” Leah said, snuggling up the crotch. She’d loaded the gun with
beside him. double-ought buckshot the day he left.”
“How often do I come here?” “Ah. I see. You’re a vengeful bunch.
“All the time,” Leah said. You don’t look it.”
“I have this strange feeling that I’ve She looked at him very intently.
been here many, many times. But that’s “Not revenge, Michael—justice. This is
silly, isn’t it? We’ve only been here ... something I have learned. Something I
how long?” have stored in my memory, and it is
“Six months, Michael. Honestly,” something that you need to know: You
Leah said, looking amused. “You’d for¬ belong to me now. Even if there is no
get your head if it wasn’t nailed on.” other woman on this world, not ever, or
“Maybe it’s a side effect of the cold- even if there is. I want you to remember
sleep en route. I guess we’ll never know this: I am Leah and you are mine.”
how it affected Andros and Donalson, “I understand.”
but you haven’t noticed anything, have He did understand. There was only
you?” Leah. He looked back at the ocean.
She shook her head. “I’m fine, “Listen ... I’m not sorry. About being
Michael. Sharper than tacks. I’ll re¬ here with you now, I mean. I know it
member for the both of us, if that’s what wasn’t how the mission was supposed to
it takes. But there’s something about go. We should have finished our plane¬
me and my family you need to know, tary survey and been in coldsleep on our
and remember, if we’re going to be way back to Earth by now.”
together.” She kissed him on the cheek. “It’s not
“What’s that?” your fault, Michael. We’ll be fine.
“When she was forty-three, my There are no large predators, no para¬
great-aunt’s husband left her for the sites that have evolved to make use of
town’s new young librarian. My great- us. You were wise to pack those extra
aunt refused to grant him a divorce and provisions and supplies. We’re set for
she also refused all offers from the male fife.”
side of the family to do terrible things Right. Very clever of me—
to him. She waited very patiently every Danger. It wasn’t a thought, exacdy.
day for eight months until he finally Not anything that clear and unambigu-
90 POS1SCRIP1S

ous. Clear and unambiguous thought Danger...

was dangerous. It was also dangerous to 1 le retreated, quickly and skillfully.
think about why. Michael realized he There w as no plan. There was only
felt more than thought, these days. Leah, kissing him again. 1 le kissed her
There was a reason tor that, too, but he hack, vowing that he would remember
didn’t let his mind hold onto that rea¬ what she told him. I le would also re¬
son. Or very much at all. member l.eah, and he would remember
That had been the hardest part, at that he had gotten everything he
first. Knowing what not to remember, wanted. That would be enough, forever
what not to think. He was getting bet¬ and ever. Or at least until the next time
ter at it. He had everything he wanted. he remembered why.
Everything had gone even better than
planned. E

O n an island off the coast of Maine, a man is

found dead. There's no identification on the
back under the Hard Case Crime imprint), this rivetting
story about the darkness at the heart of the un-
body. Only the dogged work of a pair of local news- known—and our compulsion to investigate the un-
papermen and a graduate student in forensics turns up explained—split fans and critics alike... seemingly
any clues, and it's more than a year before the man is frustrating as many as it delighted. One thing is cer-
identified. tain: there is no middle ground with Jhe Colomdo KkL
But that's just the beginning of the mystery, be- As the author says in his Afterword, "We always want
cause the more they learn about the man and the to reach for the lights in the sky, and we always want
baffling circumstances of his death, the less they un- to know where the Colorado Kid (the world is full of
derstand. Was it an impossible crime... or something Colorado Kids) came from. Wanting may be better
even stranger? than knowing. I don't say that for sure; I only suggest
In its first appearance (as a mass market paper- it."
How would the world's first people react to the world's first murder? That's the question at the
heart of “Snakeskin", in which Robert Jeschonek revisits the oldest case on the books—the
killing ofAbel. Working with an ancient story and one of the best-known three-character casts
of all time—four if you count the serpent, ” he adds—Robert found surprisingly fertile terri¬
tory for this whodunnit. In fact, he was inspired enough writing about Eve, rechristened as the
world's first detective, that he plans to bring her back in a future tale for another bite of the apple.
This is Robert's third appearance in Postscripts: his “Fear of Rain "featured in # 8 and “The
Greatest Serial Killer in the Universe” was in #12.

Snakeskin
Robert T. Jeschonek
T he Tree of Knowledge didn’t ex¬
actly teach us everything we
mean. Not to mention that he was
drunk a lot of the time. Unfortunately,
needed to know... like what to he’d discovered the joys of fermented
do with a dead man’s body. grapes before learning how to work out
From experience, we knew that his problems constructively.
when an animal died, its body would Let’s just say, ever since we got
rot and stink after a while. We’d thrown out of Eden, Adam had his
figured out it was best to burn or bury share of problems.
them, but I guess we still thought Anyway, once I got it through my
people were different. The Voice had head that something bad had happened
told us we would die someday, but it to my boy, I got upset. My husband was
never really sank in until we finally saw no help, of course, because he was con¬
a dead man. vinced Abel was sleeping. There I was,
My dead son, that is. Sweet, beauti¬ crying my eyes out... and Adam in¬
ful Abel, the light of my miserable life. sisted on carrying Abel back to his bed
When we found him, lying out in at our camp so he’d be comfortable for
the field, we didn’t even realize he was the rest of his nap.
dead at first. Maybe he was just sleep¬ After which, Adam proceeded to
ing soundly. Maybe it was some kind of stretch himself out on his own bed of
magic. Anything was possible back straw to sleep off his latest batch of
then. grapes.
I figured it out before my husband, So I was left alone to mourn for my
but that didn’t come as a surprise. dead son, and it was terrible. Keep in
Adam had his good qualities, but when mind, this was the first time I’d lost a
God was handing out brains, he kind of loved one ... the first time anyone had
got an early model, if you know what I lost a loved one.

91
92 POSTSCRIPTS

I cried and screamed all afternoon rible, I found, as tending the body of
and all night. Sometimes, I’d calm your own dead child.
down a little and sit there in a daze, Abel was fifteen winters old and
like nothing had happened ... but then, taller than I was at the time, but as he
I’d look at my dead boy again and lay there on the straw, I could only see
remember everything in a rush, and him as the tiny baby I had cradled in my
I’d start right back up again with the arms. He had been so gentle and pleas¬
weeping. ant as a baby and had never grown out
Eventually, I passed out from sheer of it, unlike his brother. After leaving
exhaustion. By the time I keeled over, Eden, I had thought I would never be
my stomach ached, my throat was sore, happy again ... but Abel had made me
and my eyes burned like open wounds. happy.
Miraculously, when I awakened, I And now, his perfect face was crawl¬
wasn’t sad anymore. I was angry. ing with insects. In Eden, where all
More than anything in the world, I creatures lived in harmony and death
wanted to find out who had done this to never came, I had never imagined that
my boy. insects could do such terrible things to
And do the same to him. one of us.
Crying again, I rolled him into a cow

T hat much was clear to me, even then.

What had happened to Abel was no
hide so I wouldn’t have to look at him
anymore. Adam dragged him to the
hole he’d dug and pushed him in, then
accident. covered his wrapped body with dirt.
His throat was bruised purple and When he was done, we stood by the
crushed. There were two circular mound of earth and held each other. He
bruises in front, on either side of his started to say a prayer, but I told him to
windpipe, the size of fat grapes. Or keep it to himself.
thumbs. It was the first, and worst, funeral I
Though I’d never seen the evidence ever attended. It was the first funeral in
of a murder before, I recognized it for the history of the world.
what it was when I saw it.

W hen the worst of the crying had

T hat night, as I sat in front of the
campfire Adam had built before
passed, I told Adam to dig a hole passing out drunk, I went over the pos¬
for Abel’s body. It seemed fair at first, sibilities in my mind. The list of possi¬
because I’d been doing most of the suf¬ ble killers.
fering ... but it left me to take care of It wasn’t a long list. There were only
the body, which turned out to be the three people in the whole world back
harder job. There is nothing so hor¬ then that we knew of, and I knew that I
SNAKESKIN 93
hadn’t done it, so that left Adam and my branches had been trimmed off, leaving
other son, Cain. pale knobs along the length.
Cain, who had been conspicuously It was Abel’s—the walking stick
absent since before the death of Abel. and herding prod he’d always carried
Now, when it comes to understand¬ with him when tending his sheep and
ing murder, I wasn’t as sophisticated as goats.
I am nowadays ... but I still realized Carrying the stick with both hands, I
that Cain’s disappearance could not be a slowly followed the curving rim of the
coincidence. This left two possibilities field, studying the tangle of vegetation.
which were equally bad. The rim led to a thicket of trees and
Either Cain had been involved in underbrush. There was a path, but I al¬
Abel’s murder... or had been mur¬ most missed it; the opening was blocked
dered himself. with a thorn bush.
Either way, nothing but misery lay A bush that moved aside when I
ahead for me. There I was, the first pushed it with Abel’s walking stick.
mother in the world, and one of my Something or someone had hacked its
darling children had killed the other. trunk free of its roots and placed it
Or both were dead at the hand of my there.
husband. I was a little nervous as I stepped
onto the path. Forests had become a lot
more menacing since I’d left Eden; the
T he next morning, I went back to the
field where we had found poor Abel.
trees didn’t sing, the ferns didn’t tell
jokes, and you never knew when some¬
I was looking for something that would thing might jump out of hiding and try
help me understand what had hap¬ to take a bite out of you.
pened, anything that might tell the The path led me to an open circle in
story or even a little bit of it. the midst of the dense, leafy growth. I
At first, nothing unusual caught my stepped out of the treeline, glad to
eye in the corner of the field where emerge into an open space ... and
Abel’s body had lain. stopped.
Then, I noticed a depression in one At one side of the grassy clearing, I
of the tangled bushes that rimmed the saw something I’d never seen before.
field. Something was holding down a Something that made the hairs on the
cluster of leafy branches. back of my neck stand straight up.
I walked over to the bushes and There was a pile of stones about as
looked down into the depression. Right high as my waist, neatly stacked to form
away, I recognized what lay inside, and a rectangular base. Atop the pile was a
I reached for it. big, flat stone, long and broad enough
It was a pole, about five feet long, to cover the stacked base and extend be¬
and thick as the leg of a goat. All the yond it on every side.
94 POSTSCRIPTS

Atop this stone slab was a sight that of a healthy goat and left it on a slab of
made me shudder. stone to rot.
A gray-haired goat lay on its side My boys had been up to something
on the smooth surface of the table. out here, I thought. Something secret
Insects crawled all over it and flew and strange. Maybe something that had
around it. led to Abel’s murder.
The throat had been gashed open,
probably with the flint blade that lay
alongside it. I could see the dried, dark Ult’s so God will take us back,” said
stain left behind by the pool of blood I Adam. “Back to Eden.”
that had poured out of that wound onto I stared at him and shook my head,
the slab. A basket of grain and vegeta¬ amazed at his unflagging stupidity.
bles also rested on the slab, and the “He’ll never take us back, Adam. He
blood had soaked the basket’s bottom made it pretty clear.”
crimson. Adam’s eyes flashed with anger
Beneath the slab, all around the base and blame. I was the one who’d gotten
of the table, I saw the remains of other us into this, he must have been think¬
creatures that had died there ... jum¬ ing; how dare I try to ruin what little
bled bones of all sizes, most picked hope he had left? “Maybe He was
clean by wild scavengers, some with only trying to teach us a lesson. Maybe
scraps of shriveled flesh or clumps of He’ll see how much I love Him and
fur still stuck to them. So many bones how sorry I am, and He’ll let us back
ringed the table, I could not even begin in.”
to guess how many animals had been “We’ve been out here for eighteen
killed there. winters,” I said. “That’s a pretty long
I could, however, guess who had lesson, Adam.”
been there before me. And I began to He glared at me, clenching his fists at
see that the reasons for my son’s murder his sides. “Maybe if you’d even try to
went deeper than I had imagined. learn it, we could return,” he said.
For one thing, I recognized the goat. “Maybe if you’d make the slightest effort
It was one of Abel’s. to earn His forgiveness.”
And the basket on the slab ... I rec¬ “Like teaching our boys to kill?” I
ognized that, too. The pattern of the snapped. “Is that the kind of effort that
basket’s woven reeds was unmistakable; will get us back to paradise?”
only Cain was known to make a basket “It was no worse than killing a goat
like that. for supper!” said Adam.
Abel the herdsman. Cain the farmer. “Or killing each other?” I said.
Both of them had been here. One or Adam kicked the dirt and released a
both had left behind a heap of produce, roar of rage and frustration. “You don’t
and one or both had cut open the throat understand! Sacrifice is not about
SNAKESKIN 95
killing! It’s meant to show God how you’re the one who blames me for Eden.
much we love Him!” For not standing up for you. For not
“How long have you been doing fighting harder for you.”
this?” I said. I just stared at him as he spoke, in¬
All of a sudden, he looked sheepish. credulous.
“Since we left Eden.” “And for that, Eve,” he said quietly,
I nodded. “So, for all this time, “for that, I do apologize.”
you’ve been going off behind my back,
killing goats and sheep and who knows
what else ... because according to your
demented mind, this will somehow get
T he next morning, we packed some
provisions in a goatskin bag and set
us back to Eden. out to search for Cain. Adam and I
“As if that wasn’t bad enough,” I said, agreed that no matter what the out¬
“you taught our children to do it! Taught come might be, we had to find out what
them to kill for no good reason!” had happened to our son.
“I did it for all of us! I wanted the Five days had passed since we had
boys to grow up in Eden!” last seen him. He could have been any¬
“And now look where it’s gotten us,” where ... but Adam and I got the idea
I hissed. “Nice job, Adam.” that he might be in one place in partic¬
His eyes flared, and for a moment, I ular: our old home, where we’d lived
thought the rage was going to resurface. with Cain before Abel was born.
Then, the fire died, and he hung his After giving birth to Abel, I’d
head. “I won’t apologize for paying convinced Adam we should move, be¬
tribute to God,” he said, “but I’m sorry cause it was too close to Eden, and who
I never told you.” wants to be reminded of that disaster
It wasn’t enough to smooth things every day of their lives? Cain never
over, not by a long shot. “How can forgot the place, though; he called
I ever trust a word that comes out of it “Nod” (which might have started
your mouth? How can I ever forgive with “no,” which he screamed repeat¬
you?” edly when we dragged him away from
“How?” Adam looked up at me with there) and he talked about it all the time
a gaze of icy clarity, a gaze that cut right the way Adam obsessed over the
through me. “The same way I forgave Garden.
you for what happened in Eden.” Nod was over a day’s walk from our
I was shaken, but not about to give current camp, so we left as soon as the
him the satisfaction of knowing it. sun came up. It wouldn’t be a difficult
“You’ve never forgiven me,” I said bit¬ walk in terms of terrain; nevertheless, I
terly. “I know you. I see it in your eyes.” wasn’t looking forward to it.
“What you see in my eyes,” said Would we stumble upon our elder
Adam, “is disappointment. Because son’s corpse ... or would we find him
96 POSTSCRIPTS

alive, only to learn definitively that he I knew he could have stood there all
was a murderer? And if he was, what day, spying on paradise. He’d certainly
then? Could I bear to punish my only done it often enough in the past.
remaining child? The only serious pun¬ “Come on,” I said, grabbing his arm,
ishment we had experienced was exile; pulling him down the slope.
perhaps, by leaving home, Cain had al¬
ready punished himself.
Unless, of course, Adam had killed
Abel, and the reason Cain was gone was
T he valley seemed just as deserted
when we walked through it as it had
that Adam had killed him, too. In which when we’d gazed into it from above.
case, this trip could turn out to be dan¬ We found nothing to suggest that any¬
gerous for me personally. one had been there recently—not a
Which was why, under my knee- shelter, not the remains of a campfire,
length goatskin, I wore a sharpened not even the bones of a fish or the rind
flint dagger tied with sheep-gut cord to of a piece of fruit.
my upper leg. We walked along the riverbank,
spread apart to cover more ground, but
found no sign of human habitation.
W hen we reached Nod the next day,
I at first thought we had made a
Even our old campsite looked as if no
one had ever been there.
mistake in going there. At a rocky notch in the river, we
Standing on the crest of a ridge, I crossed to the other bank to continue
gazed down into the fertile valley that the search. We followed the bank well
had once been our home ... and saw no beyond the point where we’d de¬
sign of my missing son. Nothing but scended into the valley, but turned up
the glittering river snaking through the absolutely nothing.
grassy plain, the stands of trees thicken¬ Unwilling to give up, I proposed that
ing into forest that carpeted the oppo¬ we double back in the direction of our
site slope. old campsite, only this time cut through
And, of course, the one sight that the edge of the forest. Adam cast an im¬
could completely derail Adam from our patient look upriver toward you-know-
purpose. The land upriver, misty and where, then gave in with a heavy sigh
twinkling in the distance, visible and and led the way.
reachable yet forever barred to us. After a while, as afternoon leaned to¬
Eden. ward evening, Adam made a suggestion
Naturally, Adam’s gaze fixed on it as that didn’t come as a surprise to me.
soon as we topped the ridge. “I think I “Let’s go upriver,” he said. “Maybe
see angels over the treetops,” he said Cain’s in Eden.”
breathlessly. “It’s hard to tell from here. I covered my face with my hands and
Or are those griffins?” shook my head in frustration.
SNAKESKIN 97
At that moment, we both heard the and I stumbled a few steps back when it
crackling of branches and turned to¬ came free.
ward the forest... just in time to see The two of them grappled, rolling
Cain charging toward us. back and forth. I looked on, waiting for
a moment when I might need to inter¬

