Strange Horizons, Inc.
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Copyright ©2001 by the authors. See copyright notices at the end of each feature.
Article: Interview: James Van Pelt, by K. Mark Hoover
Article: Music of the Ellipses, by Brian Tung
Article: The Universe of Star Wars Fan Films, by Cristopher Hennessey-Derose
Article: Falconry: The Real Sport of Kings, by Mary K. Wilson
Fiction: Forget Me Not, by Angela Boord, illustration by Judith Huey
Fiction: Chameleon (part 1 of 2), by Beth Bernobich
Fiction: Chameleon (part 2 of 2), by Beth Bernobich
Fiction: Other Cities #3 of 12: Ahavah, by Benjamin Rosenbaum
Fiction: Money for Sorrow, Made Joy, by M. C. A. Hogarth
Music: The Starlit Jewel, by Peggi Warner-Lalonde
Poetry: A Crash Course in Lemon Physics, by Robert Frazier
Poetry: On the K-T Boundary, by S. R. Compton
Poetry: The Franks, by CAConrad
Poetry: Historian's Guide to the Galaxy
Review: Robin Hobb's Liveship Traders Series
Review: Warren Rochelle's The Wild Boy, reviewed by Rob Gates
Editorial: Mother and Child Re-Union, by Audra Bruno
11/5/01
James Van Pelt has been called one of the brightest new stars on the science fiction horizon, and with very good reason. His stories have made the preliminary Nebula ballots, been honorably mentioned in Gardner Dozois's Year's Best Science Fiction and Ellen Datlow and Terry Windling's Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. His work has also appeared in Asimov's, Realms of Fantasy, Weird Tales, and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, and he's appearing again in Asimov's and Analog early next year. He's currently working with a publisher on a collection of his short stories, tentatively titled Strangers and Beggars, scheduled for release in early 2002.
Van Pelt's work has been published in several anthologies, including the recently released Dark Terrors 5, and he was a finalist for the 1999 John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. In fact, it was this honor that motivated him to start a Web site listing all the eligible authors for the annual award. Van Pelt's fiction isn't easily classifiable because he's comfortable in so many different genres. Still, themes of redemption and stories where the past affect the present consistently appear throughout his work. The following interview was conducted over the space of several months, via e-mail and one-on-one contacts during ChiCon 2000.
K. Mark Hoover: James, you've written science fiction, fantasy, and horror. What draws you to genre fiction?
James Van Pelt: My interests have always been genre driven. When I majored in English I backdoored my way into the classics. That's when I learned that classics such as Wuthering Heights, Hamlet, and The Turn of the Screw are marvelous ghost stories. Brave New World, 1984, and Animal Farm are cool science fiction pieces, along with The Handmaid's Tale. And, of course, there's always Edgar Allan Poe....
KMH: So your formal education was based in the literary?
JVP: [nods] What I discovered, through this study, is literature's real concern: the human condition. My writing is more character and theme driven than idea driven. In that sense, I have a more literary bent than some of my peers, but not all of them. I mean, look at Robert Silverberg and Connie Willis!
KMH: How did you become site manager for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writers?
JVP: In 1998, a pair of SF writers, Michael A. Burstein and Paul Levinson, wrote me independently to tell me they liked my first story in Analog in ‘97, “The Big One,” and that they were nominating me. I had never heard of the award and wanted to know who else was eligible. I found that there was no way to learn who the new, eligible authors were, and that seemed a shame. In late ‘98 I started the website. It turned out to be a great way to have a legitimate reason to correspond with major editors, and to meet the up and coming writers in the field.
KMH: When did you first begin to write? Was it an early age?
JVP: I wrote a few short stories in elementary school. In high school I wrote a lot of poetry, publishing some of it in the school's literary magazine. Then I sort of languished in my twenties, thinking that I liked the idea of being a writer because I thought it made me look sensitive. You know, the Byronesque figure who wanders away from the party to stand at the end of the dock and look poetic. <laughs> I thought it would attract girls. Reaching thirty changed that though, and I've been increasingly productive ever since. At this pace I figure I'll hit my stride at sixty or seventy, which seems just perfect to me.
KMH: Were there any personal influences that shaped your interest in being a writer?
JVP: My parents did a wonderful thing when I was young, that I'd recommend to any parent: they bought me books whenever I wanted them. They wouldn't buy toys or candy on the spur of the moment, but a book was a sure thing. So I started reading early. Because I was small, bookish, and unathletic, my heroes were writers. I remember walking through the Littleton Public Library's SF collection and looking for which two authors my book would be shelved between when I published it. <grins> I think it was Jack Vance and A.E. Van Vogt.
KMH: Who was your favorite author at this time?
JVP: My absolute favorite was Ray Bradbury. I still read The Martian Chronicles and anything Bradbury has to say about writing as in his Zen in the Art of Writing.
KMH: Short stories are often considered the lifeblood of SF, and your success has come in this form. It seems you're particularly adept working at this length. Have you concentrated on short stories because they're easier to sell than novelettes and novellas?
JVP: I'm not sure why I gravitated to short stories more than the longer stuff, other than I'm a closure addict. I like getting to the end of things and calling them done. That said, I do have a novel I've finished and am shopping around, and sold a couple of novelettes to Realms of Fantasy and Analog. But I don't think I'll ever quit writing short stories. There are too many fun ideas that aren't novelistic in scope, and there's a lot to be said about the immediate feedback a short story gives me.
KMH: Jules Renard said writing was an occupation in which you must prove your talent to those who have none. How do you deal with discouragement when a story you innately feel to be good can't find a home?
JVP: By sending the manuscript out again. I sold a story last year to a professional paying print magazine that over the course of eleven years had seen forty-nine different markets. If the story is good, keep sending it.
KMH: What do you think drives the genre overall? Is it the editors who buy the work, the writers themselves, or the fans?
JVP: It's hard to ignore the influence and power of editors. If they don't buy, the writer won't be published. Theoretically, they are buying what they think is good and what they think the fans want. However, I believe that a writer who is good will create a market for his work. When Bradbury first started sending his stories out, no none had ever written SF like that. He created a market for his work. Every writer should try to do that. Once an interviewer asked me if I wanted to be the next Stephen King. I said, “No, I want to be the first James Van Pelt."
KMH: Getting back to the fans, many who work in the SF field see them as not only crucial to continued readership, but somehow peculiar to the genre. Do you share those same views?
JVP: Romance writers have a similar fan base. But the relationship between writers and the fans in SF/F/H is peculiar. It feels much more democratic than in the mainstream, where writers are isolated from their fans. I think our fans are vital to this genre's viability because they are a force to be reckoned with.
KMH: In what way?
JVP: Like fans resurrecting Star Trek after it was cancelled. And the Hugo is a fan award; look how important it is. There are also our conventions, where authors and fans get together in a way Romance approximates but doesn't equal, and the history of fandom, which has a life of its own. I just don't see anything in publishing that approaches the symbiotic relationship between writers and readers in our genre. Come to think of it, the internet is only deepening this already influential connection.
KMH: You've just provided the segue to my next question. Recently two major SF magazines folded: SF Age and Amazing Stories. Yet we've seen an explosion of quality online magazines that pay professional rates, and semi-professional magazines printing stories of respectable quality. What's going on here?
JVP: Clearly the online magazines are in a developmental stage. It seems inevitable their influence will grow, and more authors will be willing (and eager) to be published with the more influential online zines. Other than SciFi.com and a couple of others, however, that situation hasn't been reached. I think when there's an online zine that has been consistently publishing for a decade, has been paying pro rates, whose work is consistently on Nebula and Hugo considerations, then I'll say the market has matured. Until then, most of the successful authors will rather have their work appear in print venues than online.
KMH: But high level print magazines are folding.
JVP: I wouldn't count print publications out too quickly. Magazines have always been folding while new ones appear. Talebones, in particular, with Patrick and Honna Swenson at the helm, may become a major player (I own stock in them so I'm prejudiced). DNA Publications, with its multiple magazines under its wing may also have found a model to grow good magazines. It wouldn't surprise me that if a couple of years from now there are two or three new magazines above the 10,000 copy circulation.
KMH: What about the quality of media SF? Does it have any lasting impact on print?
JVP: Frankly, I don't think there's much relationship at all between media SF and print SF—at least the print SF I read. Some of the most interesting work that has ever appeared is coming into print now. The overall quality of SF has never been higher, both from a writing and idea standpoint, so the argument I hear that media SF is diluting the field doesn't hold for me.
KMH: What about media tie-ins, movies and television and the like? Don't they bring more readers to speculative fiction, or is it a wash?
JVP: Whether the media brings us more readers is hard to measure. The magazines’ circulation have been falling steadily. At the same time, however, more book titles are being published, and the majority of them are not media tie-in novels.