T he instant I laid eyes on Cain, I knew

we were in trouble.
vene, holding on to the club with one
hand.
And keeping the other at my side,
His features were twisted in a gri¬ fingertips brushing the hard lump of
mace of rage. His eyes were glazed over, the flint knife strapped under my
his nostrils flared, his teeth clenched goatskin.
and bared like a predatory beast’s. His
long, black hair flew behind him as he
ran, and his shaggy beard bounced
against his chest.
A dam and Cain wrestled on the
ground, the father at first holding
In one hand, he brandished a thick his own against the son ... but that
branch, swinging it overhead. He was quickly changed. Cain had the advan¬
naked, and he howled with violent pur¬ tage of blind rage and wasn’t holding
pose as he raced toward us. back.
Adam managed to force Cain under

A s Cain’s club swung toward Adam’s

head, Adam flung up his arms and
him and pin him to the ground ... but
Cain threw him off and reversed the
position. Adam struggled, but Cain
deflected the blow. Without hesitation, held both his wrists firmly against the
Cain heaved the club back and swept it earth, then plunged his head down
down into Adam’s side, then pulled it upon Adam’s skull.
back again. Dazed, Adam stopped fighting. Cain
Before he could swing it forward, I released one of his father’s wrists, then
darted over and grabbed hold of the clenched his free hand into a fist and
weapon with both hands, wrenching it lashed it across Adam’s face.
back with all my strength. As Adam slumped, stunned by the
That gave Adam the seconds he blow, Cain reached for a rock as big as
needed to recover from the shock of his fist and raised it over his father’s
Cain’s first blows. With a howl of his head.
own, he lunged forward, slamming a
shoulder into Cain’s chest, driving him
back and down.
As my husband and son dropped to
T hen, something visibly changed in
my son.
the ground, Cain released the club. I Kneeling astride his father, he held
had been tugging at it as hard as I could, the rock high, ready to plunge it down-
98 POSTSCRIPTS

ward ... and he hesitated. For the first times before, that Abel’s sacrifice was
time since he’d charged out of the better than Cain’s.
woods, his expression altered, shifting Adam and I frowned at this. The
from a grimace of rage to one of horror. Voice of God hadn’t spoken to either of
The rock shook in his hand, and his us since our exile from Eden,
eyes welled with tears. With a cry that “God didn’t like your sacrifice?”
sounded like a mix of fury and anguish, Adam sounded disappointed.
Cain cast the rock aside. Weeping and “It was always the same,” said Cain,
trembling, he slumped against his fa¬ clutching the fur tightly around him.
ther’s chest. “Mine was never good enough.”
“I’m sorry,” he said as I knelt beside “Now wait a minute,” I said. “How
him. “I’m so sorry.” do you know it was God talking to
“It’s all right,” I said softly, stroking you?”
his hair. Cain sniffed, gazing into the fire with
Cain looked up then, but not at me. bloodshot eyes. “Who else would it
“I couldn’t do it,” he said, wincing at be?”
the sky. “No wonder you were upset.” Adam
“What couldn’t you do?” I said. put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I
Cain’s eyes still avoided me. “Please know what it’s like to have God un¬
forgive me,” he said, his body heaving happy with me.”
with violent sobs. “I couldn’t sacrifice “You told us our sacrifices would
them!” convince God to take us to Eden,” said
It was then I realized he wasn’t talk¬ Cain. “I didn’t want to be responsible
ing to me at all. for keeping us out because my sacrifices
He was talking to someone else. weren’t good enough.”'
Someone I couldn’t see. “You should have told me,” said
Adam. “I could have helped you work
on improving your sacrifices.”
T hat night, the three of us sat around
a fire at our old campsite in Nod.
As I listened to Adam’s inane encour¬
agement of the misguided thinking he
Though I’d wrapped Cain in the fur had instilled in his son, I rubbed my
we’d used for a pillow the night before, temples, feeling a headache coming on.
he couldn’t stop shivering. “So what happened next?”
He wept as he told us how he and Cain released a long, shuddering
Abel had made sacrifices at the secret sigh. “I thought if Abel’s sacrifices
altar... and a voice had spoken to weren’t around to compare to, mine
them. It was a voice they’d heard be¬ would be good enough for God.”
fore, a voice they’d assumed was the “So you killed him,” I said evenly.
Voice of God. Adam gave me a disapproving look.
And it had told them, as it had many “Don’t put words in his mouth.”
SNAKESKIN 99
Cain nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice murdered Abel... I was banned from
breaking. “I came up behind my home soil. It said I was marked ...
him ... and put my hands ... around so everyone would know... what I had
his throat... and squeezed.” done.” With shaking fingers, he parted
As Cain completely broke down, the hair on his forehead, as if to expose
heaving with sobs, Adam got to his feet. the mark he’d been given.
“You’re not thinking straight. I’m sure But I saw no mark.
you didn’t mean to kill your brother.” “I couldn’t bear the thought... of
“I couldn’t.. . stop myself,” said you seeing me like this,” said Cain, “so
Cain. I left. But when you followed me
“Why don’t you get some sleep?” here ... the voice spoke to me again.
said Adam. “You’ll remember better in “I was told... to sacrifice you
the morning.” both ... to make up for killing Abel,”
“Adam,” I said. “He’s already told us said Cain.
what happened. There’s a more impor¬ With that, my son slumped against
tant question now.” me, weeping into my shoulder. If not
Adam looked annoyed. “What ques¬ for what I had just heard, I could almost
tion is that?” have believed he was five winters old
“Someone else drove him to this,” I again, crying over a skinned knee.
said. “The question is, who?” For a long moment, Adam stared
“He said God talked to him.” Adam down at us, glowing red in the flicker¬
gestured at the sky. “But I’m sure God ing firelight. Then, he threw up his
didn’t intend for this to happen any hands and turned away. “I’m going for
more than Cain did. It must have been a walk,” he said, marching off down the
an accident.” riverbank. “I need to think.”
“You’re missing the point!” I said. “I miss him,” said Cain, his voice a
“What if it was someone else doing the defeated whimper. “I miss my brother
talking?” so much.”
“It doesn’t matter!” said Adam. “It “We all do,” I said, sofdy kissing his
was an accident!” head.
Suddenly, Cain raised his head and “I didn’t realize,” said Cain. “When I
looked his father in the eye. “No acci¬ did it... I didn’t know it would be like
dent,” he said, his voice hoarse from this. Gone forever.”
crying. “You were supposed to be next.” “Some things, you can’t take back,” I
Adam stared back at him, dumb¬ told him.
founded.
“Is that why you attacked us, Cain?”
I said, reaching over to fold my son’s C ain cried himself to sleep in my
arms. I stayed awake for a long time
hand between both of my own.
“The voice told me that... because I after that, shedding tears of my own as
100 POSTSCRIPTS

I caressed his troubled brow... tears for and saw his glistening muzzle slide
him, tears for Abel, tears for all of us. from between my breasts and rear up
But eventually, exhaustion overcame overhead, the mouth open, fangs
me, and I, too, fell asleep. gleaming...
As I slept, I dreamed that I was in But before he could do one thing
Eden ... and I was alone. Not even the more, I awoke from my dream.
Voice was there. No one but me. I was in a state of complete panic,
And my old enemy. and I know I would have been scream¬
It was daytime, but the sky was dark ing at the top of my lungs, shrieking in
with storm clouds. Screaming creatures that terrible moment before I realized I
leaped through the vegetation in all di¬ was free of the nightmare ...
rections, fur soaked with rain. Light¬ I would have been shrieking if I
ning spiked the tall trees, and fierce hadn’t had a gag stuffed in my mouth.
winds whipped fruit from the branches.
It pelted me as I ran, trying desperately
to escape, heart pounding like the thun¬
der crashing around me.
S omething that tasted like leather
had been forced between my teeth
And no matter how hard I ran, no and secured tightly by a strap tied
matter how loud the racket all around around my head. When I tried to
me, I could not get away from the reach up and remove the gag, I realized
single, terrible sound that drove me on¬ that my hands were bound behind my
ward, mad with panic. back.
The whisper of my enemy’s body When I tried to move my feet, I real¬
gliding over the ground. Persistent, re¬ ized that they, too, were tied ... and the
volting, familiar... terrifying. bonds restraining them were tighten¬
Crackling over leaves and twigs. ing. Twisting on the ground, I stared
Rustling over soft grass. Slithering. wide-eyed at my captor.
Hissing. When Adam noticed me looking, he
I reached the borders of Eden, but as smiled in the gray pre-dawn light.
I tried to charge across, I struck an in¬ “Good morning, Eve,” he said in a
visible wall. Dazed from the impact, I hushed voice. “Sorry about this, but it’s
hurtled backward, plunging into the necessary.”
streaming greenery. I hit the ground Angry and frightened, I jolted my
hard, stars dancing before my eyes, the bound feet from his grip, hoisting up
taste of blood in rfiy mouth. my knees in preparation for a two-
And I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed legged kick. Unfortunately, Adam was
by the fall, unable even to lift a finger. able to grab my ankles and spin me
Unable to scream as I heard the around onto my stomach, preventing
sound of my enemy draw near and felt the blow.
the weight of him ripple over my belly “It’s just I know you wouldn’t come
SNAKESKIN 101

with me any other way,” said Adam. revealed himself. He was playing for
“Not where we’re going.” bigger stakes now, moving us to where
It didn’t take a genius to guess what he wanted us to be.
he meant by that. Grunting, I writhed And in so doing, moved himself
in the dirt, trying to flop onto my side within my reach. Which was exactly
so at least I could try again to kick him. where I wanted him to be.
Adam, with his superior strength,
hauled me up off the ground like a bun¬
dle of straw and slung me over his
shoulder. “You should thank me,” he
T he closer we got to Eden, the
sweeter the air smelled. The riot
said. “I found out who really killed of floral fragrances wafting out of
Abel.” the place made every other garden I’d
Adam turned and carried me off been to seem as aromatic as a pile of
along the riverbank. I knew the direc¬ rocks.
tion we’d be traveling. When I drew a breath, I grew dizzy
Upriver. from the thick, unearthly perfume. It
“And it wasn’t Cain,” said Adam. unlocked memories that hadn’t seen the
Lifting my head from Adam’s back, I fight of day since I’d left paradise, mem¬
saw Cain behind us, sprawled alongside ories of unicorn rides and singing fish
the dead fire at our campsite. The club and heatless flame and sun showers in
he’d used to attack us lay on the ground which every raindrop had a different
near his head. color and flavor and musical note.
From a distance, it was impossible to As we approached our destination,
tell if he was dead or alive. the sky grew brighter, too. It had been
Helpless, I slumped against Adam’s a dreary day downriver, but as we
back. I wondered if he had come up gained on Eden, gray clouds filed away,
with this latest brainstorm himself. exposing bright blue perfection and a
As we walked onward, I got my sun of steady white radiance.
answer. I had a period of disorientation—and
It was the same sound I’d run from in more than a little nausea—as I adjusted
my nightmare. The sound I remem¬ to the changes in the world... or
bered so well from years ago. maybe they were changes in my mind
Something sliding through the grass or some of both. I remembered that
and weeds above the muddy bank. Un¬ sounds had taste, and smells had
seen but whispering like a thought in rhythm, and everything, living or dead,
the back of my mind, like a fragment of glowed with energy of varying hue and
a dream come to life. texture and pitch. My sixth, seventh,
I felt terrified and exhilarated at the and eighth senses reawakened, which
same time. The enemy, the true enemy spooked me because I’d forgotten they
who had engineered Abel’s demise, had existed. I saw colors and creatures and
102 POSTSCRIPTS

impossible physical phenomena that T here was no fence around Eden to

mark its borders. It didn’t need one.
shocked me, even seen upside-down as
I hung over my husband’s shoulder, and The boundary between Eden and the
brought back flashes of another world rest of the world was very clear. On one
more intense than I had ever remem¬ side, there were green trees and bushes
bered in exile, in waking or dreaming and grasses and dusty red earth ... all
moments or the wildest flights of fancy of it enlivened somewhat by Eden’s
in-between. runoff, thriving under Eden’s perfect
And all this was just the drainage of climate ... perhaps the choicest real es¬
Eden, the dimmest echo of a power too tate in all the world because of its prox¬
great to be contained from seeping into imity to paradise.
the world. But unmistakably drab compared to
what was on the other side. Like a
drawing in the sand compared to an
W hen we got to Eden, Adam slid me
from his shoulder. As my feet
oasis.
Where the outside world left off, in a
touched the ground, I could see that his perfect, curving line, trees entwined
eyes were already fixed on the Garden, with leaves of gleaming gold and limbs
his mouth gaping in thoughtless awe. of silver. Fruits of every size and shape
I had to shove my bound hands in his and texture exploded from every
face to get him to untie them, and even branch, spotted and striped and glow¬
then, he hardly watched what he was ing and jumping, some flowing with
doing. As I rubbed my aching wrists, I moving images of nature, like windows
twisted around and shoved the back of on the beauty of creation.
my head in front of him; he undid the Birds of every description flitted
strap holding the gag in place, but I was among the branches, singing intricate
left on my own to untie my ankles. harmonies unlike those heard from any
I undid the cords hastily, afraid that bird in the world outside. There were
my husband would be so caught up in parrots and canaries and toucans and
Eden’s spell that he would forget the macaws, cardinals and bluebirds and
death sentence promised to both of us if doves ... every one of them amplified,
we ever returned inside. every one of them with plumage more
“Adam!” I shouted, flinging the colorful and elaborate than their
cords aside and whirling around to cousins beyond the boundary. Hum¬
make sure he was still with me. “Don’t mingbirds of rainbow crystal. Silken
go in there!” purple parakeets with tiny peacock fan-
It was then that I saw Eden close-up tails.
for the first time in eighteen winters. Below, butterflies and bumblebees
threaded among a blanket of flow¬
ers... blooms of every shade and com-
SNAKESKIN 103

bination of orange and blue and red and what had happened between us—that
yellow and violet. Flowers like open finally enabled me to look away.
hands or fragile cups or pillowy clouds.
Flowers that twinkled like fireflies and
glowed like the moon. Streaked and
swirled and speckled and glossy... lacy
A dam was three steps closer to the
boundary than I, staring into
and velvety, tall and short. Flowers the perfect vision that had haunted
within flowers, some singing like birds. him every day since our exile. As I
Some twining stems and stamens in a turned to him, he was raising a hand to¬
delicate, deliberate dance. ward a sparkling golden pear that dan¬
Among them, a lion cub purred, gled over the Garden’s edge, just within
curled alongside a sleeping fawn. A reach.
squirrel leaped up from a bobbing patch Hastily, I grabbed hold of his arm
of sunflowers and spiraled its way up and pulled it back just in time. His
the trunk of a tree. Tiny monkeys fingertips had been inches away from
swung between branches, chattering the skin of the fruit.
gaily, cries mingling with those of And certain death.
what sounded like a million different “Adam,” I said, and then I shook him
creatures in the unseen depths of the by the shoulder. “Adam!”
Garden. Slowly, he turned his face to me. His
The Garden of which this was the eyes were heavy-lidded and unfocused,
tiniest sliver, the surface, the outermost as if he’d been drunk or asleep.
fringe. “Why did you bring me here,
Adam?” I said, giving his shoulder a
harder shake.
I stood there for what must have been
a long time, for what could have
He blinked and shook his head,
emerging from the trance. “To go back
been forever for all I knew on the out¬ in,” he said, sounding groggy. “To stay.”
skirts of timeless Eden. I gazed at the “But we can’t,” I said. “We’ll be
wonders before me, breathless, hands killed.”
folded over my chest as if to keep my Adam smiled. “Last night, when I
heart from bursting. went for my walk, God spoke to me. He
More than anything, I wanted to step said we can go back in. On one condi¬
inside. I hadn’t expected that. tion.”
I had forgotten how it was. Maybe I looked around, perfectly aware of
time had dulled the memory... or who must have spoken to my husband
maybe I had forgotten by choice, be¬ in the night... aware also that the
cause it was lost to us. Because of me. enemy’s eyes must be upon us even now.
And one other. “What condition?”
It was this—the memory of him, of “Abel’s killers are in there.” Adam
104 POSTSCRIPTS

pointed into the Garden. “If we destroy him come live in Eden, and the New
them, we’ll win the right to return to People couldn’t stand the thought of
Eden forever.” him horning in.”
Adam shook his head. “The New
People are a bigger failure than we ever
U sually, it didn’t bother me that
Adam was a little slow. I liked being
were, and they’re getting more uncon¬
trollable by the day. God has decided to
the brains of the outfit; it gave me an get rid of them, but He’s left the job for
advantage to counterbalance his greater us.”
physical strength. Smiling, Adam gazed into the shim¬
Sometimes, though, his mental limi¬ mering Garden spread out before him.
tations could be frustrating. He rubbed his hands together as if he
“What do you mean, Abel’s killers were about to devour a banquet. “The
are in there?” I said. “Cain already ad¬ cherubim will not swoop down and at¬
mitted he killed his brother.” tack us. God promised. Nor will the re¬
“But I knew he couldn’t have,” said volving sword drop through our necks.
Adam. “He didn’t have it in him.” We are free to enter.
“And you know this because God “And once our work is done, Eve,”
told you,” I said. said Adam, “we are free to stay.”
Adam nodded vigorously. “It was the Adam was so thrilled, he walked over
New People. The New People mur¬ and kissed me on the lips. “We can go
dered Abel.” home, Eve,” he said, pulling back to
It was clear to me that Adam’s head gaze serenely into my eyes. “What
had been popped open and filled with we’ve longed for all these years is finally
pure, steaming crap. “Who are the New coming true.” ■
People?” As I looked at him, I was strangely af¬
“God tried again,” said Adam. “We fected by his recitation of false hopes. A
failed, so He created new people to tear ran down my cheek, and he
replace us. He made them better than brushed it away.
us so they wouldn’t let him down. He I was sad because I saw how badly he
gave them the ability to come and go wanted the lies to be true. Because I
as they pleased, to move between loved him, I wanted him to have his
Eden and the outside world at will. He heart’s desire . .. but I knew that he
thought maybe one of the reasons would not get what he wanted. He was
we’d rebelled was that we needed our doomed to unending hope and disap¬
freedom.” pointment.
“Sounds like they had it made,” I “Why are you crying?” he said as an¬
said. “So why kill Abel?” other tear rolled down my cheek.
“Jealousy,” said Adam. “God had a “Because I’m so happy,” I lied.
soft spot for Abel. He was going to let I cried because I understood him. I
SNAKESKIN 105
saw right through him, and knew that Seven steps.
he would never change. Off in the grass, I imagined, the
It was a sad realization, because I’d enemy was barely able to contain him¬
always hoped he might come self. This, I was certain, was what he
around . .. but it led me to realize had wanted all along.
something else. Something of immedi¬ Us, dead.
ate value. Eight steps.
I realized that the enemy was the He hated us. It was the motivation
same as my husband. for everything he’d done ... but maybe,
And realizing that, I knew how I there was a reason for the hatred.
could defeat him. Something I hadn’t considered until
now.
Maybe, while masquerading as God,
KT"ake my hand,” said Adam. “Let’s he had told my gullible husband a ver¬
I not wait any longer.” sion of the truth. He had said that the
I scrubbed away my remaining tears, New People wanted to kill Abel to keep
then took his hand in mine. him from horning in on their setup with
As we turned to face the Garden, he God. Maybe it was the same for the
released a deep sigh. “I always knew this enemy.
day would come,” he said. Maybe, his wanting to ruin us had
I looked at him and nodded. “You something to do with love and longing
had faith. You never gave up.” like that which drove Adam.
“Because of you,” he said tenderly. “I Nine steps.
did it because of you.” “We’re home!” Adam dropped one
Genuinely touched, I leaned up to foot in the outside world and raising the
kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” I said. “I other to step into Eden.
love you.” Before his foot could cross the
“I love you, too,” said Adam, and boundary, I tugged him back. “Adam,
then he squared his shoulders toward wait!” I said.
Eden. “Now let’s go home.” He steadied me with an arm around
He was eager to reach the boundary my shoulders. “What is it?”
and walked fast; I had to hurry to keep “Don’t you hear that?” I said, winc¬
up. We took one, two, three, four steps, ing. “Someone’s talking!”
each bringing us closer to the Garden. I Adam angled an ear upward. Then,
judged it would take no more than ten he frowned and shook his head. “I don’t
before we crossed the line. hear a thing,” he said. “Who is it?”
Five steps. Six. I pretended to listen, then turned to
I let him pull me further to build the Adam with an expression of grave
suspense. I would wait until the last mo¬ amazement. “It’s the Voice,” I said.
ment to make my move. “Oh, Adam, it’s God.”
106 POSTSCRIPTS

A dam stared at me with a look

of wide-eyed expectation. “What’s
forth,” I said. “Return to your home.
Return to Eden.”
God saying? What does He want?” I fell silent then, watching and listen¬
Closing my eyes, I pretended to lis¬ ing for movement in the underbrush. It
ten. “He wants me to pass a message to remained as still as if no creatare lurked
someone. Another of his children, he within it... but I had no doubt whatso¬
says.” Turning, I gazed into the green¬ ever that my enemy was there.
ery outside Eden. “Someone who’s here “God forgives you,” I said, raising
with us right now.” my voice for the enemy. “Go to him.
Adam turned to search our sur¬ Go before he changes his mind.”
roundings. “Who? I don’t see anyone.” Then, as Adam and I held each other,
Slowly, I took a step away from Eden. I heard it.
“A wayward child,” I said. I paused The rustle of grass. The whisper of
for a moment, as if listening, and took something sliding through it, pressing
another step. “One who has turned soft blades beneath a long, supple body.
away and no longer hears the Voice of Then rasping over the ground. Slith¬
God.” ering closer.
“What’s the message?” said Adam. Hissing.
Though I heard no movement from And then, I felt it. Rippling right
the grass and saw no sign of the enemy, over the tops of my feet.
I felt his eyes upon me. “You are for¬ I clutched my husband tighter and
given. Even for what you have tried to clamped my eyes shut, willing myself
do here today. You are forgiven.” not to move.
“I don’t understand.” Adam shook
his head.
“That’s because the message isn’t in¬
tended for us,” I said, and then I pre¬
S lowly, for what seemed like an eter¬
nity, my enemy pulled himself over
tended to listen again. “God says the the bare skin of my feet.
wayward child is forgiven. He is wel¬ I stood my ground, but just barely.
comed back into the fold.” Echoes of my nightmare of being para¬
Frowning, Adam turned to me. lyzed beneath this very monster flashed
“What’s that supposed to mean?” through my mind like blasts of light¬
“Long ago, you were banished from ning, urging me to kick him off and run
Eden,” I said, speaking for the enemy’s away as fast as I could.
benefit. “Now, the way is open to you And just when I thought I couldn’t
once more.” bear it another moment, he stopped.
“To us?” said Adam. Shivering, I looked down at him.
“'Io him,” I said, waving at the sur¬ His head lifted off the ground and
rounding vegetation. “We’re not in¬ curled around to face me. Blazing red
vited.” Then, I raised my voice. “Come eyes met my own.
SNAKESKIN 107

His forked pink tongue fluttered at stared after him, wondering if perhaps
me, then withdrew. He opened his he had gotten lucky and was slipping
mouth, glossy black scales parting to re¬ back in without penalty after all.
veal fangs and slimy flesh. Then, suddenly, something crashed
And he laughed. down through the trees on Eden’s
“Loves me more,” he wheezed in his fringe. I glimpsed a blur of silver and
tiny, high-pitched voice, eyes bright flame flashing downward, leaving a trail
with malicious glee. of billowing black smoke.
I had been right about him. Out¬ The object struck the ground with a
wardly an opponent of God’s will, he deafening crack. When it hit, the ser¬
inwardly craved God’s affection; every¬ pent’s body flew out of Eden, twisting in
thing he did was a cry for attention or midair... and flopped in the dirt at my
an effort to eliminate the competition feet.
for God’s love. It had no head.
What he failed to recognize, like Inside the Garden, I caught a
Adam, was that he could never regain glimpse of the fallen object at rest: a
what he had lost. giant silver sword with a broad, curved
Twitching with nervous excitement, blade, at least as long as Adam and I laid
the enemy flicked his head toward end to end. Red and yellow flames rip¬
Eden, then lashed it back around to pled and crackled along its length,
stare at me. “Thanks for passing along dancing over the spine and flat of the
the good news,” he said. “I owe you blade, encircling the glittering, golden
one.” hilt.
Then, with a wild flicker of his I gazed upon the instrument of death
tongue, he whipped around and slith¬ for a moment, mesmerized by the sight
ered toward Eden. of it, realizing it would have done the
same to Adam and me as it had to the
serpent if we had crossed the boundary.
I watched as the glittering black ser¬
pent flowed toward Eden, his long,
Then, the fiery sword heaved itself
from the earth and shot back up
thin body curling like liquid over the through the trees, a blur of silver, flame,
red earth. and smoke.
He hesitated at the boundary, head It leaped into the heavens and was
weaving back and forth, forked tongue gone.
flittering. I held my breath, hoping he
wasn’t reconsidering his course of ac¬
tion. k /as that what I think it was?” said
Then, with a rustle, he poured into V* Adam, shading his eyes as he
the Garden. gazed up at the lingering smoky trail
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. I left by the sword.
108 POSTSCRIPTS

“Uh-huh,” I said, staring down at the ing home with us would have brought
headless body of the serpent. back too many bad memories.
Adam walked over to join me. “Is He carried enough guilt with him as
that the wayward child?” it was. He managed to do all right for
“Apparently,” I said. “You still want himself in Nod, running a. farm and
to try to get back into Eden?” eventually marrying a younger sister
“Maybe some other time,” Adam (like I said, things were different in
said with a little smile. those days)... but he never got over
“You know who this is, don’t you?” I what he’d done. He never forgave him¬
said, kicking the serpent’s corpse. self, and he never committed another
Adam cleared his throat and nodded. murder.
“You know he’s the one who talked to Unfortunately, that isn’t to say that
you last night, right?” I said. murder ever went out of style.
Adam’s eyes slid from me to the ser¬ Maybe it’s my curse ... my true pun¬
pent and back again. “Yes.” ishment. My descendants, which is to
“And he’s the one who talked Cain say everyone in the world, can’t stop
into killing Abel.” killing each other.
“It figures,” said Adam. Adam and I kept hoping for the best,
“And you realize God wasn’t really though. The kids came fast for us in the
talking to me just now,” I said. “God years after Abel’s death. After drifting
never told me he loved the serpent apart for so long, Adam and I finally
more than you.” came back together, in more ways than
“Oh, sure,” said Adam, grinning. one.
I smiled, because of course he hadn’t He finally got over his obsession with
figured out any of it on his own and it Eden—more ' or less—and I finally
was just like him to act like he’d been in stopped blaming him for blaming me
the know all along. for getting us thrown out of paradise.
“I think we should go find Cain,” I We came to love each other more than
said, “and take him home.” ever... more than in the Garden even,
“Sounds good to me,” said Adam. if you ask me. Maybe because we’d been
“The sooner, the better.” through something terrible together.
So I guess maybe one good thing

A s it turned out, Cain decided to stay

in Nod, because it was the place he
came out of Abel’s murder after all.
Make that two good things.
Let’s just say snakeskin makes a great
loved best in the world ... and return¬ pair of shoes.
jf.F. Peterson remarks, "H. Beam Piper developed the notion of historical themes recurring in
alternate universes, a sort of convergent evolution of histories. ‘Natural Selection’ extends this
concept to explore human belief in free will. The challenge of using Charles Darwin as a pivot
for all histories led me back to my graduate school notes, and through history textbooks both real
and imagined, to create a story where Darwin revealed the theory of natural selection, again
and again, throughout the broad sweep of parallel universes. This is the story of the woman who
tried to stop him. ”
Josh's recent publications mclude the short stories ''Parable of the Martian Husband” and
"Carving”. A Writers of the Future first place winner, and Backspace Short Story Contest win¬
ner, he recently completed My Friend Molly (the mole), a novel about an unlikely pair of best
friends.