KMH: So what impact does the media have?
JVP: What the media has done is to mainstream SF and fantasy tropes. When soft drink commercials look like mini-SF movies, the ideas of SF have become an integral part of the communal consciousness. Actually, I find this kind of sad. I liked it when SF was a unique club filled with folks who'd sort of stumbled into it.
KMH: Recently SFWA decided to stop listing magazines that don't pay professional rates in their quarterly publication, The Bulletin. Do you agree with their stand on this issue?
JVP: The SFWA question is a real rat's nest of politics and personality. You can hardly open your mouth in a room of writers about a SFWA question without provoking a firestorm. I'll try and answer anyway. <grins>
The broader question, I think, is do you have to publish at pro rates to consider yourself a writer? Naturally the answer is no. There are wonderful works of considerable power published in the semi-pro magazines. There are also undoubtedly powerful works that haven't found any kind of publisher yet. Publishing is a chancy activity at best. As far as The Bulletin not listing semi-pro markets, that seems consistent with their membership policies.
KMH: Does belonging to SFWA help a writer in the long run?
JVP: Being a member, or having previous publishing credits, does carry some weight with some publishers. I investigated this thoroughly when I wrote an article entitled “Publishing, Persistence and the Urge to Write,” which is posted at the SFWA Web site. What I discovered is that most editors claim that all that matters is story. However, Gardner Dozois confesses that at Asimov's he does pre-separate the manuscripts into piles based on those standards. My feeling is that while many editors say they don't pay attention to professional membership or previous publications, it's impossible for them not to recognize that the manuscript in front of them is by someone with a recognizable track record.
KMH: James, we first met in person at WorldCon in Chicago last year, after a lengthy friendship over the Internet. How many conventions do you attend each year?
JVP: I attend three: WorldCon, ConDuit in Salt Lake City, and MileHiCon in Denver. I'd attend more if I had the money.
KMH: Are cons important to your growth as a writer?
JVP: For several reasons, yes. First, making personal contact with editors has been invaluable. Not only have I been able to ask them questions and listen to their thoughts, but seeing them has made them less imposing to me. Conventions help give me confidence to submit work because I know editors are just ordinary folk. Secondly, I get to network with other writers. I've learned about many publishing opportunities by attending the conventions. People I met five years ago may be editing magazines or anthologies now. Networking works.
KMH: Those are all good professional reasons to attend conventions. Do you have any personal ones?
JVP: Sure. Conventions give me a motivational boost. Writing is a lonely, often despairing activity. Talking to other people who share the passion makes facing the blank page easier. I highly recommend conventions to anyone who is interested in writing and publishing. Cons can be overwhelming, especially if you're not social, but hanging around people who are doing the same thing you want to do is beneficial.
KMH: What's a typical writing day like for you?
JVP: I have to shoehorn writing into my day. I have three children, ages 11, 8, and 4. I'm married and enjoy an active social life. During the day I teach high school English, and at night I teach a college course. Oftentimes I write right after school for a hour and a half or so. Then I'll write after 9:00 for another hour after the kids go to bed.
KMH: That doesn't sound like much time.
JVP: I used to believe I had to do a thousand words a day to be considered a writer. What I found, though, was that this was an unreasonable goal for me. It took a while for me to settle on a doable goal: 200 words a day, but I never miss. That gives me 73,000 words in a year. I think for a non-full-time writer, that's good.
KMH: Let's get back to your job as a school teacher, if we may. I know you've incorporated your own interest in speculative fiction into lesson plans for your students. What's their overall reaction to this?
JVP: I think teachers always bring their interests into the classroom. What I bring is my enthusiasm for reading, writing, and ideas. The general reaction is good, but you might get a more truthful answer asking my students. [grins] My room is a SF fan's paradise, however. I have favorite posters from books, movies, and authors covering the walls. Most kids think they've walked into a science classroom on their first day because of the solar system and rocket posters!
KMH: How do you introduce the worth of science fiction to your students?
JVP: When I teach SF, one of my basic arguments is that SF as a literature is based on the idea that the world can and will be different. It exists in a state of flux. Mainstream lit has a tendency to ignore change and argue that whatever condition exists in the novel is universal and timeless. I disagree. I believe SF prepares us for change by positing that change is always inevitable.
KMH: What projects are you currently working on?
JVP: I always have a short story going. I've been working on a story arc I call my “Lutheran Diaspora” stories. There's nothing really Lutheran about them other than the ship names, which are culled from the names of Lutheran churches, so I have ships named Redeemer, Ascension, King of Kings, etc. A couple of these stories appeared in Analog. I'm also working on a SF/F novel entitled One Fell Down, an unnamed mainstream novel that is my answer to Catcher in the Rye, and I'm preparing a collection of my stories for release in early 2002.
KMH: Is there any particular movement you identify with, or prefer to read?
JVP: My tastes are eclectic. I like good story, so that steers me away from writers who are in love with language for language's sake. Delany, for example, is hard for me to read. Still, I do have a tendency toward the literary. I prefer a story where there are multiple layers, where allusions to other works or to history may be a part of the text or the character.
KMH: Can you give us any examples?
JVP: I've already mentioned Bradbury, but there are a handful of bedrock works for me. Connie Willis's Doomsday Book, along with all of her short stories, have really moved me. So did Harlan Ellison's “Croatoan” and “Hitler Painted Roses.” Brin, Heinlein, Le Guin, and Tolkien are also prominent on my bookshelf.
KMH: Do you have any long-range goals you'd like to share?
JVP: Mostly I hope to be able to write and sell. There is a novel publication in my future, but I don't see myself making my living doing it. My dream, when I'm feeling dreamlike, is to have Hollywood dump a crate of money on me for the film rights of one of my stories. Then I can retire to writer's heaven.
KMH: What about a more personal, or individual goal?
JVP: When I was in grad school at U.C. Davis, I had an instructor tell me he thought my work was too genre-influenced to be published in literary magazines and too literary to make it in the genre markets. All I can conclude from his advice is that the academy doesn't know much about the genre marketplace or genre readers. I'm constantly pushing myself to be a better writer. Somewhere out there are my ultimate stories. I haven't written them yet because I haven't lived long enough to discover what they are. I haven't developed my skills enough to tell them, but I will, and it'll be fun getting to that point.
KMH: Why?
JVP: <smiles> Because science fiction is a thrill ride.
K. Mark Hoover is a writer living and working in Mississippi. He is also the contest administrator for the Moonlight & Magnolia Fiction Writing Contest. He has published about a dozen short stories and articles in professional and semi-professional magazines; his story “Slugball” appeared in Strange Horizons. He has a wife and three children.
Visit James Van Pelt's Web site. He welcomes comments about his work or conversation about the writerly arts.
[Back to Table of Contents]
11/12/01
Mankind is not a circle with a single center
but an ellipse with two focal points
of which facts are one
and ideas are the other.
—Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
A semi-recent survey* showed that about a quarter of American adults believe that the Sun goes around the Earth. You can imagine the uproar that arose in educational institutions around the country. (Actually, it was pretty subdued, and if you were of a cynical bent, you could draw some pretty depressing conclusions about what higher education thinks of the American mandatory educational system. But let's not get into that.) How is it possible that so many Americans could believe such a thing?
[Footnote *: The 2000 Science and Engineering Indicators, published by the National Science Foundation, if you're curious.]
Well, they believe it for the same reason that the ancient Greeks and everyone else up to about the 16th century believed it. All you have to do is look up, and if you have the common sense God granted the garden snail, it is plain to see that the Sun goes around the Earth. After all, astronomers claim the Moon goes around the Earth, and no one laughs at them for that.
Granted, appearances were not all that mattered to the Greeks. They had their theories, too. Aristotelian physics held that the Earth was all that was base and ignoble, and it therefore sank to the very center of the universe. The celestial objects, however—everything up in the sky—were good and noble, and therefore light and airy, and they all travelled in great circular arcs around the lowly center, maintaining a cordial distance at all times.
However, the Greeks were no dummies. If it had been clear from observation that it was the Earth that went about the Sun, and not the other way around, they would have adapted that into their theories. It wasn't their fault that appearances were so deceiving that they arrived at the wrong conclusions. They made a perfectly reasonable stab at the truth.
So let's take a look at how that reasonable stab at the truth became unreasonable fiction.
Anyone who pays attention to the night sky for any significant period of time soon notices that it moves with surprising regularity. For the most part, stars rise in the east and set in the west, like the Sun, and those that don't, move in perfectly reasonable circles around the north pole star, Polaris.