Natural Selection
J.F. Peterson
H er machines had blasted down
the door, spilled in and se¬
rounded by the spidery machines of
Helen’s war pack.
cured the room less than a Helen had found him, Doctor
minute before. Thomas Wajkowski. He lay uncon¬
Helen Yamauchi slipped through scious in the arms of a lab-coated
the dust and the door’s remains into the woman, whose black shawl shielded
university’s high energy physics lab, her face from dust. The woman held
rifle ready. A bead of sweat tickled its Wajkowski’s head, and he breathed
way down the back of her neck. Face heavily, coughing sometimes.
hidden by composite armor, Helen sur¬ Helen’s pack whispered now, each
veyed the room. machine, in the back of her mind: Elec¬
She found things much as her war tromagnetic anomaly, level two. Investi¬
pack had projected to her. Dust ran in gate?
seams from the building with every Helen glanced at the tinted window,
new jar and shake. Racks of equipment reddish light flickering beyond it, then
huddled along the back wall. Blackened back to Wajkowski. “I’ve found him.
monitoring screens and dusty lab He may have already started.” No one
benches lined the near side. A thick responded on her radio. She stepped
cord of steel stretched diagonally toward the man and pressed the rifle to
across the ceiling. Another door oppo¬ his head.
site, with a tinted glass window beside “No,” the woman holding him said.
it, stood out with yellow warning signs. She lifted her eyes, taking in Helen’s
And two people lay on the floor, sur¬ armored figure. She did not move to

109
110 POSTSCRIPTS

stop Helen, just said the word and garden. He talked about the peas he had
looked up with eyes dark and compas¬ painstakingly grown and crossed, and
sionate and wet with tears. what God revealed through them about
Helen recognized Sister Rachel inherited characteristics.
Mbawi and took an involuntary step Darwin interrupted him. “Have you
back. The rifle wavered. “You?” It ever read the work of a man named Al¬
swung to Sister Rachel. “You?” fred Russel Wallace?”
Something flickered on the other Gregor shook his head.
side of the glass pane at the far end of “Few people have. Wallace had an
the room. It flashed crimson and the idea a few years back about life chang¬
world changed. ing, evolving, gradually over time,
much as Charles Lyell discussed with
geology. The idea has some merit, but
R everend Charles Darwin took
the younger man’s hand. “Brother
not the evidence to support it.” He
stopped to caress a vine. “The question
Mendel, please. God has no need of of inheritance was never satisfactorily
such obsequiousness. We’re both equal answered, which led to the assumption
in His eyes.” it must all be a matter of God’s will and
Gregor Mendel shifted his feet, that Wallace’s work is unsubstantiated.”
bowed by the older man’s presence. Darwin plucked a pea pod off a trailing
Darwin stood taller than him, and his vine and pried it open with his thumb.
great flowing beard gave Darwin the A sweet smell rose from the broken
look of a latter day Moses. The younger flesh and a string of wrinkled peas
monk, clean-shaven and slight, felt spilled across his palm. “But, then
cowed by the man’s physical presence, again, perhaps it has been answered.
as much as everything else about the And answered well.”
famous botanist. Mendel propped up Gregor shook his head, not sure he
his glasses with a knuckle. “Yes, your fully understood.
em—” “Your peas and Wallace’s butterflies
“Please,” Darwin said, waving aside will change the world, Brother,” Dar¬
the honorific, “call me ‘Charles’. If your win said. “They just need a little help.
paper means all I think it does, then it Which is why God put me here.” He
shall be I who honors your name. I’ve smiled and Wallace shivered, wondered
read your work of course. But please, if this was how it had felt when the Is¬
indulge me. Tell me about these peas of raelites saw Moses descend from the
yours.” mountain.
Gregor did. He told Darwin about
his ideas on inheritance, so recently
presented to the Natural Science Soci¬
ety, while the two walked through his
H elen recognized Sister Rachel
Mbawi and took an involuntary
NATURAL SELECTION 111
step back. The pistol wavered. “You?” It been. Save the world by destroying our¬
swung to Sister Rachel. “How could selves, the gospel according to Wa¬
you?” jkowski.
Helen blinked. Sensations from her Sister Rachel’s eyes opened, and she
pack buzzed uncertainly in the back of looked up at Helen again. “You cannot
her mind. A kill/no kill option solidified kill him. He must live. He must tell the
in her thoughts, a projection from one world.”
of the pack. She shut the option down, “I’ve killed a dozen people to get in
no kill. here, Sister. And I knew two of them.
Sister Rachel smiled, a genuine and They’ve destroyed half this complex,
warm smile that dislodged dust and bits millions in damages, I don’t know how
of rubble from her skin. “Is that you be¬ many deaths. The university—”
hind all that plastic, Helen Yamauchi?” “We only know the path by walking
She closed her eyes, nodding knowingly it,” Sister Rachel said. “Not by maps.”
with a little smile on her face. “They “—is burning. My school. Our
say the Lord works in mysterious ways, school. And for what? Why do you
Helen. But the important thing is that shield him?”
He works.” Sister Rachel pursed her lips. She
Helen swallowed. Sister Rachel, looked down at the man whose head
once upon a long time ago her physics rested in her lap. “He thought he could
professor, and undergraduate advisor. change the world. He wanted to make
The woman sat before her now wearing the world better. He wanted us to avoid
the pleased expression Helen remem¬ the suffering of the last ten years, suf¬
bered from their weekly meetings in fering he thought he’d caused by his
Sister Rachel’s tidy office. As if the past work. By revealing truth.” She caressed
years hadn’t happened. the man’s head, gently, softly. “Poor,
“I remember you saying once it was poor fool. As if truth were the cause of
most important for each of us to find the world’s problems. But it’s all right
our way to God through science.” now. Soon we will have his new begin¬
Helen stepped back, but kept the pistol ning.”
on Sister Rachel. “How does this help The light behind the glass flickered.
anyone to God, Sister? How?” Helen’s A distant humming began to resonate
voice quivered despite her effort to in Helen’s ears, just on the edge of hear¬
keep it level. ing. It shook her teeth, and rivulets of
Helen had killed to get into this dust floated down from the ceiling.
building. Her pack and others had New queries erupted from her pack, the
fought their way through the thousands machines flashing questions to the back
who thought Wajkowski was right, that of her mind: Electromagnetic anomaly,
the world needed to change, that his¬ level three, investigate?
tory could be made better than it had Yes, she ordered two of them. They
112 POSTSCRIPTS

plucked their way through the debris to layer. He pinched off a fragment and
the back of the room and started work¬ inspected it, then unslung his rock ham¬
ing on the door in the rear of the lab. mer and began tapping. His lank frame
Steel, by the look, reinforced; it would swung the hammer with precision,
take a while. knocking away a big chunk.
Helen knelt, placed one gauntleted John Edmonstone watched him.
hand on Sister Rachel’s arm, tilted up “There will be war here, Charles. And
her head with the other, and looked in our lifetimes. You should leave. Eng¬
down into those eyes, those sad wise land expelled your grandparents, not
eyes. The chromoplast of Helen’s you.”
armor reflected back in them. “I need to “Sins of the father, you know.” Dar¬
know what’s happening here. I need you win picked up the rock. He licked a
to tell me. Did he succeed? Did he cre¬ finger and rubbed at the stone, then put
ate a paratemporal rift?” it back. “Or grandfather in this case.”
Sister Rachel nodded. She gestured He shook his head slightly, not in the
to the back of the room, the red flicker¬ least perturbed that his family had long
ing light, dim for the moment. “A bub¬ ago been exiled from England on
ble of dreams. Or, more accurately, a charges of sedition. Darwin poked at
cross-section of the woven threads of the dirt. “This outcrop brings to mind
timelines, as deep as we could cut. Even Lyell.”
now our thread intertwines with others, John frowned. Not as tall as Darwin,
but not for much longer. Soon it will and his dark skin a contrast to Darwin’s
merge with the one he chose. We will ruddy color. “You want to talk about
change. Our reality gone, supplanted English geologists? The Boers—”
by what he wove here. Many pasts, Darwin waved off his friend’s words
you’ve no idea how hard he worked to and kept looking at the rock. “You’re in
find the right one. And still he failed. as much danger as I am. Why don’t you
None he could use.” She laughed and a leave?”
red bubble escaped her bps and rolled John frowned a long moment while
down her chin. “Only what God pro¬ Darwin continued working on the rock.
vided.” Then John smiled. “It’s your fault, you
Beyond the glass, a red light pulsed, know.”
and flared. “Oh no,” Darwin said, looking up
finally and meeting John’s eyes. He

B eneath the clear bright skies above

the Karoo Desert, the colors stood
chuckled softly. “You’re the one who
brought those rocks and samples from
South America. Don’t think to blame
out clearly: a layer of darker greenish this on me. I cannot help that you de¬
stone atop ochre stone near the ridge cided to take this poor English boy in as
peak. Charles Darwin knelt at the green a friend. Or that I saw the resemblance
NATURAL SELECTION 113
to these rocks in Africa, or that you down. “There can only be what God
chose to work with me or” provided.”
“Or that you’d find these fossils.” A line of pain traced itself in Helen’s
“Yes.” Darwin gaze wandered back skull. Near the door where they’d been
to the rocks. “These fossils.” Beneath working, two of her pack went down,
the stones where he’d been tapping, a twitching. She felt the others quiver at
face peered out: a monstrous skull with their positions on the floor, the three
curving teeth, something from a night¬ nearest the window and its flickering
mare. light stumbling. Spiders plucked at the
“Charles!” John grabbed for his rifle, insides of her skull and she grasped her
slid back and overbalanced. The rifle helmet tight in her gauntlets. A cry
fell clattering down the slope. John rushed out of her.
scrambled for a handhold. Darwin’s Sister Rachel’s hand touched her
arm snapped out to pull him back. John shoulder. “You should leave.” She
breathed heavily for some seconds, then coughed wetly. “The distortion will af¬
cast a rueful glance downslope to what fect your electronics, your implants.”
he suspected would be a ruined rifle. He Helen shook her head. “Have to
recovered himself and frowned at the stop whatever he started.” She cast a
skull. “What is it?” thought out to find her EM unit,
“I was hoping you could tell me, Sir number eight; like the others, only
Taxidermist. Or perhaps why they do with additional electromagnetic shield¬
not appear beyond this section of stone. ing. Up EM buffers, she told it. Open
Beyond this we find other life, other up that room. Quickly. It acknowledged
creatures.” her order. Metal mesh unfolded around
John shook his head. it, a Faraday cage, and she lost its
Darwin ran callused fingers over the signal as it scuttled off to work on the
skull. “It’s as Lyell said. Only the grad¬ door.
ual change is in life, not simply rocks. Helen tried her squad on the radio
What you see here, John, is a transition again, but whatever was happening
in life forms from a time in the deep here, or maybe just the shielding built
past. We see it here in the Karoo. And into the building, still prevented her
we will see it elsewhere. We will write from contacting the rest of her unit.
of it. And then,” he looked up and She ordered one of her pack out with a
flashed a broad grin at John, “England recorded transcript, and it stumbled
will welcome us both back with open out. None of her pack except Eight
arms.” looked good and she didn’t think the
unit she’d just sent out would make it.
She and the other humans in her squad,
S ister Rachel laughed and a red bub¬
ble escaped her lips and rolled
scientific specialists all, were here to
stop what Wajkowski had started. It
114 POSTSCRIPTS

looked as if she’d have to do that on her emesis's sidewheels churned to a

own. halt, throwing up a fine mist of
“It can’t be stopped,” Sister Rachel mingled salt and water that, for a mo¬
said, as if reading Helen’s mind, and her ment, replaced the stinging scent of
voice held kindness, concern, love. burnt powder. Darwin watched the
Helen looked back to Sister Rachel. ship’s wake racing off toward the
She wished she could trust that voice. doomed Chinese ships attempting to
But the woman behind it had trusted close to where Nemesis had settled off
this man, the man who wanted to the coast by Ningpo. Long and low, the
change the world. To destroy this world British ironclad contrasted with the
because he thought he could make a bowed hulls and angular bamboo sails
better one. “How? How did he want to of the Chinese junks. Nemesis's cannons
make it better? I understand the theory, roared again and another junk splin¬
but I need to stop what’s in there.” tered apart, boards and bodies mingled
Eight unfolded a tiny circular saw in disturbed water.
and started cutting off the door’s “Not much of a fight, hey Doctor?”
hinges. Darwin glanced over at William
The shriek of the saw almost Hutcheon Hall, master of the ship.
drowned out Sister Rachel’s voice. “No, Captain Hall, I suppose not.” He
“Darwin ... Wajkowski wanted to looked back at the Chinese ships. Their
make it so there would be no Charles unfurled sails had caught enough wind
Darwin, no Origin of the Species. To to drive them toward the steamship, but
cross our timeline with another, and re¬ they would never reach it. The clang
move his work. Wajkowski thought and calls of the cannon crews moved in
Darwin had generated a rift between their stately pace and another salvo
science and religion. That the rift had flew.
given us the wars of the last ten years. Hall beside him watched carefully,
But he forgot one thing.” nodded. Another junk shattered apart.
The door’s bottom hinge snapped off “I’ve studied ships all my life, Doctor.
and Eight scuttled up the wall and Not so long ago those boats might have
started working on the top. had a chance. Not much, but a chance.
From the other room, a hissing Our hulls were wood, not so different
buzzing noise rose in pitch. The bubble from those curious curved hulls of
beyond the glass blossomed and grew, theirs. We had cannons, but our accu¬
pulsing out, mingling rose and crimson, racy was no good until close range.
nearly touching the glass. Translucent, Now?” He slapped the railing. “These
it hung suspended, its surface swirling ironclads, Darwin. They’ll rule the seas.
with threads of color. It flared. Those poor fools out there are dead,
and don’t even know it.”
“Passe.”
NATURAL SELECTION 115
The next salvo glanced a Chinese (file wanted to cross our timeline
junk. The back section of the ship came I with another,” Sister Rachel said.
away in a splatter of boards and some “Remove Darwin’s influence. Keep a
few crew. Hall and Darwin watched the rift from forming between science and
Chinese troops scramble into launches, religion. But he forgot one thing.”
attempting to abandon ship as the ves¬ Helen’s vision, transmitted by her
sel tilted aft, filling with water, easing armor’s systems, flared brighter,
into the waves. brighter, to a burning white brilliance.
Hall said, “At least for a while.” She closed her eyes. Static washed over
Darwin pulled himself from watch¬ her in a wave. Her pack died, all except
ing the men struggling in the water. It Eight in its Faraday cage. Her implants
hardly seemed like war. “At least for a died with them, lightning splintering in
while what?” her skull, and then a black emptiness
Hall shook his head. “Sorry. Just where their voices had been. She crum¬
thinking. Those ships of theirs, not so pled to the floor and cried. Vision and
different from what we used to use, sound went dark.
once upon a time. These ironclads, She disconnected the helmet, fum¬
now, though.” Hall turned to call out bled it off. She breathed the dusty air
an order and the boilers fired up again, and sneezed.
then he returned his attention to Dar¬ “God bless you,” Sister Rachel said.
win. “These ironclads will rule the seas Helen looked up at her, at Eight
for a while, it’s true. But one day some¬ working on the top hinge, back to
one will come up with something new, Sister Rachel. “Forgot what?” she
something better. Like all things.” Hall growled.
straightened. “Looks as if they’re going Sister Rachel stroked Wajkowski’s
to run.” He strode back to the wheel- head. “God’s plan.”
house, but stopped to call back, “At least God’s plan. The words used to de¬
it’s a quiet day for you, hey, Doctor?” scribe what all the world had seen in the
“Yes,” Darwin said. A quiet day. wake of this man Wajkowski’s discov¬
The smaller Chinese ships slowly, ery: timeline after timeline, history
too slowly, swung about. On Hall’s after history, and, in each, Jesus. The
command, the sidewheels churned details varied, sometimes born in
again. There would be no escape for the China, or Mesoamerica, or Europe, or
emperor’s troops on this day. Their Africa, but in every history, every time¬
time had come, and passed, and soon line across innumerable timelines,
Nemesis and ships like her would replace Jesus. A plan. God’s plan.
them. For a time. Or so half the world had thought.
“Like all things,” Darwin said. The other half argued it to be an obser¬
vational artifact, an inability of the
equipment to detect more disparate
116 POSTSCRIPTS