There are a couple of thousand stars visible to the unaided eye on any given night, so it becomes something of a hassle to have to keep track of them individually. To simplify things, people picked up the trick of grouping them into constellations. Instead of having to remember a couple of thousand stars, they only needed to memorize a few dozen constellations. If you observe the constellations over the period of a year or two, you also notice that the same constellations don't rise at the same time every night, but neither do they appear willy-nilly, wherever and whenever they want. There is a set order to them, and they follow that order, year in and year out. In other words, although the stars arc across the sky each night, they don't move with respect to one another. It's as though they were stuck onto a huge black dome, and the dome moved around the Earth as a whole. In fact, astronomers from ancient times have occasionally called the stars the fixed stars.
In contrast to these law-abiding points of light in the heavens, there are a few bodies that do not follow these simple rules. These bodies also rise and set once a day, to be sure, but they do not move as though they were stuck onto the dome of the sky. Rather, they move with respect to the stars, and they can be seen wandering from constellation to constellation over a period of weeks and months (and in the case of the Moon, from day to day). The Greeks called these bodies planetes, from their word for “wander,” and that's where we get our word “planet.” To the Greeks, anything that wandered from place to place was a planet, so the list of planets, in toto, read as follows:
Sun
Moon
Mercury
Venus
Mars
Jupiter
Saturn
The Sun and Moon are, of course, no longer thought of as planets. The orbits of Mercury and Venus are closer to the Sun than Earth's orbit—although the ancient Greeks didn't know that—and therefore never appear very far from it. In fact, much of the time, both planets are too close to the Sun to be seen without safety precautions. The rest of the time they are either west of the Sun, and therefore only appear in the morning, before sunrise, or east of the Sun, and therefore only appear in the evening, after sunset.
The Greeks, in fact, had two different names for Venus. They called its morning apparition, or appearance, Phosphoros (Greek for “light-bringer,” which the Romans transformed into Lucifer), and its evening apparition Hesperos (Greek for “west,” which the Romans transformed into Vesper). It took the Greek philosopher and mathematician Pythagoras (c. 560-480 B.C.) to realize these were one and the same planet, although he may have gotten the idea from the Babylonians.
If we concentrate our attention on the planets Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, we notice that not only do they not stay in place with respect to the well-behaved stars, but they don't even follow nice, circular paths across the sky. If we plot their positions against the stars, we find instead that their paths are uneven. Generally, they move west to east, but sometimes they move east to west, and, occasionally, they make a wide loop, up and over, as if they couldn't decide which way they wanted to go. When a planet moves in the “wrong” direction, it's called retrograde motion (as opposed to prograde, which is motion in the “right” direction).
This troubled the Pythagoreans. They felt that the circle was the acme of perfection as far as shapes were concerned, and since the planets were just as much celestial objects as the stars, they should all be moving in circles. However, for all that they were absorbed in the world of the ideals, the Pythagoreans couldn't go against appearances that much. Certainly one could not describe the motion of Mars, say, with just one circle. A follower of Pythagoras, the Greek philosopher Plato (c. 427-347 B.C.), spent a good deal of time on reconciling planetary motions to circles, without much success. So he posed the following open question: Could one describe it with a combination of circles?
The first really explicit attempt at answering Plato's question in the affirmative was made by the Greek philosopher, astronomer, and mathematician Eudoxus of Cnidus (c. 400-347 B.C.). His solution used spheres, which were all right by the Pythagoreans, since a sphere is nothing more than the perfection of the circle raised to the third dimension. Eudoxus proposed that the weird loop-the-loop motion of Mars could be explained if it were on the equator of a rotating sphere. But not a freely rotating sphere. No, Eudoxus added a second sphere, set at an angle to the first, and to which the first sphere was attached.
To explain the complex motion of Mars, Eudoxus had the second sphere rotate in roughly the opposite direction to the first, and at the same speed. And since they rotated at the same speed, when the first sphere completed one rotation, the second sphere did too, so that Mars would end up back in the same place. But in between, because the spheres were set at an angle to one another, Mars would not remain stationary, but would instead trace out a figure-8 like shape. If you superimposed this figure-8 on the otherwise smooth west-to-east motion of the planets, Eudoxus suggested, you would get a planet that usually moved west to east, but that moved the other way from time to time, describing loops that went first up, then down, then up again, and so on. Because the figure-8 resembled the path of a horse on a fetter, this mechanism was called the hippopedes, which is Greek for “horse-fetter."
The hippopedes explained, in broad terms, the strange motion of some of the planets, and it had the advantage of involving only the perfect shapes of spheres and circles. But it failed in important ways, too. It didn't explain why the seasons are of different lengths—that is, why summer is a few days longer than winter. It didn't match the actual orbits of Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, even to the limited precision of the observations then available, and it didn't come close to explaining the motions of Mercury and Venus. (However, it wasn't a total loss. If we interpret the motions of the two spheres as the Earth orbiting the Sun in one case, and the Earth rotating on its axis in the other, then we get a very good explanation of the figure-8 shape of the analemma, the curious sigil that appears in the South Pacific on some globes. But that's a matter for another essay.)
A partial step forward was made by the greatest astronomer of antiquity, Hipparchus of Rhodes (c. 190-120 B.C.). Hipparchus seems to have taken as his starting point a work on eccentrics and equants by the Greek geometer, Apollonius of Perga (c. 262-190 B.C.). He then extended and applied it to the question of lunar and solar motion.
The motion of the Moon was particularly difficult to explain. On the whole it goes around the Earth about once a month (hence its name, as described in “The Moon"). However, it doesn't move uniformly, as you'd expect. Instead, it constantly speeds up and slows down, an effect called the lunar anomaly. This is a result of its elliptical orbit and gravitational perturbations from the Sun, the Earth's equatorial bulge, and the other planets. However, Hipparchus wasn't aware of the causes of the anomaly, and in any case he was only interested in a mathematical model of the moon's behavior. He didn't care about why the Moon went every which way—he only wanted to explain how it moved.
Here was the model devised by Hipparchus: the Moon was indeed carried around the Earth by a circular orbit. But the Moon lay not on the orbit itself, but rather at the edge of a sort of wheel, or epicycle. It was the center of the epicycle that went around the Earth in uniform circular motion, while the Moon in turn went around the center of the epicycle. When the Moon was moving in the same direction as the epicycle, it appeared to speed up; when it was moving in the opposite direction, it would appear to slow down.
Hipparchus also went on to describe the motion of the Sun in terms of epicycles, and this model worked reasonably well. However, having the sort of integrity that he did, Hipparchus had to admit to himself (and to others) that his lunar model, although it agreed with actual lunar observations when it came to the general effects of the anomaly, it did not agree when it came to the finer aspects.
Although Hipparchus was the greatest astronomer of antiquity, very little of his actual writing survives, unfortunately. The little we do have is a three-volume review of two other Greek works, and only in the second half of the set do we get any of Hipparchus's own theories. Fortunately, much of that theory was not yet lost at the time of the Greek astronomer and geographer, Ptolemy (c. 85-165, and no relation to the succession of Egyptian kings). Ptolemy collected the various ideas of Hipparchus and synthesized them into a coherent whole, which he called Syntaxis Mathematica, which is Greek for “Mathematical Collection.” Almost immediately, however, that title was enhanced by the appellation, “Megiste,” meaning “greatest.” When the Syntaxis was translated into Arabic, they took heed of that honorific, and we now know the work best by its Arabic name, Almagest.
It used to be thought that Hipparchus was the innovator, and Ptolemy only the poor, benighted compiler who followed everything that Hipparchus said. For example, one of the sections of the Almagest is a star catalogue of about 1,000 stars. It contains, interestingly, a number of stars whose positions only make sense if they were observed during Hipparchus's time, not Ptolemy's.
However, in more recent times, it has become evident that Ptolemy was more than just a compiler, and indeed made important contributions to Greek astronomy. For example, Ptolemy made corrections to the epicycle model of Hipparchus in order to account for discrepancies in the Moon's motion. He also extended the epicycle model to the planets, which Hipparchus did not attempt. Ptolemy showed that if the epicycle turned roughly once a year, and were the appropriate size, the resulting apparent motion would show the correct retrograde motion.
Even if he drew a significant amount of this work from Hipparchus, at the very least Ptolemy can be credited with doing for astronomy what Euclid did for geometry with his Elements—that is, putting everything in order. In fact, Ptolemy put everything in such good order, and predicted the motions of the planets to such a high degree of accuracy, that his work was not surpassed for over a thousand years.
That is not to say it was without its problems. For example, the epicycle model for the Moon that Ptolemy adapted from Hipparchus unfortunately predicted that at times the Moon should be half as far from the Earth than it was at other times. If that were really the case, the Moon should sometimes appear twice as wide as it does. That was very plainly not the case, but it doesn't appear to have bothered Ptolemy overmuch, since he, like Hipparchus, was only interested in a mathematical model of the motions of the planets.
That thinking also dominated most of Europe for the next 1,000 years or so. One of the trademarks of the Dark Ages was a marked refusal to do anything but refine the old classics. It is clear, in hindsight, that there was something fundamentally wrong with the Ptolemaic model, but what better model was there? There was little inclination for anyone to do the kind of tedious, painstaking accurate observations that were required to propose an alternative.
Even when things changed, they didn't change much. The Polish cleric Nicolas Copernicus (1473-1543), near the end of his life, published De Revolutionibus, in which he described an alternative model: that the Earth, along with all of the other planets (except for the Moon and the Sun), revolved around the Sun. But even then, Copernicus wasn't spurred on by improved observations of the planets. Those wouldn't come around until the time of the Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe (1546-1601) half a century later. Instead, Copernicus was motivated by the fundamentally ad hoc nature of the Ptolemaic system. It involved a large number of parameters, each of which could be determined by observation alone, and weren't tied to each other in any systematic way. It was his goal to simplify the foundations of celestial mechanics.
There is a persistent myth that in proposing his solution, Copernicus somehow cut the Gordian knot of celestial mechanics that Ptolemy had left tied, that he made computations orders of magnitude easier than they had been before. Actually, computations based on the Copernican model were just as involved as they had been before. Like the Ptolemaic model, the Copernican model used circular orbits, so it retained much of the complicated machinery of the Ptolemaic model. However, what was simpler were the underlying relationships. The various parameters of the Ptolemaic system were reduced to the tilt of the Earth's axis, the rotation of the Earth on that axis, and its revolution around the Sun (along with the other planets). Everything else could essentially be determined from these three basic factors.
Also, Copernicus wasn't the first to suggest that the Earth went around the Sun. The Greek astronomer Aristarchus (c. 310-230 B.C.) also proposed this idea (as discussed in “Double Vision"), as did the German cardinal and philosopher, Nicholas of Cusa (1401-1464). However, Copernicus was the first to set down this model in full, mathematical detail. In his first draft, Copernicus credited Aristarchus in his preface, but in the final version, either he or his printer suppressed the reference—quite likely the latter, in my opinion. After Copernicus's death, the printer was the sole party remaining as a target for persecution. Eager to avoid being singled out, he added a notice to Copernicus's book, that the work was not intended to assert celestial fact, but only to facilitate computation.
Which brings us to the hero of this story. The German astronomer and astrologer Johannes Kepler (1571-1630) was a thoroughgoing Copernican. He was convinced that the Copernican or heliocentric (meaning “Sun-centered") model was celestial fact, rather than just a computational facilitator. He was something of a mystic, and he spent much of his life trying (and failing) to demonstrate that the arrangement of the solar system was based on the five regular Platonic solids, which needn't bother us here.
Kepler was also a staunch Protestant, which more than once got him in trouble with the local authorities and forced him out of his home. It was during one of these forced evacuations that Tycho Brahe invited Kepler to join him at Uraniborg, Tycho's island observatory. Tycho (who, like Galileo, is best known by his first name) was a nobleman, with a patron to boot, which meant that he could observe in peace. He was also known as the best visual astronomer around. After more than a millennium, he was the first astronomer to surpass the accuracy of Ptolemy's star catalogue in the Almagest. Whereas Ptolemy's star positions were accurate to about 10 arcminutes, Tycho's were accurate to 1 arcminute, the width of a basketball as seen from a kilometer away. All this without the use of a telescope—that instrument would not be used for astronomical purposes for another decade. Tycho's offer appealed to Kepler, so at the beginning of 1600, he accepted.
As it happened, though, Tycho was long past his best days as an observer. His observational prowess had made him famous, and he was more interested now in entertaining barons than in collaborating with the younger Kepler. It's unclear whether Tycho viewed Kepler as a competitor, but getting observational data out of him proved too difficult for Kepler. When Tycho died the following year following a bout of excess drinking, Kepler mourned, but lost no time. Tycho's heirs had no intellectual interest in his reams of data, and they were anxious to sell them as quickly as possible. Kepler had to snap them up quickly before they were lost forever.
Kepler immediately set to work on using the data to prove the validity of the Copernican model. It was not easy work. If the solar system were geocentric (that is, “Earth-centered"), the Earth would be stationary. The apparent paths of the planets would then be due to the actual motions of those planets, and nothing else. But if the Earth were merely one of the planets revolving around the Sun, Tycho's observations were then made from a moving platform. The apparent paths of the planets would be a combination of the actual motion of those planets, plus the motion of the Earth. Worse yet, before the development of astronomical telescopes, there was no good way to tell how close a planet was. Essentially, Kepler was trying to formulate a three-dimensional model from contaminated two-dimensional data.
Fortunately, he was Kepler. He realized that although the planets moved from moment to moment, their orbits didn't. If the Earth was in one place at a given time, then it would return to that spot one year later. The same went for the other planets. Mars revolves around the Sun in one Martian year, a little less than 687 days. That meant that if Mars were in one place on a given day, it would again be in that place a little less than 687 days later.
But—and this was the key to the whole enterprise—the Earth would also have moved around the Sun in those 687 days. A Martian year is about 43 days less than two Earth years. That meant the Earth would be about 43 days behind in its orbit at a time when Mars had returned to its original spot. Kepler could then use simple triangulation to determine the true position of Mars in three-dimensional space.
After some months of furious scribbling, Kepler came up with the circular parameters for Mars that seemed to match up with most of Tycho's observations reasonably well—to 2 arcminutes. Tycho's observations were generally accurate to 1 arcminute, but Kepler was willing to overlook that. Alas, two of the observations were off from predictions by as much as 8 arcminutes. That's about one-fourth of the width of the full Moon, and 8 times the error in Tycho's observations. As much as he wanted to verify the Copernican model, Kepler could not see his way to ignoring this discrepancy. Tycho's observations were simply too good.
It was at this moment that Kepler took his greatest leap and abandoned the circle. This meant that the Copernican model was not correct except in its broadest terms, but Kepler meant to salvage what he saw as its distinguishing feature: heliocentrism. He tried a number of different shapes—ovals of various proportions, egg-like shapes, anything that would fit Tycho's data. Computing three-dimensional positions took pages and pages of tedious computation. In his 1609 Astronomia Nova ("New Astronomy"), he describes not only his results but his efforts as well, taking the reader through even erroneous attempts. “If you are wearied by this tedious procedure,” he wrote, “take pity on me who carried out at least seventy trials.” One of the computational errors initially led Kepler to reject the correct solution, until at last he, like Hipparchus, took a page from Apollonius of Perga and tried the formula for an ellipse.
Because one of the innovations of Apollonius was to characterize geometrical shapes in novel ways, Kepler didn't realize at first that he had seen the ellipse before. This time, however, he carried out his calculations without error and to his astonishment and delight, the predictions matched the observations precisely.
An ellipse is a sort of stretched-out circle. In fact, one of the less useful ways to characterize an ellipse is to say that it is a circle with its aspect ratio changed. Here's another way to characterize it: if you have two points, F1 and F2, called foci (singular, focus), and a distance d, then the ellipse is defined as the set of points P such that F1P + F2P is equal to d.
This leads to one simple way to draw an ellipse. If you hammer two nails into a wooden board, and loop a loose string loop around them, you can draw an ellipse by inserting a pencil inside the loop and drawing an oval around the nails, taking care to keep the string taut at all times.
Kepler discovered that the orbit of Mars was perfectly described as an ellipse. What's more, he also discovered that the Sun was not at the center of the ellipse. Instead, it was off-center, at one of the foci (one of the nails, in other words). Actually, this was no surprise to Kepler. It was well-known that the planets were closer to the Sun at certain times than they were at others. Copernicus modelled this by placing the Sun off-center of his orbits, too, and that's what Kepler tried first. However, because Copernicus used circular orbits, he couldn't match the observations nearly as well as Kepler did with his elliptical ones. Kepler's first law of planetary motion is simply this:
Planets move in elliptical orbits, with the Sun at one focus.
When Kepler took into account the date and time of each observation, he found that the planets didn't move at the same speed throughout their orbits, but sped up when they were close to the Sun, and slowed down when they were further away. Again, this was known by Copernicus, and didn't surprise Kepler. However, Kepler, with his elliptical orbits, could quantify the variation. Nowadays, we would say that the angular velocity of a planet is inversely proportional to its distance from the Sun, but Kepler was raised in the classical tradition that used geometrical arguments for analysis, and he put it differently. He looked at the wedge of space traced out during a unit of time by each planet at various places in its orbit. When the planet was close to the Sun, it travelled faster, so the wedge was short but fat. On the other hand, when it was far from the Sun, it travelled slower, so the wedge was long but thin.
Kepler found that these wedges had different shapes, but they all had the same area. This is Kepler's second law of planetary motion:
Planets sweep out equal areas in equal times.