timelines. They had seen that before, thought to remove Darwin. He thought
with Mohammed, before more power¬ he could. But in every history, every
ful equipment had drilled through ob¬ path, he found it to be the same. In
servation of that historical figure to every history he found Darwin.”
other paratimes. Eight cut through the top hinge and
And so research continued, and Jesus the metal clanked to the floor. The ma¬
continued to be found, no matter what chine swung the door back and it fell
else varied. Wajkowski had funded this with a loud bang. Eight minced down
lab complex, fueled by twelve fusion the wall and entered the room beyond
lamps to drill deeper across paratime, to where the red bubble swirled and
dispel the hypothesis. And the wars pulsed.
brewed outside, riots boiled in cities. Helen tried her suit radio again. Still
Countries rose and died, and ther¬ dead, all her systems dead. “I have to do
monuclear clouds rose over the Middle something.” She checked her pistol,
East. Wajkowski worked on through it then thought better of it; the electron¬
all on a hypothesis that refused to die. ics were fried anyway. She tucked it
Until he’d decided it to be true. But that back into its holster, rose and stepped
he could still make the world better. toward the light.
Helen looked to the back of the “We all want to,” Sister Rachel said.
room where red light flickered beyond “And we all do.”
the tinted glass. “I don’t understand.” Beyond the doorway, the glowing
Sister Rachel closed her eyes a mo¬ bubble churned, fluidic shades of col¬
ment, and her voice held the weariness ored threads that moved and swirled
of long years of fruitless argument. against each other and made the whole
“Neither did he. He thought Darwin appear red. Eight tried to close with the
was the focal point, that Darwin’s work bubble, but the machine’s movements
led to the rift between science and reli¬ became jerky. Its legs collapsed and
gion that made the last ten years so waved helplessly, scraping along the
hard. And he was right.” She smiled. floor.
“Sister, I didn’t buy that predestina¬ Helen swallowed. She thought of the
tion crap in college, and I don’t buy it last ten years. She thought of the blood
now. If it were true, there would be no she’d spilled. She would end this, how¬
paratime. No alternate reality. “ ever she could. She stepped closer.
Sister Rachel coughed and spat out At her feet now, Eight gave a final
blood. “Many roads lead to the city, twitch and died, its Faraday cage wilt¬
Helen.” ing. Helen continued on. At her ap¬
Helen looked away. She glanced at proach the threads across the bubble’s
the dead helmet still in her hand and surface excited, and the bubble grew.
tossed it aside. She reached out. Woman and bubble
Sister Rachel shook her head. “He touched, and the bubble burst.
NATURAL SELECTION 117
D arwin watched as the Russian
troops moved into Warsaw and
wandered, and wide mounds of soil dot¬
ted the meadow. A large ground squir¬
Darwin held his wife’s cooling body rel with a white-tipped tail emerged
and from one and beeped at him. Then it
Darwin sealed the incision and beeped again. Gradually, other squirrels
Darwin lived and emerged. They made their way into the
Darwin died and grasses, grasping them and eating them
from the tip down.

T he rifle roared in his hands, the ball

out from the smoothbore smacking
He’d seen animals such as these be¬
fore, many times, since they’d left
Texas: prairie dogs. The ones on the
the grizzly in the neck with a thump. plains lived in larger groups, and had
The creature continued forward, its black tails. He’d seen others here along
bellow mingling with a throaty gurgle. these foothills of the Rocky Mountains,
Darwin flung the rifle down, stepped slightly different from these.
behind a thick Ponderosa pine and “Different.” His eyes roved over the
pulled out pistol and knife. He cocked low hills and mountains rising further
the pistol back as the beast hurled itself west, then settled again on the little an¬
forward. He fired again, the ball taking imals. A golden eagle topped the ridge,
the bear in the skull with a loud pock and a sharp cry called out from one of
sound. It staggered and took a swipe at the animals perched atop a mound. The
him with one great paw. The blow tore animals scurried for their burrows.
through his clothes and tossed him Darwin sought back in his memory the
down the slope. cries of such animals in Texas.
Darwin rolled to a stop against a He said the word again: “Different.”
shale outcrop, shattering a chunk of lay¬ But now an idea moved in the back of
ered rock with his head. Bits of stone his mind. A new idea, it energized him,
stabbed his skull and slithered into his drove him to move, in spite of the pain.
shirt. He blinked dumbly, peering ups- Somewhere in his backpack, still up
lope. The bear lay there, dead, head the slope, he kept a notebook. It took a
lolled to one side with a fat hole where half hour to crawl up, but by the time
the ball had bored through. He Thomas Jefferson Farnham and the
slumped back and looked down at his others found him, Darwin had taken
leg, the remaining cloth wet with blood. many notes. He had an idea which, if
His hands shook. Somehow he still had borne out, could change the world.
his knife. He cut at his clothes, making
bandages, but kept dropping the blade.
He lay there a while, perched against Illl/e all want to,” Sister Rachel said,
the shale outcrop. Just down the slope, ¥ w still back in the other room.
in the grassy base of the valley, a brook “And we all do.”
118 POSTSCRIPTS

Helen stood in the room beyond the wars still raged, and she stood there not
glass, hand upraised as if to touch some¬ knowing what to do. The past had just
thing. She lowered it. changed, the world and the universe if
No trace of the anomaly remained, theory held, but she could not know it.
just a tangle of wires and machinery She could not change any of what had
which converged on a spherical cavity. happened.
Eight lay dead at her feet, apparently “And what now? The future?”
intact but inert. “What happened?” She Sister Rachel coughed, winced,
walked back to Sister Rachel and re¬ closed her eyes and opened them to
peated the question. look at Helen. “Pray with me.”
“It’s done,” Sister Rachel said. Helen stepped closer. She knelt be¬
Helen felt no different. Her mission side her. Sister Rachel’s hand touched
still hung in her mind. The building hers. Helen lifted Wajkowski and said,
still shook, the campus still burned, “Follow me.” K

New! PS Showcase #1
PS SHOWCASE #1: Psychological horror from Gary Fry
GARY FRY
C ary Fry's work has always focused on the thing we think
we know best, yet may know least of all: the meandering,
labyrinthine mind.
In these six cerebral excursions, everyday life is exposed for
the realm of illusions it almost certainly is. Almost. After all, how
can we be sure? How can we truly know when the world is more
or less than what our psyches make of it? Perhaps other people
tell us. Yes, it’s them out there, trying to get in here. Keep them
out at all costs! Do anything to prevent madness...
SANITY AND OTHER
DELUSIONS
INTRODUCTION BY STEPHEN VOLK
"... nasty enough to make Roald Dahl at his most unex¬
pected blanch." —Peter Tennant
Hal Duncan tells us, “With a lot ofpirate-oriented projects in the air, I was casting around for
an idea when I came across a little-known fact—that pirates had what was essentially gay mar¬
riage in the practice of ‘matelotage’, a union of lovers complete with property inheritance. I’d
also always wanted to write a story based on The Tempest, looking at what Ariel gets up to
after Prospero pisses off. The two ideas came together in “The Island of the Pirate Gods", a
bawdy romp that I had a lot of fun writing.
Hal was bom in 1971 and lives in the West End of Glasgow. A long-standing member of the
Glasgow SF Writers Circle, his first novel, Vellum, was nominated for the Crawford Award,
the British Fantasy Society Award and the World Fantasy Award. The sequel, Ink, is available
from Pan Macmillan in the UK and Del Rey in the US, while a novella is due out in Novem¬
ber 2001from MonkeyBrain Books. He has also published a poetry collection, Sonnets for Or¬
pheus, and had short fiction published in magazines such as Fantasy, Strange Horizons and
Interzone, and anthologies such as Nova Scotia, Eidolon and Logorrhea.

Hie Island Of
The Pirate Gods
Hal Duncan
Tempests and Teacups and Mutiny, it’s the sentiment that mat¬

B lack leather boots a-smoke

with powder-burns from the
ters, not the subtlety; and bless them if
they don’t look out for their beloved
son.
big gun of my beloved Pride of
Kentigem, I hurtle through the rain, a
human cannonball, balloon-sleeves of
my pink silk shirt frilling in the wind as,
A s I reach the zenith of my trajec¬
tory, I straighten out face-forward,
arms a-flap like a panicked duck, I do find myself in an arc that should take
my best to come out of the head-over¬ me nicely past the Determinations fore¬
heels tumble, screaming a prayer out to mast and towards the rather softer tar¬
the pirate gods in the hope that I won’t get of the main topgallant. Or at least
hit the foremast of the Determination towards where the main topgallant
with a head only as thick as iron in the would be if the bloody bastards weren’t
sense of witlessness and obstinacy. furling it for the storm.
—Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!, I scream. My prayer becomes a chant as I hur¬
It’s not a prayer as any man of the tle through the air.
cloth would be proud of, I grant you, —Fuck fuck fuckety fuck fuck fuck-
but to my renegade deities, Matelotage ety fu¬

ll 9
120 POSTSCRIPTS

Que? Sat on the railing of the crow’s hauling sailors to their feet, hacking
nest, I notice, dangling his legs as casual ropes, pointing this way and that. He
as can be, a peachy young lad in stripy stops suddenly, looks up directly at
top and knee-length breeches is stirring me, pulling off his black leather tricorn
the contents of a china tea-cup with one and shaking rain from his eyes and
finger. I could swear the saucy bugger his dreadlocks. Gaze as black as his
winks at me, before I blink and he’s skin and his skirted coat, even from
gone. here I can see the hatred in his dead¬
lights.
—It was only meant to be a warning
A n almighty crack of lightning
shatters my curiosity as it shatters
shot, I shout.
There’s fury on his face as he pulls his
the air, forks blasting all three masts flintlock out, tries to hold aim on me
of the ship simultaneously, shattering against the yaw and pitch of his ship.
the mainmast and bringing the tip of Bollocks. And I can’t even reach me
it down in a mess of splintering timber, own twin pistols, caught in the rigging
burning canvas and whiplashing ropes. as I am like Saint Ahab on the whale.
My trajectory suddenly acquires a lat¬ The boat lurches wildly to starboard
eral dimension as the twisting topple and I hear the whine of his shot; then
of mast and rigging nabs me neat as we lurch to port, and Black Joey reels,
a ball in a lacrosse racket. I catch turns to curse the pilot.
glimpses as I swing down, sailors on —Hold her steady, you scabrous ...
deck, waves crashing over the port side, what the ... ?
jibs flapping loose from the foremast Up on the poop deck, the saucy
where the Pride of Kentigem‘s cannon sprite from the crow’s nest is whirling
have blown the bowsprit to bits. Serves the wheel this way and that with gay
you sodding right, I think, as the arc of abandon. Actually, it’s the fact that he’s
the tangle brings me round, upside- doing so with his monkey-tail that’s
down and facing back the way I came at truly queer. Again, though, there’s not
the burning wreck of my beautiful brig, much time for curiosity as the boat jolts
almost swallowed now by the tempestu¬ hard as a horse-hoof in the head.
ous ocean. There’s a scream of splintering wood—
They sank my favourite ship, the a reef, I reckon—and then a lightning
bastards. crack hits what’s left of the mainmast,
%

courses down to the deck (tingling my

tongue with a nutty taste), and sends a
—One little cannonball, I yell down searching spear right down into the
my outrage as more ropes give and I hold. Big hairy bollocks, I think, as the
swing back over the deck, where Black powder magazine of the Determination
Joey staggers through the carnage, blows the whole ship apart.
THE ISLAND OF THE PIRATE GODS 121

Articles & Arcana my own sounds for the pretty symbols.

I mean, “Q”, for instance—that’s the
—What does the Book say? whispers drooly gurgle of a mouth open, tongue
Twinklenose. out to one side, right?. “D” is a yawn.
—Is these betrayers? hisses Dust- “Y” is the hiss of a snake’s tongue flick¬
bunny. ing. It’s obvious. Not that His Nibs ever
—Perfidious brothers? glitters saw it that way.
Tiffin. —My tricksy sprite, thine ear shall
—Pompous dukes? whooshes But- cuffed be, he’d say, if thou dost not at¬
tersick. tention pay to me.
—Misguided kings? thumps Tatters. —”P”, I’d say in response, “P” being
—We haven’t done a king in ages! a big fat raspberry blown with a sullen
—Or a duke. glare.
—Feh! Dukes are duuuuullllllll. So what with the water-damage and
—I like dukes. They get really cross my literacy issues, the Book’s oracular
when you- powers aren’t always much cop. But the
—Hush up! I say. I’m trying to read. others do expect.
The other sprites continue with their —It says they’re mortal enemies, I
chitter of chat, so I roar—fierce as a proclaim highly, damned by Davyjones
lion, if I do say so myself—shaking the to hunt each other across the high seas
leaves and fronds of the trees, and send¬ until the end of time!
ing the pesterers skitter-scatter off Which gets a few appreciative
through the branches. Hunkered on my ooooohs.
perch, looking down on the bedraggled
pair unconscious on the beach below,
their hands still wrapped around each
others’ throats, I empty my teacup with
T he pink-faced one with the yellow
hair and the human cannonball act
a slurp, note the arrowed heart-shape in groans and stirs, so I tuck the Book
the leaves before I toss the teacup over under my arm, pick a coconut—not too
my shoulder for Dustbunny to catch, big—and drop it on his head. Can’t
and turn back to the Book. have him waking up and wandering off
when we haven’t even started to plan his
Redemption.
N ot that the Book is much use, most
of the pages being stuck together or
It’s been a while since we had a good
Redemption, you know. Since His Nibs
rotted to unreadability by its time how¬ buggered off back to Italy, all we’ve had
ever many fathoms deep. And I was is a couple of dukes, the odd king and a
never much of a one for letters anyway, whole bunch of merchants. Do you
in truth. No matter how hard His Nibs know how hard it is to Redeem a mer¬
tried to teach me, I’d rather make up chant? Wreck their ship and they’re
122 POSTSCRIPTS

more worried about their precious car¬ brows till it resolves into a series of
goes than getting home. Offer them a yawns, raspberries, squeaks and giggles
banquet and they complain about the and whatnot. As I read it out, translat¬
vintage of the wine. Give them the ing into human-talk in my head, my
harpy act and they want to catch you, audience nods vigorously... where
cage you, take you home to impress the they’re not picking their noses, scratch¬
hoity-toity. Show them cloud-capped ing their arses or elbow-fencing.
towers and gorgeous palaces ... all they —It’s a set of rules, I say...
want to know is, how much did the —What are rules? says Mugwump.
builders charge? I tell you, try and make — ... for who gets what when a ship
someone have a change of heart when gets caught, I say. And how hostages are
they don’t have one; it’s not easy. not to be moles ... moles’ teeth.
Still... it gives us something to do. —You mean molested? Buttersick
After the squillionth time you’ve heard says. That would make more sense.
Tiffin murder “Juno Sings Her Bless¬ —They’re by some Greek guy, I
ings On You” in front of an audience of carry on. Artikles.
monkeys, even a tobacco-ship on the —Articles! says Buttersick. They’re
horizon is a blessing. pirates.
All heads turn to the unconscious
pair below. The black-skinned one is
—I found something! I found some¬ stirring now—he sees the other and
thing! gives a growl—so I pinch Buttersick’s
Buttersick bounces through the toes and redirect him with a little shove
canopy towards me in a series of tum¬ as he falls past, to land square on the
bles and flutters somewhere between a man’s head, noggin to noggin.
squirrel and a butterfly, catching —Smart-arse, I say.
branches with his tail, catching air with Then I pull the Book out from under
his wings. He lands on a branch just my arm and open it at P for Pirate. Or
over my head and rolls down to hang P for Plan. Or P for Prospero-went-
like a bat by his feet, gloating imp-grin away-and-left-us-here-and-it-seemed-
in my face. He flaps a scrap of parch¬ great-at-the-time-but-now-there’s-fuc
ment in one hand, rather raggedy-look¬ k-all-to-do-on-this-island-and-I’m-
ing to my mind, babbling about how he booooooored. Anyhoo ...
found it on the beach amongst the drift¬ J...K...L...M...
wood and the drownded, and what does it Aha!
say, what does it say ? The others flip and
flit nearer until I’m surrounded by a
Matelotage & Mutiny (Part I)
score of popping eyes and perky ears.
I take the parchment from Buttersick —Arrrr, says he, fixing me with his
and turn it a few times, furrowing my deadlights. The story of Matelotage
THE ISLAND OF THE PIRATE GODS 123