And I think you'll agree with me that that is a much more elegant way of putting it.
Kepler wasn't done yet. After ten more years, he had analyzed enough data to arrive at his third and final law of planetary motion. The third law was first published in his 1619 book, Harmonices Mundi ("Harmonies of the World"), but was laid out in complete detail, along with the first two laws, in Epitoma Astronomia Copernicanae ("Summary of Copernican Astronomy"). Here it is:
The square of a planet's period of revolution is proportional to the cube of its average distance from the Sun.
Kepler's third law relates the length of a planet's year (its period of revolution, that is) to how far it is from the Sun. The Earth revolves around the Sun in one year (of course), and its distance from the Sun can be expressed as 1 astronomical unit (AU). Provided we express things in Earth years and AU, we can write Kepler's third law as
(1) T2 = r3
where T and r are the planet's period of revolution and distance from the Sun, respectively. So, for example, Jupiter has a period of just about 12 years. If we square 12, we get 144. What number, when cubed, yields 144? About 5.2, and the average distance of Jupiter from the Sun is indeed 5.2 AU.
Kepler published his third law near the end of his life. The rest of his time was mostly spent in non-scientific affairs, such as defending his mother against a charge of witchcraft. He never looked any deeper into planetary motions. He did publish a set of tables of planetary positions based on Tycho's observations, called the Rudolphine Tables, but in comparison with his three laws, the Tables are simple bookkeeping.
Kepler didn't give a causative force that drove the planets in ellipses; he only described their motions. However, that was more than enough for Isaac Newton (1642-1727) to derive his inverse square law of universal gravitation. Newton once wrote, “If I have seen further than others, it is only because I have stood on the shoulders of giants,” and I think, above all, he was thinking of Kepler when he wrote those words. Copernicus may have published the heliocentric model, but it was Kepler who compelled the scientific world to accept it as fact.
And the scientific world has tried to pass that fact down to the rest of us, in abridged form, with such indifferent success that a quarter of American adults seem to have made it up till now without apprehending it.
Adapted from Astronomical Games, June 2001.
Brian Tung is a computer scientist by day and avid amateur astronomer by night. He is an active member of the Los Angeles Astronomical Society and runs his own astronomy Web site. His previous publications in Strange Horizons can be found in our Archive.
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11/19/01
The universe continues to expand whether we want it to or not, going off in every direction, solely at the whim of those who follow its light. I'm talking about George Lucas's Star Wars universe, in case you were wondering.
Fan fiction is nothing new. It seems that whenever a new speculative fiction TV show or movie rears its head, and usually an ugly one at that, a hundred and one websites spring up overnight faster than crop circles, detailing the adventures fans have created for their beloved characters.
Star Wars fans are no strangers to this phenomenon. While there are many fan sites that feature fan fiction based in the Star Wars universe, one site in particular, theforce.net, has done them one better: Fan FILMS.
These aren't your backyard-on-the-weekend superhero serials your little brother made all those summers ago with mom and dad's Super-8. No, these productions are polished comic or dramatic efforts: some offer cockeyed views of Star Wars that use humor to make their charm effective, while others take dramatic turns, featuring complex lightsaber battles and costumes. Some even go so far as to include blooper reels.
The Star Wars fan film phenomenon seems to have started about five years ago, with Kevin Rubio's “Troops,” a series of satires on the Cops TV series. These films told the story of what really happened to Owen and Beru Lars, and also documented a few other incidents in the history of Star Wars that we thought we knew. “Troops,” with its high production values, attention to detail, and smart humor, served as a starting point for other filmmakers. It offered a glimpse of what could be done with one of the most beloved sets of characters ever to hit the silver screen, if the filmmaker was armed with something other than mediocre sets and sophomoric attempts at humor.
While George Lucas's production company, Lucasfilm Ltd., has been known to turn the Death Star's destructive powers upon several Internet fan sites, theforce.net has so far avoided this fate. There is no official word from Lucasfilm regarding theforce.net, but the fact that this substantial site has not been axed suggests that even the Empire has a soft spot in its heart. In addition, the films on theforce.net are made for the sheer fun of it, not for any kind of profit. (Bootleggers are identified and ratted out whenever possible.)
Lucasfilm teamed up with AtomFilms in 2000 in an attempt to give fan films their own official site, with the caveat that only parodies and documentaries were to be allowed on the site. This leaves theforce.net as the primary outlet for films that feature stories of previously unknown Jedi and villains, or, in the case of Peter Mether's serialized story “The Dark Redemption,” which casts a live action actress in the role of Mara Jade, a character we've met only in comics and novels. While AtomFilms contains some decent enough work, the site has less than a third as many films as theforce.net, and the lack of original dramatic material on AtomFilms means fans won't find the dramatic plot twists and individuality they can find at theforce.net.
There are over forty films on theforce.net. Many of the films are made during filmmakers’ spare time, usually on their own equipment and using friends to flesh out the cast and production crew. Budget and experience in filmmaking have little to do with being able to produce quality work. In their place is a passion for the original films that inspired these works, and for the genre itself. Theforce.net contains tutorials to assist aspiring filmmakers on how to shoot opening crawls, bluescreen technique, rotoscoping lightsabers, and much more.
The films’ running times can be as short as three minutes for a simple film about a lightsaber duel, entitled, fittingly enough, “Duel,” to well over ten minutes for films like “A Question of Faith” or “Brains and Steel,” which is a clever nod to both Star Wars and The Princess Bride.
There is a potential technical downside to take into consideration; older computer hardware can mean extended download times as well as unsatisfactory playback performance. This may seem a minor problem on the face of it, but in truth a few of these films aren't very good, and you can't evaluate the quality of a film from the synopsis on the website.
Fan films don't necessarily alter Lucas's considerable and growing universe. Instead, they tilt the viewer's perspective just enough to accommodate the story the filmmakers wish to relate. Just the same, there have been postings on the message board of theforce.net regarding the continuity of certain stories, and where they fit into this admittedly borrowed universe. These finer points are oftentimes fun little hairs to split amongst friends, but they all too often ignite into flame wars that start with the inflammatory words, “a real fan would know...."
These films are not considered to be canonical, since they're not a product of the creative fires of Lucasfilm. While they may be the source of much discussion and entertainment for a small core audience, they are unauthorized and therefore cannot be considered equivalent to Star Wars novels, which are considered canonical. The novels are usually written by an individual writer, then passed on to a Lucasfilm consultant, who decides whether the subject is suitable for their target audience, while also noting finer points such as which class a starship would be and whether Boba Fett is talking too much. The books have a larger audience than fan films, due to their wider circulation, as films are distributed primarily through underground channels.
Ironically, the films often have more meat to them than many of the novels. One reason for this may be because the films generally avoid bringing back familiar characters such as Luke and Princess Leia for more and more and more (at least in the live-action medium). Fan filmmakers don't fall into this trap because look-alike actors are hard to find, and because the filmmakers would come under heavy criticism from other fans for pulling such a stunt. As a result, many Star Wars fans who have come away from a Star Wars comic or novel scratching their heads, thinking, “Luke would never have done that,” don't have that same problem with these films. Slipshod writing is, unfortunately, a consistent phenomenon in the authorized universe, particularly in the comics. While many fan films are also uninspired, there are nonetheless many films that satisfy the viewer.
Truth be told (from a great distance and from deep within a secret bunker, just in case I raise a few of the wrong eyebrows at Lucas Prime), the overall legend and backstories in the Star Wars universe have undergone official revision over time, while all the while Lucas can be seen leaning against a handy X-Wing fighter, claiming that he knew all along where the story was going. Because of the wide variety of games, guides (both authorized and unauthorized), Internet sites, toys, and simple human error, it has become difficult to prove the veracity of a given statement about what a character has said, unless one has a reference point at the ready and is fully prepared to deal with the charges that one's source was discredited years ago.
So the Star Wars universe proves to be elastic, and is more than able to accommodate these stories; after all, some of us simply don't have the time to learn every bit of minutiae from every source under the sun, and most of these films don't require such knowledge. Indeed, they are quite user-friendly, as the backstory to each film is provided on the site by a synopsis.
“Budget wasn't really an issue considering we only spent 200 bucks on the film,” says Carlos Godinez, co-Director/actor, “A Question of Faith.” “We did the best with what we had—filming was the hard part, getting the four of us awake together, the heat killing us in our costumes, and the local police arresting Jason [Alexander, co-Director/actor] one day during filming."
Films can be captured and edited either on analog or digital equipment. Much of the equipment needed to edit and add post-production effects is already in the hands of aspiring filmmakers, so, for many, initial start-up costs have already been paid. Amateur filmmakers can use their hardware and software again and again, and the now-constant stream of affordable hardware and software helps keep the wheels of imagination and production turning.
The finished product can be as ambitious or as lackadaisical as the filmmakers want, but theforce.net has the final word as to whether the piece will find space on their site. The fans themselves seem to be the strongest force in how professional a piece will look, since no one is going to learn how to rotoscope multiple light sabers or create CGI X-Wings on the fly over a weekend just because it sounds like a cool idea. Even though it doesn't take a degree in cinematography to make a great fan film, a better than average idea and friends who can act give you a tremendous advantage.
Originality seems to be one of the biggest challenges in making a good film. Jedi/Sith battles are a recurring theme in fan films, and while it's cool to see all the trouble some of these dedicated fans go to in order to communicate their vision to the viewing audience, it does get repetitive after about the fifth such film. Again, the story has to save the piece, which is not the easiest thing in the world when most of your effort is dedicated to the fine-tuning of your choreography and rotoscope technique.
Other stories told in these films go in various directions, telling stories such as: the hectic day in the life of the Jawas ("Desert Duel"); a simple moment of mourning for a Rebel pilot ("Sacrifices"); and brothers on opposing sides of the Force ("A Question of Faith"). While the majority of films are short narrative stories, animation and music videos are also making inroads on the site. The videos are parodies worthy of Weird Al Yankovic: “Nookie” becomes “Wookie"; “Rock Me, Amadeus” becomes “Jabba on the Dais"—you get the idea.
Computer animation is becoming more and more of a presence on the site, a testament to the greater accessibility of the materials required to pull off film-quality animation. One standout work is “The Son of the Suns,” which, when completed, will be an entire film rendered exclusively in dynamic CGI. It tells the story of the effects Luke and Anakin Skywalker have had, and will have, on their universe. Humor is pervasive in the short films, sometimes to genuinely clever effect instead of hamfisted attempts at stuff Monty Python did much better a long time ago. For example, “Legacy of the Jedi” is clever, while “The Invisible Enemy” suffers from the well-meaning intentions of its creators.
These films are a labor of love—some may say obsession. If nothing else, they are a testament to what kind of effect one can have on someone else's universe when one sets his or her mind to it, and how one can create one for oneself, and how easy and how wonderful that can be.
“Troops.” Running time: 10:09. Plot: Stormtroopers on patrol on Tatooine, which one of them refers to as “the ass-end of the universe.” Bottom line: the one that started it all, incorporating plot twists that happened off-screen in Star Wars. Humor is in the right hands in this parody, which comes delivered in five parts, or as a complete film. Highly recommended.
“Duality.” Running time: 6:32. Plot: A Sith apprentice faces his final task in order to achieve the title of Sith: kill another Sith in a lightsaber duel. Bottom line: worth the download time just to watch two Sith beat the hell out of each other with those double-bladed lightsabers. The acting is a bit melodramatic, but the outstanding effects make this one to watch.
“A Question of Faith.” Running time: 15:50. Plot: Jedi brothers on opposite sides of the Force. Bottom line: one of the absolute best. The quality of the storyline, which easily stands on its own, is augmented by the stunning series of lightsaber battles that rival anything Lucas himself has released, with a wonderful climax and an acute sense of scope.
Cristopher Hennessey-DeRose is the author of about 100 articles, published in magazines such as Talebones and gothic.net. He writes a regular column for twilightshowcase.com, and his previous publications in Strange Horizons can be found in our Archive.
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11/26/01
"I know a hawk from a handsaw."—William Shakespeare
The sight of a hawk soaring above the hillsides inspires a reverence for the untamed beauty of nature. Soaring on air currents above the countryside, these majestic raptors search for prey with vision far keener than our own. The sight of one person, standing in a field, calling the hawk to perch fills those who witness it with awe. The hawk swoops to land on a gauntleted arm, rewarded with tasty bits of meat.
The sport of falconry binds man and raptor into an intimate dance of life and death. Although done in the past as a way of feeding one's family, today, falconers practice the art for its enjoyment. Although the sport is called falconry, the birds used come from all species of raptors. A raptor is the name for any bird that comes from the family Accipitridae, order Falconiformes. These birds characteristically have a large, curved beak, powerful, sharply-taloned feet, and exceptional powers of flight and sight. The two common classes of raptors used in falconry are falcons and hawks.
Falconry first appeared in China as early as 2205 BC. Ahizado Pito (1808), a Japanese writer, indicates that falcons were given as gifts to the Chinese princes of that dynasty. The British bibliographer Harting reported a bas-relief depicting a falconer in the ruins of Khosabad dating from around 1700 BC. Other records and wall hangings recovered from the same era show that people in Arabia and Persia practiced falconry.
As trade between the different civilizations of the time moved from west to east, falconry also moved. Aristotle (384-322 BC) makes references to the sport of falconry being found in Greece, the earliest appearance of the sport in Europe. The Japanese imported goshawks around 244 AD.
The conquering Germanic tribes brought falconry west, and in Medieval Europe it became a favored pastime, especially among the nobles. In the 8th or 9th century, an Arabic treatise on falconry appeared. The Arabs had much to say to the crusaders on the sport, especially in the use of hoods. Much of their information still holds true today.
The earliest Western treatise on falconry was written around 1247 by Emperor Frederich II of Hohenstaufen, a crusader. As a result of his book titled De Arte Venandi cum Avibus, Frederich II has been called the father of ornithology. History tells us that Frederich II almost lost an important military battle because he wanted to go hawking instead of continuing with the siege of the fortress.
During one crusade, the Ottoman Sultan Beyazid captured the son of Philip the Bold, Duke of Normandy. He turned down Philip's offer of 200,000 gold ducats for ransom, instead demanding and receiving twelve white Gyr falcons. Henry VII of England enacted a law protecting goshawk nests “in pain of a year and a day's imprisonment,” making this the earliest legislation to protect raptors.
Other laws to protect raptors emerged. To poach a falcon from the wild meant the criminal's eyes were poked out. Holding a bird above one's social status meant the loss of the individual's hands.
Only kings could fly either a male or female Gyr falcon. Peregrine Falcons were the domain of princes, while dukes could use Rock Falcons, a subspecies of the Peregrine. Earls flew the Tiercel Peregrine, while a baron was relegated to the Bastarde, or Common Buzzard. Knights hawked with Sakers, while squires could use Lanners. Ladies, when they were allowed the sport, used female Marlins. The yeoman used the Goshawk or Hobby, which was said to be able to sufficiently stock a larder. Priests and holy water clerks flew the female and male Sparrow hawks respectively. Knaves, servants, and children used the Kestrel. Although not all of these birds are falcons, the sport was and still is known as falconry.
The nobility usually didn't bother with training their birds themselves. Instead, they hired falconers, and Master falconers were paid extravagant sums of money to work for kings or other nobles. The office of Master of the Mews was created for the individual in charge of obtaining, grooming, and keeping the king's best hawks in constant readiness for hunting.
Sadly, around 1800, societal changes, including the French Revolution and the growing popularity of firearms, caused interest in falconry to wane.
Many of the terms used in Falconry, then as well as today, are French in origin. A “cadger” carried a portable perch called a cadge for the falconer. Most cadgers were older falconers and in time, the word became corrupted to “codger” meaning an elderly person.
“Callow,” which was used to describe a nestling falcon that still had quill feathers, now means someone young and untested. When raptors drink it is called “bowsing,” and a bird that drinks heavily is called a “boozer.” The term now applies to people of the same disposition.
Although it now means someone who was cheated, “hoodwinked” also describes the state of a hooded hunting bird and was originally used in this context. A hooded bird had been cheated out of the meat it caught, because shortly after the bird caught its prey, the falconer replaced the hood on the bird's head, allowing him or her to take the prey from the bird. The hood serves to keep the bird “in the dark” and allows it to remain calm while waiting for its master's orders.
As the terminology in falconry has trickled through the ages, so too has the equipment. While the building materials may have changed, raptors are still kept in their own personal enclosures, called mews. This home includes bathing and watering facilities, perches, and a place for the caretaker to perform routine chores, such as monitoring the bird's weight.
In the United States, someone who wishes to become a falconer needs to pass a falconry examination provided by the state (in accordance with federal law) by scoring at least 80 percent. The apprentice enters into the sport under the careful eye of an experienced master who then becomes the person's sponsor. Finding a sponsor may be difficult, as there are only about 1500 licensed falconers nationwide. Not everyone who is licensed practices falconry, and not everyone who practices wishes to take on the care and responsibility of an apprentice.
After passing the test, the apprentice sets up the mews, which are inspected and approved by the state's department of fish and wildlife. Federal law regulates the design and amenities offered, though states may enact stricter laws if they choose. In any case, the mews must contain flights, one for each raptor kept. Flights are large walk-in cages that allow the bird freedom of movement. They must be both indoors and outdoors, to protect the raptor against inclement weather. Outdoors flights should contain at least one perch. Both indoor and outdoor flights need a bathing container, at least two to six inches deep and wider than the length of the raptor. Dead trees work well for perches.