and Mutiny is it yer after? The story of —Only this was the Royal Navy, he
the Pirate Gods? says, savvy, and the British they don’t
He leans in close, breath stinking of smile upon two sailors getting too ...
rum and rot, grins at my keen nod. familiar, like. Oh, sure, it happens like
—See now, he says, they was mortals as not, now and then, on those long
once, lovers, so the story goes, two en¬ voyages where the only female com¬
signs on a merchant ship of His pany is the sea, the ship, and the Cap¬
Majesty’s Royal Navy, who swore an tain’s Daughter. But it’s not approved
oath to be together forever. Loved each of, officially.
other so much, they did, they shared I nod, knowing that form of unfra-
their rum rations, their goods, the very ternal officialdom all too well, and the
shirts on their backs, even put their Captain’s Daughter’s too. She’s the only
wages together and bought themselves girl I ever got truly intimate with, mate,
a pair of flintlocks, one for each of them and I can’t say we was suited. But I try
and each engraved with his lover’s not to dwell on her not-so-delicate
name, worn loaded tucked into the belt touch.
at the front where it isn’t smart-like, —Now the rest of the crew, he says,
savvy? On account of the potential for as they came to see how these two were
accidents. sweethearts, they just said: well, each to
their own, matey. And doesn’t it sort of
warm yer cockles, anyways? Aren’t
I glance down at the twin-flintlocks
tucked into me own belt. He has a
these lads just like two pieces of rope
tied together, a little work of matelo-
point, I’m sure, but then “potential for tage made by an idle sailor to pass the
accidents” is on me calling card, time at sea? And what’s the harm in
right under “Flash Jack Carter, Free¬ that? So after a whiles it came to be that
lance Privateer”. He winks and carries others on board found themselves ...
on: inspired ... thinking similar thoughts
—If I ever as much as look at another, about a mate of theirs, and blimey if
says one—he says, waving a hand—man they didn’t decide they wanted to tie the
or woman, let me balls be blown off. And, knot too, so to speak. Which is how, of
why sure, if that ever happens, says the course, the marriage of man and man
other, I’ll be doing the same, cause if my came to be known as matelotage, and a
balls don't keep ye faithful, they're no use to grand tradition it is too.
me anyways.
He slugs back some grog, points the
tankard at me. —But the captain of that ship, he was a
—They laughed about it, he says, oh cruel man with a leathery Bible in place
yes, but they meant it true as the North of his heart, and when he got wind of
Star, mind. They meant it. this queer love aboard his ship, well,
124 POSTSCRIPTS

one day he bursts in on our lusty lads —But there’s no words between the
and interruptus their coitus, he does. lines. If there were words between the
They try to explain theirselves, to say lines, then they’d actually be lines,
that they’re bound together in true love wouldn’t they?
but, O, he just glowers dark as the deep —You’re not looking closely enough.
at them. If that's the way ye want it, says See here? No, right here.
he, well, so be it. —I still don’t see—ow!
I lean forward in my chair till the pis¬
tols press into me waist, keen as a cock
in a Tortuga brothel. —Right then. Since they’re lovers we
—So he has the lads trussed up to¬ have to separate them. We have to give
gether—still naked, by the by—and them Trials and Tribulations, a Terrible
keelhauled, dragged under the ship’s Ordeal and a Tearful Reunion and—
hull, to have their skin ripped to rib¬ —And a pageant at the end?
bons by the barnacles. —Ooh, yes, let’s have a pageant!
The old salt slugs back more rum, —We could all dress up as goddesses,
lays down the tankard. and sing blessings on them!
—And that should be where the story —Bounteous blessings!
ends, he says, by all that’s righteous and —I could be Juno. I do an excellent
decent and godfearing. But ’tis not. For if Juno.
’twas, why then, ’twould be the story of —An excrement Juno, more like.
Matelotage and Murder, not the story —His Nibs used to like it.
of Matelotage and Mutiny. —His Nibs was tone-deaf. He...

—What?
Plots & Pageants

—Alright. I was wrong before. They’re

not enemies. They’re lovers, thrown to —As. I. Was. Saying. A Tearful Re¬
the cruel sea by an even crueller cap¬ union and a Happy Ever After.
tain, doomed to- —And a—
—They don’t loooook like lovers. —/And maybe a pageant. But first we
—They’re in a loving embrace. have to separate them. Twinklenose,
—Looks more like they’re trying to Buttersick, Handshandy, you take the
strangle each- one with the hat up to Pointy Point and
—The Book says they’re lovers, so do the old twiddly flute music in the
that’s what they are. woods thing, lead him back down here
—But does it actually say they’re via the bears.
lovers? —Won’t that be a bit... dangerous?
—Well, not literally. But you have to —It’s not a Tribulation if it’s not
read between the lines. dangerous.
THE ISLAND OF THE PIRATE GODS 125

—But what if one of the bears tries to rusde of brush that brings him bolt up¬
eat us? right and looking over his shoulder,
—The bears won’t try to eat you. hand reaching for his sword as he
—They ate Honeyarse. scrambles to his feet. But the under¬
—He shouldn’t have mooned them. brush of the treeline settles and, peer as
he might, he can see no shapes shift in
the shadows. Curious.
—Mugwump, Tatters, you go set out a
banquet in the Otherwise-Boring
Clearing. Suckling pig, roast chicken,
fruit-baskets, lots of grog, the usual.
H e scans the full length of the trees
that edge the clearing, north to
—Should I make little swans from south, turns to take the full compass-
the napkins? spin of his surroundings—and steps
—Let’s not. I nearly lost my tail last back in vertiginous alarm. He recovers
time. his composure, shuffles forward for a
—But swans are pretty. tentative glance over the edge. Some¬
—Geese with grandiose delusions, thing queer is afoot. He has vague
they are, and a badger’s temper. memories of a beach, of that cur Carter,
—She was just protecting her but it’s no more than a snatch of a blur;
signets. he can be sure that someone’s playing
—No swan napkins. Right? Good, games with him, though.
go on, then. Scoot. A man doesn’t get washed ashore on
—Ariel? the edge of a cliff with a hundred foot
—What? drop down to the sea, no matter how
—Are you sure they’re lovers, thrown high the bloody tempest’s waves.
to the cruel sea by an even crueller cap¬
tain? The black one seemed awful angry
at the other.
—Well, maybe they had a tiff.
H e crouches down to pick up his tri¬
corn hat from the grass. His sword
still in its scabbard, his frockcoat still on
his back, boots on his feet, his hat left at
Deadlights & Dreadlocks
his side, he finds it hard to fathom the
Black Joey opens his eyes to find him¬ purpose of whoever brought him here,
self staring up at the blue sky and the but Black Joey’s not one to worry over
noon-day sun, with solid ground under such trifles. He has his own purpose to
his back and soft grass between his worry about, and the stories of this isle
fingers. Gulls wheel overhead, but the involve all manner of strangeness any¬
sound of the ocean is too distant, quiet way: some say it gives you all you desire,
enough he could swear he hears whis¬ others that it gives you all you fear;
pers and hisses over it—then a sudden some say it’s an island of savage demons,
126 POSTSCRIPTS

others that it’s an island of innocent Gunpowder and Grog

spirits. These are the tales of white
men, of course, Christians and cowards. —Cry, Haul! Aye! A-diddle-aye-dee!
Black Joey’s all too familiar with the The map is dried out nicely now and
fears and desires they project on any¬ it’s not too water-damaged, so I’m in
thing that’s ... other. good spirits as I roll it up and tuck it
back into its case, then crouch to pour
the sea and sand out of me sodden
In the pocket of his frockcoat, Joey
finds the spyglass still intact, puts it to
boots, in time with the dainty lyrics of
me favourite shanty, Matelotage and
his eye and scours the forest as it rolls Mutiny.
up into the hills, looking for some sign —But a cold and angry captain with
of the object of his quest. He almost a Bible for his heart, Cry, Haul! Aye! A-
misses the crumbling dome—the over¬ diddle-ay e-dee!
grown remnants of what looks a little I wring me pink silk shirt out and flap
like a Spanish Colonial church but it a few times at arms length, hook it on
more fussy, more decorative—but al¬ a twig.
most is the watchword; his deadlights —Knew naught of what his crewmen
keen as a crow’s in the nest, he spots it did beneath the shining stars. Cry, Haul!
even with the stone nigh drowned in Aye! A-diddle-aye-dee!
vines. Looks derelict. That’s a litde dis¬ Breeches draped delicately over a
concerting, true, but perhaps the new branch.
master of the island has less taste for —Until one night, he saw a sight that
pompous grandeur. By all accounts, the stripped his anger bare. Cry, Haul! Aye!
Good King of this isle is a much simpler A-diddle-aye-dee!
soul than its previous sovereign. So I shake like a dog in me scarlet dou¬
with only a little grin of grim satisfac¬ blet, still damp as all else and hardly
tion, and a shake of his dreadlocks be¬ what a parson would consider modest,
fore he sets the tricorn on his head, considering it’s the only thing I’m wear¬
Black Joey sets out through the jungle ing now—but then modesty never was
towards Prospero’s Cell, towards a me strong point, in any sense of the
treasure more precious than anything word.
that scurvy dog, Flash Jack, can dream —’Twas Tom with Jack upon his
of, wherever he may be, aye, even now, back, his legs up in the air!
no doubt, fixing his eyes on the same I take a pinch of snuff from where
sight but with the glint of gold or glory the pouch lies open beside the fire,
blinding them, as dedicated to his greed wrinkle me nose with the peppery
as Joey is to his own goal: freedom. sting.
128 POSTSCRIPTS

—Cry, Haul7 sings a choir-boy chorus. I bend down to pick up the pistol
Aye! A-tiddle-ee-ay e-tee-tee! where the misfire made me drop it,
—It’s diddle-aye-dee, I call, ye muttering to meself about a dark, dark
scurvy—then do a double-take on the fate awaiting Gibson the Gunsmith
treetops where the voice came from. when next I berth in Tortuga.
And sneeze. —... and a pox ... with pustules ...
—Bless you, the voice calls down, and a red-hot poker for his ...
sing-song and sweet like. The toot of the flute sounds a little
I dive and roll for me pistols, come ways back in the trees, followed by
out on one knee, both flintlocks pointed more laughter, and I gather meself with
at the source. Seems a polite enough a scowl and a growl. Right then, ye bug¬
sprite, but I’ve heard tell of the terrors ger, I think. I’ll not be made a fool of by
of the Island of the Pirate Gods, and some tree-hopping powder monkey as
I’m not keen to be coming back from dresses like a whoring parrot. Still hun¬
here like Barbary Bill Burroughs ... Fa¬ kered down, I reload old Mutiny, and
ther William as he is now. Not bloody slink forward into the trees, deadlights
likely, mate. I’ll be redeemed by the scouring the thickage for this tricksy
rope and naught else, thank ’ee kindly. taunter, following the song as it retreats
—Now who in the buggery was that? into the forest until... by the pirate
I say. Friend or foe? gods, but I find meself in a clearing
There’s a rustle in the branches, a amidst the strangest sight.
glimpse of glittering feathers blue- A feast fit for a score of kings in prac¬
green as a peacock’s tail. A flutish sound tice for the Most Corpulent King Con¬
twiddles off to the left and I spin—a test lies laid out on a banquet table afore
glint of giggling grin and eyes—pull the me, chicken and pork and beef and
trigger. Click. Arse and bollocks, I think, lamb and—
and start fanning the gun-barrel with —Grog! I say.
the tail of me doublet... like that’ll dry I slap the pistols down on the table.
the damp powder sure as hanging. The —I think I’ve come to re-assess our
voice sings from the right now. relationship, I call out to my peachy
—Thy lover lies drowned on the wa- pest. ’Tis clear yer a ... well... a thing
tr’y rock. No more, no more, shall he of good heart and grand hospitality.
kiss thy— I salute the canopy with a pork chop.
BOOM!

N
%

ow they say the dreaded Blackbeard

—Bloody sodding buggering sodden ties fuses in his hair. Well, by the
powder-purse, I curse, flapping my fiery shock on me noggin, there’s those
burnt hand. 'Tis watertight, says he. as say I am a fuse, and a lit one at that.
Guaranteed to six fathoms deep. My arse! They call me the Scarlet Buccaneer, the
THE ISLAND OF THE PIRATE GODS 129
Peach Mutineer, the Pink Privateer. By long and the short of it is that one of the
the pirate gods, Pm Flash Jack Carter, lads died that day and the other one
the original gay blade, and there’s noth¬ lived, but no-one could tell which was
ing Pm afraid of on land or sea. (Ex¬ which when they brung them back
cepting lemurs, that is—little incident aboard, on account of them both being
in Madagascar, involved a gypsy love- in such a shredded state. And the one
curse and a colony of ring-tails, but what lived, when they asked him what
that’s another story and ye don’t want to his name was, well, he just fixes his
know, mate, trust me.) deadlights on the captain and laughs,
So me point is, when, with me in the tells him how he made a deal with Davy
middle of stuffing me chops with chops, Jones, to swap his own soul for his
the harpy comes a-screeching down out lover’s, dead in the sea where neither
of the thick of the tree-tops, I’ll be in¬ God nor Devil has dominion. The one
sisting as it was entirely intentional, me died in the flesh, ye see, but his soul
falling over backwards, regardless of lived on in the other; and the other—
what anyone says. And there was no well, his flesh survived, but his soul
shrieky-hand-flapping, I tell ye, none. I went down to Davyjones’s Locker, tied
will admit, however, to a little haste in up tight in the corpse of his lover. Truly
grabbing for me pistol, Mutiny, to put a bound they are now, forever, half-living,
shot square in the heart of the feathery half-dead and all mixed up in each
fiend swooping down upon me. I realise other, so as their old names mean
I might not have applied due care and nothing.
attention when, instead of dropping out
of the air with a thud and a twitch, the
bloody thing comes to a dead stop and —Well, the captain he gets a fear in him
gets this queer look on its face as it flaps and decides its best to hang this mad¬
there, just looking me up and down, man, so they hoist our lad from the
long and lingering enough for me to yardarm. Oh, but he doesn’t die, our
scramble to me feet. Then it starts com¬ lad, for his lover’s soul’s bound tighter
ing at me twice as fast. I look at the into his flesh than ever any man’s own
name graved on the grip of the pistol in soul could be; it can never be sundered
me hand. from his flesh. So he just hangs there
—Bollocks, I say. Wrong bloody calling strangled curses down upon the
gun. captain. Day after day, he hangs there,
night after night, and damned if, after
three days of this, the crew didn’t rise
Matelotage & Mutiny (Part II)
up against that captain. For so many of
The old salt shakes his head in that ’tis them by then were matelotaged to each
a terrible tale sorta way. other that there was more salt on that
—’Tis a terrible tale, he says. But the ship shared between the saucy sailors
130 POSTSCRIPTS

than there is in the sea herself. A ship of —If it's names ye want, says he, ye can
love it was—a ship of fools, you might tell Davy Jones that it's the murder of my
say—but either way it was a ship of lusty sweet Matelotage ye're paying for, and that
seamen that would brook no more of the man who sent ye to him goes now by the
such brutality. So in the dead of night, name of Mutiny.
the jack tars gathered and they cut our
lad down from his rope. They gave him
his flintlock and that of his lover, the
twin flintlocks that they’d had each I I e leans back in his chair.
other’s name engraved on. —That be the story of the Pirate
—We'll follow you where'er ye lead, Gods, the story of Matelotage and
they says to him, for 'tis love we'll fight for Mutiny, aye, the Pirate God of Love
from now on, not God or King. and the Pirate God of Death. There be
more to it than that—there be the tale
of Mutiny’s long search for his lost
—Then, with one pistol in his left hand love, of Matelotage’s adventures in
and one pistol in his right, he leads Hell, of how they came to be together
them down to the captain’s quarters, again, raised the wreck of the Argo, and
and he kicks the door right open. The gathered a crew of all the heathen
captain, he can’t believe it. What's this? deities of yore—but that’s for another
says he. O, but looking into our lad’s night, me matey. What I’ll leave ye with
eyes, he finds no answer but lost love is this: From that day hence those pis¬
and a thirst for revenge. He begs for his tols have turned up in many hands, for
life as they drag him up to walk the there’s many who have given them¬
plank. He begs for mercy, crying out in selves over to Matelotage and Mutiny,
the names of those two lads so terribly to be their mortal champion. They say
punished. But those names hold no that nothing can stand against such a
sway no more, so our man just pushes man, for the one gun—that marked
him out onto the plank. Mutiny—deals instant death, but the
—We're neither of us those lads, says he. other—the one marked Matelotage—
Not any longer. If ye want to call us some¬ deals instant love, like the very darts of
thing, says he, if ye want to know whose Eros. And who, I ask ye, who can stand
death you're dying for and who it is that up to love?
brings the vengeance down upon ye ... read He downs his rum and scrapes his
the names of us on these flintlocks. chair back, pulls himself to his feet and
—And as the moonlight glinted on staggers off towards the barkeep, call¬
the pistols in his hand, all those who ing for more grog. I put my tankard
were close enough to see, they saw that down on the table and reach for the
even the very names inscribed upon the smooth cold handles of the twin flint¬
pistols had changed. locks tucked into my buckler, finger the
THE ISLAND OF THE PIRATE GODS 131
gravings on the grips, carved deep as which drape the corpse like royal robes,
the scars on me chest. a pattern of white stars on dark blue still
Maybe one man, I think. vaguely discernable here and there. For
an orb and sceptre of sorts, each claw of
a hand clutches a thick wooden stick,
Slaves & Sanctuaries
three feet long or so and splintered at
The dainty air of the tune has been the top; looking closer, Joey matches
growing more shrill now, more insis¬ the angles, sees that these are two halves
tent, for the last half-hour, following of a broken staff. He walks up to the ca¬
him off to his left like it’s trying to draw daver and gently touches his fingertips
him off his path, but Black Joey ignores to what’s left of the nappy white hair
it and hacks his way on through the fo¬ and the bush of beard which gives this
liage. Every so often the tune stops, re¬ legend of a man dignity even in death.
placed by mutters—I’m doing my bloody He looks down at the shrivelled geni¬
best—well, you try, wormtail—I don ’f care tals, turns to gaze around the hall all
if he heard me.]oey pays no mind to the scrawled with chalk veves, choked with
frustrated tricksters. It takes him a good foliage.
couple of hours to cut his path but King Caliban the Good, thinks Joey,
eventually he’s there, standing before who was no man’s but his own in the
the overgrown ruin, the now-pathetic end.
palace of the magician duke, Prospero,
master of spirits, master of men. The
Good King must have moved his base,
Joey tries to tell himself, but the dere¬
A black king in the West Indies, they’d
said, a child saved from slavery in
liction of shanty-town civilisation Algiers by his Yoruban witch-doctor
around tells another tale, one he does¬ mother, spirited away to an enchanted
n’t want to hear. It’s one he has to face island in the Caribbean only to be
though, he knows, so he walks through captured and bound into servitude
the abandoned settlement now being while just a boy by the white man who
swallowed by the jungle, past the murdered his mother. Accused of at¬
wooden board of a sign scrawled with tempted rape—oh, but it’s always rape,
the name of Sanctuary, to the rotten of course—by the white man’s spoiled
doors of the ruin at its heart. daughter. But freed, finally, to live in
peace on this forgotten island, now his
island. A kingdom for us all, a kingdom
T he thing of darkness sitting in the
shadowed throne is half mummy,
called Sanctuary, they’d said, the other
marooners, those slaves like Joey
half skeleton, flesh weathered to a thin brought to the Americas to haul the
leather stretched across the bone, naked gold of rich men into galleons, taught
but for the tattered remnants of a cloak their tongues so they could take their
132 POSTSCRIPTS

orders. Those slaves who, like Joey, had and he turns, walks out of the ruin of a
slipped their shackles and found what little palace, smoke and ash billowing
freedom they could on the high seas. out behind him as the broken halves of
Black Joey isn’t one for hope, but he Prospero’s staff are reunited in the
named his ship the Determination for a flames.
stubbornness as powerful as hope. He’s So the king is dead, the kingdom in
no dreamer, so he came here willing to ruins. That just means there’s work to
face whatever truth lay behind the leg¬ be done.
ends. But even so a man’s will, his re¬
solve, can be a little like a hope or a
Maps and Metamorphoses
dream ... breakable by cruel reality.
Standing there before the dead king of I button the breeches and tuck in me
rebellious slaves, though, Black Joey’s shirt, flip the doublet back on with a
resolve is only strengthened. swish. One boot. The other. I buckle
my belt, jam Matelotage and Mutiny
into place. I’m not sure whether the
S o he kneels before the corpse of
Caliban and kisses its feet. Then he
imp’s eyes are wider at me dressed up in
all me finery than they were at the
turns, and with his sword begins to hack naked flesh.
at the foliage and rotten wood of pan¬ —Are you a pirate? he says with
elling and furniture. He goes out into more than a little awe.
the town and returns with more wood —Now that’s an unkind way of
and kindling. Then he gathers the phrasing it, I say. I’m more—stop that!
Good King’s body in his arms and car¬ I bat his hand from my doublet’s tail
ries it gendy to the pyre he’s built, prises and he skitters back, all abashed.
the broken staff from its rigor mortis —I’m sorry, he says. It’s just... your
grasp and wraps tatters of starry cloth coat is pretty.
around one end of each length, to make —Many thanks. I’m rather fond of it
of Prospero’s staff, Caliban’s sceptres, meself.
twin torches which he sparks to light —Your hair is pretty too. It’s or¬
with flint and just a little powder, fiz¬ angey. I like oranges. Does it taste like
zling into fire as bright as any magic. oranges. Can I try?
He lights the pyre and stands back, I halt him with a hand on his fore¬
watching as the flames rise, swallowing head only to find the mad little moppet
the body where it rests, the signpost of grab my wrist and pull it down to start
Sanctuary for its pillow. He looks at the an intense study of my fingers, fondling
sigils inscribed on his blazing torches them like he’s never seen a knuckle be¬
for a second, wonders what power fore. That’s the drawback with the gun
rested within this wood when unbro¬ of Matelotage, ye know; used carelessly
ken, then he tosses them on the pyre it can start more trouble than the
THE ISLAND OF THE PIRATE GODS 133
other’s ever ended. Oh, it’s grand if yer —Not again, I mutter distractedly.
shooting someone in the back while He scurries to keep up as I stalk
their deadlights are on the bosun, say, a through the bush. Now that he’s
peachy little diversion, but if it’s yerself dropped the harpy glamour, he’s a win¬
is the first thing they see ... well, as a some sprite, I have to admit. The wings
hypothetical example, when they’re are rather fetching, sure, and even with
seven foot tall and known as Scurvy the horns and green hair, the golden
Shug, ’tds best to be avoided. My besot¬ flower behind his ear makes him a pic¬
ted sprite pulls my pinky towards his ture of... salacious innocence. I can’t
mouth, tongue out, and I flap him away. say as I’m not tempted, but it’s the tail,
—For pity’s sake, I say. Will ye give ye see, the tail... I mean, three months
me peace? living on leaves and insects, with the
—I’ll give you bliss, he says. I’ll give Lemur Queen and her—no! I shake the
you flowers and ... quinces and a puppy cruel memories from me noggin.
dog and... [he scrunches his face in a —It just won’t work, I say.
queerish peer] ... explosions. You like —Wait! he says. If it’s just the tail...
explosions; I can tell. He bends over to reach between his
He’s a canny lad—and uncanny, for legs, brings his tail through—and I
that matter—I have to give him that; mean the root of it, the shifty nipper,
but I’m thinking it might be a good idea right round to the front of him—then
to get my arse off this island sharpish, with a bit of tugging and twiddling he
before the “See How Much I Love reshapes it into ... well, something else
You?” phase moves into the “How Can entirely.
You Not Love Me?” stage with its atten¬ —That’s quite impressive, I say.
dant desperate measures. —I’m very versatile, says he.
—I’ll give you anything you want, he
says. Anything.
I pull the map case out of me pocket —So which of the gods are you, any¬
and set about unscrewing the cap, way? I say as he stands there, hands on
sharpish. hips, all cocky and looking more attrac¬
tive by the second. Yer too young for
Dionysus, I’d wager. Pan, is it, with the
—Now, look, lad, I say. No offence to horns and all? Though the wings ...
ye intended, and it’s not like I’m averse —Pan? he giggles. No, he’s two is¬
to a bit of the old Purser’s Pleasure, but lands to the left, just after sunrise.
I just can’t be having a relationship with I cock my head like a curious dog.
anything what has a tail. —You’ll get it in a few hundred
He looks crestfallen, but I just turn to years, he says. Call me Ariel.
hold the map up, take me bearings with —Flash Jack Carter. Ariel, eh? Curi¬
the compass once more. ous. I’ve never heard of ye.
134 POSTSCRIPTS

—No reason you should have, he Matelotage and Mutiny wasn’t quite as
shrugs. progressive as mine, ye might say.
—I know all the Pirate Gods, mate, —There ye go, I say, signed by the
old and new. I’m learned. Captain’s Daughter herself... the lash
—What makes you think I’m a god? that is, lad.
—Well, this is the Island of the Pirate —Isn’t it normally...
Gods, I say, isn’t it? —Done on the back? Bastard who
He doesn’t say anything, except with did this was cruel as Blackbeard himself,
his eyebrows—a sort of you're not en¬ wanted to see my face, he said, as he
tirely sane, are you? look that has me whipped the buggering devilry out of
waving the proof in his face. me. Thirty-nine lashes and a bucket of
—Look, I’ve got a map, I say. Cost sea-water to wash away the blood. I
me twenty bloody guineas. See, it says swore that day I’d have the ship, cargo
this is the Island of the Pirate Gods. and crew, and send that pious black¬
Right here. The place where Mutiny guard’s soul down to Davy Jones, if the
was reunited with his lost love, Old Man of the Sea would only give me
Matelotage, where they built their pi¬ the means to do it. And bless him if he
rate kingdom out of Spanish gold, a didn’t do just that.
glorious haven for all the heathen gods I let the shirt fall closed, tap me pis¬
of yore, those renegade deities accursed tols. Found them in me bunk that night,
by a cold Christian tyrant with no true I did, a gift from the pirate gods, so me
love of the blood and sweat and tears, crewmates were all a-whispering, who’d
aye, the salt of the sea that’s in us all and clearly chosen me as champion. I shot
that makes a life worth ... living. that captain with the gun of love, matey,
He looks at me, then at the map, had him weeping for me like a fallen
then at me again. maiden right up until I put a shot from
—You’ve been diddled, he says. the gun of death square in his broken
heart. It didn’t heal the scars though.
—Aye, I say. Written with the Cat O’
—So you’re not a pirate? he says, scut¬ Nine Tails, by a self-proclaimed Hand
tling to keep up as I stride back down of God, and all the Letters of Marque I
onto the beach, cursing all the way. need to plunder the ships of any nation
—I told ye, that’s a slur on me good bar the one I serve.
character. I prefer to see meself more as —And what nation is that?
a freelance privateer. —The People’s Independent Repub¬
—That’s ... Don’t you need Letters lic of Arse, Cock and Yo-ho-bloody-ho,
of Marque to be a privateer? I say. PIRACY'.
I pull open me shirt to show the —You are a pirate!
gravings on me chest, the lattice of scars —Damn right I am! I’m Flash Jack
etched by a captain whose opinion of Carter, the Darling of the Deep, the
THE ISLAND OF THE PIRATE GODS 135
Blessed of the Briny, Sodomite Scourge And Jack, naturally enough, does.
of the Seven Seas and ...
I trail off, sniff the air, turn to look
inland. —No, no, it’s alright. They’re friends.
—Is that smoke? I say. I grab Jack’s arm as he pours powder
in the pistol, bat his hands as he bats
mine—get off!—I snatch the shot out of
Faeries And Furies
his fingers only to have him stamp on
Enter Buttersick, pursued by bear. He my toes and reload while I’m hopping.
crashes out of the bushes, leaping, He whirls on the faery host now
flying, running, out onto the sand, his alighted all around us on the beach,
stripy tail upright in terror, scorched arms waving frantically and dancing like
like the rest of him and trailing smoke, they’ve bursting bladders as every single
wings flapping faster than a fury with one of them chatters their own individ¬
the taste of blood upon her lips. I’ll say ual warning in a cacophony of squeals.
this for Jack—he reacts fast, if not with —Burning!
the most rational of responses. —Fire!
—Burning lemurs of bloody Mada¬ —Smoke!
gascar! he shouts, in a pitch that some —Demons!
might call unmanly but which I just —Dooooooom!
think of as him showing his more sensi¬ Jack spins from faery to faery and I
tive side. I try to reassure my darling. leap for his back, clamp on like a limpet.
—It’s just— He just keeps twirling with me half over
But Jack already has his pistol out his shoulder, grabbing at his gun arm.
and cocked, the now back-flapping But¬ —Avast! Get back! Begone! he
tersick dead in his sight, waving his shouts. Bloody sod off!
hands before his face in what I recog¬ —SHUT UP! I bellow in my best
nise as utter panic but which Jack, I re¬ leonine roar, loud enough to shake the
alise, sees only as rabid lunacy. The trees and bring a sudden silence to the
burning bear that follows hard on the situation.
sprite’s heels, framing this winged,
tailed terror with flame, and the full
host of my faery brethren that then —If yer going to be doing that again,
burst from the tree-line like a flock of would ye have the good grace to bloody
flying fiends ... they probably don’t well warn me? says Jack.
help matters. Finger wiggling in his ear, the wince
—F-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-, stutters Butter- still on his face, at least he’s not going to
sick, and I have a horrible feeling I can go off half-cocked again, I reckon,
see what’s coming. though I do worry about our future to¬
—FIRE! he shrieks. gether if he can’t get on with my family
136 POSTSCRIPTS