Once all of these items are in order, the appropriate paperwork is sent to the state's department of fish and wildlife, which will then issue a permit for the apprentice to acquire a hawk from the wild, the source for every American falconer's first birds. Obtaining the birds from the wild serves several functions. First, individuals without the patience and fortitude to capture a wild raptor do not continue with a sport that easily demands a lifetime of attention. Secondly, falconry is a dance between man and bird, and what better way to learn the most intimate habits of any creature, than to understand it in the wild. It takes more than technology to capture a wild raptor; it takes a harmony with the creature itself.
It isn't enough, however, to merely have a place for the bird and a permit, special equipment is needed. In addition to the mews, the aspiring falconer needs the tools of the trade. According to the federal falconry regulation, before the applicant can become a licensed apprentice falconer, he or she needs to have the following items:
The falconer needs at least one pair of jesses, made of either pliable, high-quality leather or other synthetic materials. The jesses hold the hawk to the perch when it is outside its pen.
Whereas the jesses hold the raptor to the perch, leashes and swivels hold the hawk to the human. Swivels are the snaps that attach to the gauntlet. Swivels connect the leashes to the bird. Leashes are longer pieces of leather or cord that allow the bird more freedom of movement than jesses, but not so that it ranges far from its human. At least one leash and swivel pair are required for the beginning falconer.
Finally, the apprentice should acquire a good gram scale in order to measure the weight of the raptor accurately. A raptor that is too fat may not hunt, as it has all its meals given to it, while an underfed raptor will not hunt because of lack of energy. Just as in the wild, raptors eat small animals, and these are either provided live, or meat is torn into strips and provided for food.
Today, all raptors used for falconry are marked with identifying bands. If the bird is born in captivity, the band will be a seamless one, placed around the chick's leg and remaining as a permanent identification marker. Birds taken from the wild have an open, numbered band affixed to their leg. The band is closed around the bird's leg like a ring.
In the Medieval heyday of falconry, a young person would present himself to a master falconer for apprenticeship, appropriate with his station in life. The training presents itself much the same way today, with the exception that we do not have to worry about proper societal positions. Still, it takes a good king's ransom to keep a raptor happy and well fed so that it will hunt well for you.
Federal regulations also control how the apprentice progresses through the steps to become a master falconer. The apprentice has this status for at least two years, and during that time, he or she is limited to the numbers and types of raptors kept. The General falconer is someone who has been an apprentice for at least two years and is at least eighteen years old. While under limitations for the numbers of raptors kept, these are less restrictive than the apprentice license, but more restrictive than the master. The Master falconer is one who has been a general falconer for at least five years. The government imposes restrictions on Master falconers as well, though these are the least restrictive.
Regulations may have changed, as have the materials from which equipment is made, but the thrill has remained the same over the centuries. Man and bird, working with the wilder instincts of nature to feed themselves and their families. Back then, as it is now, falconry was a sight to behold.
Mary K. Wilson lives in Iowa with her parrots (who wish they were raptors), cats, and horse. She writes weekly for Suite101.com and recently, her nonfiction has appeared in Bird Breeder Online. She edits the e-zine Dreaming Blood, and also maintains her own Web site.
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11/5/01
The summer that Aria left me, the prairie turned to dust—fields, roads, even the endless unworked stretches of grass. Most of the dust that year was just raised by the wind, but when we saw the dust cloud approaching us, we bet on who was causing it for three days. At first it was just a film on the horizon and you wondered if your eyes were as dirty as your hands, but then it got bigger and bigger and you realized it wasn't just a farmer from Old Caledon come to trade. For a while we thought it might be a dust storm, but the wind whipped those up out of the west, scouring away dying fields. This was a brown cloud up from the east. Road dust, like a dirty thumbprint on the rainless sky.
On the third day, the monks walked out of the cloud like a dream. It was only Aria and me out in the fields when they appeared, their gold robes and the quartz braided into their hair flashing in the sun. Aria was only five years old, and had never seen more than fifteen people in a room together. I stopped counting monks after I got to twenty.
“Aria,” I said, “run tell your father."
“But I want to watch, Mama!"
“Hush, girl. Go tell your father. He's mending the roof."
She gave me a surly look, then turned and ran down the line of scorched knee-high corn, looking at the monks over her shoulder. I wiped my hands on the rag at my belt and watched them come closer. Monks came for only two things: tribute and war. But I'd never seen so many of them in one place. I wondered who my man would have to go fight now. We'd been raided many times by the Enhala, but the monks had never bothered with that. Reddis was the far frontier. There weren't enough of us to matter.
The procession stopped at the edge of our field, where the circles of corn, beans, and squash left off to nodding stalks of grass and tangled, half-burnt morning glory vines, and a group of monks in the middle lowered a wooden litter to the ground. I couldn't imagine a place where that many trees grew, that wood would be used to carry people. We had a few stunted cottonwoods growing along the wash, but the wash was drying up and so were the trees. Rich ‘steaders used wood to frame their houses or to heat them in winter. Most of us made do with bricks of sod.
Until I saw the litter, I didn't think that the monks had walked all the way from Itarra, capital of the empire. Terador, maybe. But not Itarra.
A monk got out of the litter and walked toward me, and I smoothed out my apron and picked up my water gourd and went to meet them.
“Here is water,” I called, the greeting we always used. I held the half-empty gourd out in front of me. “I'm sorry I don't have more to offer."
The monk who had gotten out of the litter waved it away, and some of the stiffness went out of my fingers.
“Thank you, little sister,” he said, “but we have no need of water.” I touched my forehead in thanks. He wore a fine, ochre-dyed cotton robe, and hammered gold earrings shaped like snakes pierced his ear lobes with their teeth. A necklace of jade plates rested on his chest. If he had wanted water, he could have demanded all I had, and more. But instead he reached into a leather sack he wore slung over one shoulder and pulled out a scroll of bark paper. It crinkled as he smoothed it out. A homesteader, and daughter of a homesteader, I had seen paper only once, and that was in the Great Hall of Terador when the empire took my father's land and gave it to another family after he died. A monk had signed the paper for me with a quill from a crow's wing. Homesteaders never learned how to write.
“You are Sadhann?” he asked. “Tenant of Camrae Farm?"
Bad luck when a monk calls you by name. I nodded and pulled the water gourd in tight against my stomach.
The monk smiled.
“Sadhann,” he said, still smiling, the light of his smile reaching gray-blue eyes the color of water never contaminated by dust. “Sadhann, we have come to bestow a wonderful revelation upon you. Five years ago you bore a child. And lo, that child will become the God of War. Give thanks!"
The gourd slipped from my fingers and all that precious water splashed on the monk's good leather boots.
They made me take them to the house, even though I told them Aria was a girl. Their eyebrows lifted just enough for me to tell they were surprised, despite their smiles. Women did not fight in wars. Sometimes, if they were rich and lucky, they learned to weave beautiful tapestries and even to read and write. But daughters of homesteaders hoed pumpkins and tended corn and lived their lives dust to dust. After I told the monks that Aria was a girl, I could see in their eyes what they thought: that I was a dirt-woman, trying hard to keep her only son by lying about his sex.
“The proclamation states that the War God wishes your child to become his new avatar,” the Senior said. “The form he currently inhabits grows old, and he needs a new body. A young body. So we will go see this girl."
It was common knowledge even out here that some of the gods of the Itarran Tribunal grew old and sought new hosts. We gossiped about it when we met, the way we gossiped about the weather. But I had never thought a god would touch me or my child.
I led them down the path home, through stands of sick green bluestem higher than our heads. The monks had nothing to say to a dirt-woman, even if she was the mother of the War Goddess. Their boots crunched on the hard, dry soil. The wind swirled it up around us and rustled the grass. Ordinary sounds, but there was nothing ordinary about that day.
The grass ended suddenly at the bounds of a circle of scorched earth, our only defense against fire. The house itself was built into a gentle roll in the land, its roof curved and green with plants. It looked like a turtle, the kind that buried themselves in the mud down in the wash. Jaren and I had dug up bricks of turf to build our house and seed shed ourselves, a year before Aria was born. For the past six years, the roots that grew down through the walls had held them solid and tight, but now the house was drying out like the rest of the prairie. Sometimes at night our roof trickled down on us like water. Jaren's spade lay forgotten atop the house, where he'd been packing new sod into the holes left by the crumbling old bricks. He stood in the doorway, wiping his dirt-blackened hands on a rag.
Aria put down her cornshuck dolls and greeted me with a wilted handful of blue forget-me-nots. “Here, Mama,” she said. “For you."