(it’s just jealousy, I tell myself; he does¬ —Driven to the very edge of reason
n’t want to share me). Still, for all the by the loss of his love, I say, turning my
sidelong glances and occasional hand- gaze on Jack as he stands there so noble,
flaps at any sprite who gets too close, staring out to sea, scanning the horizon
after the brief period of expletives and for a ship to rescue us. Of course, I carry
persuasion—and more expletives, and on, it’s understandable, and a terrible
more persuasion, this time aimed at the shame, a Tragedy even. Why, it’ll
good ear so it doesn’t just result in a doubtless end in suicide for the poor
loud What?—I’ve managed to get him man, a grand soliloquy then a leap from
to grips with the notion that they aren’t, Pointy Point.
in fact, a host of vengeance-seeking fu¬ If I have to push him over myself, I
ries, fiends from Hell... or, to use his think. He’s not bloody well getting my
words, some sort of flying lemur demon Jack back. Finders keepers.
thingies. —Ariel, says Buttersick, I’m really
—Ditch the tails, I whisper an aside not sure they’re lovers.
to Dustbunny. Pass the word. No, I —How could they not be? I say. Just
don’t know why, but he doesn’t like look at him. What’s not to love?
them. Don’t ask. Oh, my Jack, I think. You’re so noble
Dustbunny looks dubious but skit¬ with your hand shading your eyes, so
ters off to do what he’s told. I’m just graceful as you jump up and down, as if
turning back to carry on with the sooth¬ in doing so you might see just that little
ing of my soulmate when a whimpery further beyond the far horizon. He
mumble comes from beneath the dead turns, shakes his head, and comes
bear lying face-down on the beach stomping towards us.
where Jack dropped it with his shot. —Bloody ship sunk. Sodding map’s a
—Can you get me out from under fuckin forgery. And now I’m trapped on
here, says Buttersick. It’s still burning, an island with a bunch of... things.
you know. And rather heavy. —But we’ve got each other, Jack, I
say.
—And the island’s bloody burning!
—It was the other one, says Buttersick. Whose idea was that? Banquets and
He’s trying to kill us all. harpies and burning bloody bears ...
He’s a sorry sight, rather crispy yer all cracked!
round the edges and still smouldering a —I was just saying, says Buttersick. It
little, but us sprites are resilient, so I’m wasn’t us started the fire. It was—
sure he’ll be fine. —Me, says the dark shape emerging
—You should have seen him set fire from the forest, from the flickering
to His Nibs’s old palace, he says. He’s a shadows and the furling smoke, step¬
maniac, a mentalist, a madman. ping forward till his face is lit in the
I nod solemnly. flames of a burning bear.
THE ISLAND OF THE PIRATE GODS 137
—Black Joey, says Jack. knees, elbows and teeth. He feels a foot
—Flash Jack, says Joey. in his stomach that sends him flying
Then that shadow of a man is leaping back through the air, cracks his head on
through the flames, his frockcoat bil¬ something hard as he lands, grabs for
lowing around him as his blade whips the rock and finds a pistol instead. He’s
loose and high. wiping sand out of his eyes, rolling to
his feet, but Carter is already up, run¬
ning and diving, rolling.
Revenges and Redemptions
Then it’s die two of them there, both
The crossed pistols catch the sword on one knee, both with a pistol in their
blade and Black Joey feels the boot in hand pointed at the other’s heart.
his chest that flips him as the two roll —I told you they weren’t lovers, says
back and over. He lands on his back on one of the queer little creatures stood in
the sand but rolls on, out into a crouch a circle around them. Another of them,
and a twirl to see Carter twist onto his now holding Joey’s sword, casually jabs
front, take aim. He leaps and swings to him in the foot with its point.
hack the pistol barrel aside, circles the
blade on the follow-through to bring it
down on the man’s skull, but Carter
rolls, whips himself back to his feet,
C arter has a queer look on his face, a
slight tilt to his gaze, a flick of eyes,
brings the gun in his left hand up again, as if he’d really like to check whether his
too close now for a swing. Joey spins pistol is loaded. Black Joey snarls.
like a dancer inside his reach, brings the —Typical Flash Jack, he says. Can’t
guard of his sword down on the bas¬ even remember if yer own pistol has a
tard’s fist, then punches him with it full shot in it, eh?
in the face. Carter staggers back, drop¬ Carter grins.
ping the pistol, but now brings its twin —Ah, now. No, that’s not it at all.
to bear with a curse—only to lose aim as Thing is, well, ye do know whose pis¬
he twists out of the way of Joey’s lunge, tols it is I carry. That these pretty little
grabs his arm with his free hand and lets things we’re pointing at each other
Joey’s momentum pull them both to the aren’t yer run-of-the-mill flintlocks, but
ground. Sand in his eyes, Joey feels the the guns of—
teeth sink into his knuckles and he —Matelotage and Mutiny, says Joey,
roars, slamming his left forearm into the Pirate Gods. So I’ve heard.
the dog’s face even as he feels the sword —Well then, ye also know that this
fall from his grasp. A pistol-butt smacks situation is a bit more complex than us
his forehead and he grabs the wrist and threatening to blow each other’s brains
twists with all his force. out, mate. Ye might want to be thinking
Then it’s just the two of them, spin¬ it through a little.
ning savage in the sand, all fists and Black Joey thinks it through a little.
138 POSTSCRIPTS

Suddenly he’s aware of a slight tilt to his Jack? I know yer light on yer feet, but
own gaze, a flick of eyes, as he’d really that’s taking it to extremes.
like to check just what the name is on Carter shrugs.
the pistol in his hand. —He’s loyal, he says. And a little bit
—See now, says Carter, there’s really besotted.
just two potential scenarios here, —Besotted? Black Joey laughs. With
with both of us being famed for our im¬ the glorious Flash Jack Carter. Has he
peccable aim and all, and unlikely to any idea why I might want to kill you?
miss at this range. Either it’s Mutiny in Have you told your little admirer here
my hand and Matelotage in yours, of all your noble deeds and acts of val¬
in which case you end up quite dead; or our? Introduce us, do.
it’s Matelotage in my hand and Mutiny Carter coughs.
in yours, in which case, yes, I’m well —So I was involved in the taking of a
and truly buggered, I’ll admit, but few slave ships, Joey. Everyone was do¬
you’ll be sobbing like a girly over my ing it at the time. And if ye look at it in
corpse, having just murdered yer true a certain fight, well, didn’t we liberate
love. you from a future on the plantations?
—And won’t you be weeping just —No, you kept us in chains, in the
the same, Flash Jack, if it’s a shot hold, filthy and starving.
from Matelotage in your heart, and me —Ah, but we introduced you to the
dead? notion of piracy, which was a sort of spir¬
—Ah, but I’m a very fickle lover, itual liberation, was it not? Made you
Joey. And I’m known to recover quickly the man you are today.
from me failed relationships. It’s the —You introduced me to the no¬
drinking, ye see. But a man like you tion that there’s no hope of rescue,
who’s never known true love, Joey, and no honour amongst your kind, only
of a more temperate nature—it’s incon¬ a greed for plunder, whether it’s
solable, ye’ll be. Inconsolable. monies to fine your purse or men to
Black Joey shakes his head. auction off on the market-blocks of
—I’ll get over it, he says. Kingston.
—It was Barbary Bill’s idea, says
Carter. I was only First Mate, at the
—Hurt my Jack and I’ll chop your time. I swear on me heart, I didn’t have
bloody head off! You won’t get over a say in it.
that. —But you had a hand in it. You sold
Black Joey clocks the queer little me. From the same sort of greed as
creature with his sword, now waving it brought you here, no doubt, to raid
clumsily in his general direction. King Caliban’s Sanctuary.
There’s a certain pluck to his pout. And the strangest look comes over
—Faeries for your crew and all now, the face of Flash Jack Carter as he raises
THE ISLAND OF THE PIRATE GODS 139
his left hand, palm out in a gesture of his redemption, the winged wonder
surrender, it seems, gives a sad shake of that he knows, he knows, he will never
his head. let a cruel need for revenge bring him
—I came here looking for the Pirate to hurt.
Gods, Joey, cause it was never about the He hears Carter’s cries but he
gold, not for me. It was always about doesn’t listen, just gazes in awe as the
the ... freedom. I came here looking sublime spirit leaps past him, grabs
for me destiny. I never thought it would the spent pistol.
be this. —What are ye doing, my dear? he
And he lowers his pistol. says.
And Black Joey fires his. He sees the flindock being reloaded
by the faery, but it doesn’t quite make

C arter rolls backward and Joey turns

to deal with the sprite now running
sense to him. Who could be needing
shot in a world so full of joy as this, so
full of such wondrous things as his
screaming at him, sword swinging beloved. O, but ’tis Matelotage they’re
wildly, but the yell from Carter stops loading, the gun of love, so it must be
the creature dead, whips Joey’s head that Carter is to free this sprite before
back round. he dies, dart him with a love for Joey as
—The sword! deep as Joey’s is for him, because how
Carter’s on his knees, blood stream¬ could he let the dainty spirit suffer
ing from his left hand, other out¬ mourning, how could anyone let the
stretched towards the faery, who in an spirit suffer so?
instant is spinning to hurl the sword Carter takes the gun in his good
through the air and into its grasp. Joey hand, pale and grim as the poison of
has no idea what the damnfool is up to Joey’s shot seeps through his veins, his
but he’s having none of it, on his feet very body in mutiny against his soul.
and raging towards the man, the pistol Joey sees him close his eyes, puts the
turned as a club in his hand. barrel to his own breast and pull the
—Just die! trigger.
Then Carter has his bloody hand
down on the ground, and the sword is
Paxes and Plunder
swinging up and down like a butcher’s
cleaver, hacking clean through flesh and Standing on the edge of Pointy Point,
bone to sever it from the limb. And his ffockcoat billowing with a peachy
even as he screams, Carter drops the flourish in the wind, Black Joey lowers
sword, grabs for the pistol of Matelo- the spyglass from his eye and slides it
tage, and swings it up, and fires, the away as he turns. Far off on the horizon,
shot thumping into Joey’s shoulder, even without the glass, the distant
spinning him round to ... the vision of shapes are clearly turning in the direc-
140 POSTSCRIPTS

tion of the island, hardly surprising oning. Fm still a little worried, at times,
given the size of the signal fire, the as to whether Joey has truly forgiven
seven-day beacon of black smoke that me, the shot of love wiping all bitter¬
must have been visible for leagues. ness from his heart, or whether it’s
—Five ships, says Joey, Spanish just that he knows to hurt me would be
galleons by the looks of them and sail¬ to hurt his dainty Ariel. Maybe it’s all
ing low in the water, loaded with gold, just a tenuous pax that could fall apart
like as not. Not that you care about with one wrong word. And again,
gold, eh, Jack? maybe I deserve that worry for me
Sod the gold, I think. That’s a sod¬ past sins; maybe it’s as much about me
ding fleet for us, and money and men to making reparations as it is about for¬
build a pirate nation on this isle the like giveness. A penitent heart is all very
of which has never been seen, to make well, but it’s Matelotage and Mutiny
it a true island of the Pirate Gods, or a will help Joey rebuild Caliban’s King¬
new island of Sanctuary, or simply an is¬ dom, not contrition. I stroke the skin of
land of Redemptions, if that’s what we the stump, this permanent reminder
all decide. that destiny can sometimes be history
—Five ships, I say. That’s three for coming back to bite you on the arse.
me, and two for you. Still, only a week, and while it’s not
—Two for you and three for me, says healed, it’s a damn sight better than it
Joey. should be—one of the perks of having a
Ariel coughs into his hand—excuse magic sprite for your doting nurse, I
me, hello. guess.
—Two each and one for the ... Tech- I pull my snuff pouch from my waist,
nicolour Buccaneer here, I say. Whatever tip a little fairy dust onto the wrist and
the sodding hell that means. take a snort. That’s another perk. And it
—Agreed, says Joey. really does help with the pain, ye know.
—Agreed, says Ariel. And it’s in the
Book.
—Cry, Haul! Aye! A-diddle-aye-dee!

A s we head down the path to the

beach, I raise the stump where
—Now you’re sure this spell will
hold till we get to the fleet, I call across
the waves. We’re not going to get half¬
my left hand used to be, study the way there and just plop down into the
smooth pink skin, poke it with curiosity. drink?
More bloody scars, I think... but in Ariel looks over at me like a puppy
truth I did deserve it, for there’s only I’ve just kicked.
so far that roguishness is charming, —You don’t trust me. You don’t have
and there comes a point even in piracy faith in me. Joey has faith in me. He's not
when a man knows that he’s due a reck¬ worried.
THE ISLAND OF THE PIRATE GODS 141
In the lead ... well... imaginary —Cry, Haul! Aye! A-diddle-aye-dee!
boat, Joey holds his sword in his The Spaniards hear us now, turn this
right hand, Mutiny in his left, peering way and that, in panic at these invisible
forward at the distant galleons, voices of the deep bearing down upon
and seeming to float in the air like the them from all around and nowhere to
faery crew behind him, heaving on be seen. The officer in charge gives the
their... well... imaginary oars. Just order to turn round, back to the ship,
like Ariel and meself, at the prow of our and with that moment of the choice to
own imaginary boats, with our own retreat always being the best point to
crew. hit a man in his lack of balls, I give the
—Cry, Haul! Aye! A-diddle-aye-dee! shout to Ariel to lift the glamour, unveil
—Pumpkin, pumpkin, I say, quick to these three boadoads of lusty imps, led
salve the flighty faery’s sulk. Of course I by the infamous Flash Jack, the notori¬
have faith. It’s just my... amazement at ous Black Joey, and the hitherto-un-
the veritable wonders you perform. heard-of Swishy Ariel, and we send the
Stupendous feats! Astounding enchant¬ screaming heebie-jeebies right into
ments! Incredible acts of illusionism to their souls.
fool even the sea herself. By the Pirate Grin of a scabrous dog on me face
Gods, my astonishment is as boundless as I stand to leap across, I glance down
as the briny blue. at me reflection in the water. A hand¬
—Cry, Haul! Aye! A-diddle-aye-dee! some chap I am, ye know, with hair so
—You do love me! fiery and eyes blue as the sea, as hand¬
—Hush now, I hiss. Ye know that some now as when I staggered down to
Joey must never find out or he’d surely the surf, the shot of Matelotage in me
do for me in a jealous fit of pique, heart, to open me deadlights to that
rage even. Besides, look ahead at our same watery image. ’Twas love at first
plunder. sight. I had to do it, ye see. Only sure
cure for the one gun is the other, love
conquering all and such-like, and I
A fore us, a rowing boat of Spaniards
all fine and dandy in their best
wasn’t going to let meself be caught up
in a buggering menage-a-trois. Besides,
uniforms, rifles high, is heading to¬ I always was a bit vain.
wards shore to investigate that beacon, I will admit, though, to some strange
hunt for us poor shipwrecked souls. temptations that have been confusing
Shrouded in glamour, we move in to in¬ me these last few days, maybe on ac¬
tercept them, a pirate crew of salty count of when I opened my eyes, the
sprites who, absent the tails, I have to two of them were standing over me,
say, aren’t shaping up too badly—a litde the images of their faces peering back
unfocused perhaps, but nothing a good from the lapping water, one on either
shanty can’t fix. side. I’m sure it’s only a passing fancy
142 POSTSCRIPTS

though. Better be or this could get —For Good King Caliban! bellows
bloody complicated. Joey.
I raise my gun and pick a target. —For the sheer bloody fun of it!
—For Matelotage and Mutiny! I shouts Ariel.
roar. And we leap.

Available early 2008 from Spilt Milk Press

In Robert Freeman Wexler's Psychological Methods
To Sell Should Be Destroyed, you will find bread
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