Forget-me-nots were Aria's favorite flowers. They grew in a small patch that straggled along the lip of the roof, where it hung down low on one side of the house. It was a miracle they were still alive in this drought.
I took the sick forget-me-nots in one hand and her hand in the other. Jaren came to stand beside us, tucking the rag into his belt. Aria pressed herself against my leg and watched the monks from halfway behind me.
“What's this?” Jaren asked. In the afternoon sun, his dark hair shone just like Aria's, like the polished wood of the monk's litter. My heart hurt to see it.
“This is Aria,” I told the monk.
My husband gave me a mute look. The Senior walked hesitantly toward us, and Jaren took Aria's other hand in his. Aria blinked up at the monk with those wide brown eyes that had always seemed too old for her face.
The monk carefully lowered himself to one knee in front of her.
“You're going to take me away,” she said. “Aren't you."
“Did your father tell you that, little one?"
Aria shook her head. “No. I just knew.” She scuffed her toe in the dirt and watched the marks it made for a while. Then she said, “Can Papa and Mama come too?"
The monk touched her shoulder. “You will be going to meet your true self. Your true self has no papa and mama."
Aria sighed. “But they'll be lonely without me."
“They'll be proud of you."
Aria bent her head back to look up at us, and I wanted to smile at her but couldn't. I wanted to grab her from the monk's uncallused white hands and draw her to me, to feel the heat of her sun-warmed hair under my hand and hear myself say, No, you can't have her, she's mine, she's all I have. I saw myself getting up in the morning and making breakfast without her putting her fingers in the pot before it had even cooled, and I saw myself coming in from the fields to find her dolls sitting neatly on her bed, alone. I saw myself not having to scold her when she ran naked and laughing out into the sun because it was summer.
I should have torn her away from the monk.
But I didn't. I stood there frozen with Jaren, who gripped her other hand so tightly it turned white. We both watched as Aria slowly shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I think they'll be lonely. I want them to come."
The monk frowned. “Aria, the God of War has no parents."
Jaren jerked, and I remembered that he didn't know what this was all about. “But she's only a girl!"
The monk's frown hardened and the color of his eyes looked less like water than stone. “Do you dare question the Tribunal? The God of War has chosen this girl as his new form—give thanks and be proud!"
Jaren made a strangled sound deep in his throat.
The monk unrolled his scroll again and began to read from it. “The God of War speaks thus:
“'Walk upon the Western Road, my faithful ones, walk until your feet gather sores and stones and your eyes ache from dust. Bear this in my name, for I grow tired of this body and desire another, a child who lives far, far from Itarra in the province of Reddis, amid fields of corn and pumpkins and prairie grass, in a place called Camrae. This child's father is called Jaren and its mother Sadhann, and this child will be one with me, my new body. In this body I will vanquish all those who challenge our borders and I will trample their bodies to dust beneath my boots.’”
The monk slowly tucked the paper away in his pack. “So it is written, so shall it be.” Then he knelt before Aria, dragging his golden robe in the dust, and he touched his forehead to the dirty tops of her bare feet. “I pledge myself to you, Aria, daughter of Sadhann and Jaren, Goddess of War."
Aria watched him silently. I started to cry.
That night Jaren and I lay in bed and argued. Since Aria was born we had gotten in the habit of arguing softly, so we wouldn't wake her. We spoke so softly now that we might have been drifting together in the moments after making love, both flat on our backs and staring up at the dark earth ceiling, while Aria slept, curled up against the far wall.
“We have no choice, Sadhann,” Jaren whispered. “The god himself has decreed it."
“We could appeal,” I whispered back.
“We're dirt to them, Sadhann. They'd just ignore us."
I clamped my teeth shut tight against the cry I could feel in my throat. All that escaped was a hiss of air that ruffled the feathers of my pillow as I rolled over.
“You never wanted Aria,” I said, closing my eyes. “You wanted a boy."
“Gods’ blood, Sadhann, would this be different if she was a boy?"
I pressed my lips tight together. I did not trust myself to speak.
Jeran sighed, and then I felt the touch of his rough fingers on my shoulder. “The gods know I love Aria, too."
I blinked at the wall. “If they know,” I said, very slowly, as if I were dropping pebbles into a well to test the water level, “then why are they taking her away from us?"
His fingers stilled on my shoulder, then drifted away. He didn't say anything, and I closed my eyes again.
The gods didn't care for us. Surely this must be a joke, some cruel sport of the War God and his monks, to call up a dirt-girl. We had heard rumors from Terador that the gods in Itarra were in need of more slaves. I could almost picture the gold cuffs jangling on Aria's small wrist. I buried my face in the pillow.
But there was a worse image in my head, in the dark. A tapestry of the gods hangs in the trial-house at Terador. On it, the gods of Death and War stand together, wearing the black and red uniforms that make them look like half-healed wounds, and each has a foot on a naked man. The man's life runs out in rivers that pool into a slash of crimson thread at the bottom of the tapestry. In the dark, I saw Aria in this picture. She stood on the corpse and looked down at me with her old eyes, sword raised above her head in victory. But Aria—my Aria, whose warm weight I held against me when she woke from bad dreams in the night—my Aria was not there. The War God had bled her away, until she was nothing more than the red stitches at the bottom.
Mothers of boys expect war to steal their offspring some day. Out here in Reddis there is a good chance of that. With Aria, I worried about sickness and injury and that some day she would leave us to marry, that she might go away to a further frontier and we would never hear from her again. I did not expect war to take her.
I couldn't sleep. I went out into the night as quietly as I could, and Jaren let me go.
I couldn't remember the last time a storm had cooled the air. The night was hot and dust-filled. The wind wrapped my cotton shift around my legs as I walked, barefoot, down the path to the fields and road. The hard, smooth dirt, still warm from the day, felt good on the soles of my feet, and the walking helped ease that feeling I had inside of not having enough air. The grass was alive with the high chirrah of locusts. When I came to the edge of the road, I sat down in the dust and watched the monks’ camp.
At that moment it seemed impossible that the world was going on as it always had, with these men lodged in the middle of our grass like a colony of ants. I felt like I was sleepwalking. The monks poured corn beer and wine for each other out of hammered silver ewers and drank from cups of bronze and gold. The pillows on which they reclined were worked in such rich reds I couldn't guess the dyes or what fabrics they were made from. Flower petals lay scattered on the ground to ease and perfume the monks’ travel-worn feet. Every now and then one of the men would reach into the middle of the circle, where a fine wooden table supported more food than we ate in weeks. The mottled brown feathers of a roasted pheasant stuffed with grapes gleamed in the lantern-light. A silver dish beside it held slices of red tomatoes, so ripe and dark that they looked almost black. The smell of food made my mouth water.
One of the monks rose from his pillows and walked toward me. I scrambled to my feet, prepared to run, but the monk said, “Wait."
The Senior. I bowed low. “Forgive me. I didn't mean any harm."
He waved away my apology and held out a cup. “Go on,” he said. “Take it. It's for you."
I put my hand around the stem of the cup, barely aware of what I was doing. Slivers of ice floated on the surface of the wine.
Ice. Itarran magic. The hot prairie wind greedily ate it, making the goblet sweat.
“Sit,” the Senior said. He had already done so, cross-legged in the dirt like a commoner. I obeyed, still feeling as if I were dreaming.
“She was born to be War,” he said. “We do nothing that isn't fated."
I didn't speak for a moment. Then I said, “She's only a little girl."
“She is now. Children grow up."
I stared at the wine. “She'll grow up to be a woman. Will you deny her a husband? Children of her own? Happiness?"
I marveled at myself that the words came out. But the monk didn't scold me. Instead he sat quiet for a time, and I put my dry, wind-cracked lips to the lip of the cool bronze goblet and drank.
The wine was cold. I'd had nothing cold since winter.
“Sadhann,” the monk said. “Would you deny her this?"
He swept his hand out toward the monks’ camp, the flowers, the pheasants, the laughter and music. He stared at me for a moment and I bent my head and looked at the wine instead.
He sighed and climbed to his feet. With a start I got to my feet, too, holding out the half-drunk goblet of wine for him to take back.
“Drink, Sadhann,” he said. “We will come again in the morning."
But I'd had more than my share already. I licked the water droplets off the outside of the cup before they could fall to the dust, wasted.
I stayed there by the road almost until dawn, watching the monks’ big, gold-stitched tent ripple in the night wind. Perhaps Aria would sleep there, on a bed whose mattress was not made of corn shucks. Perhaps there would be no bedbugs to leave red bumps in the morning. Perhaps they would feed her grapes and tomatoes and pheasant while she sat on deep pile carpets and had servants dust her hair with violets and rub the chubby pads of her fingers with fragrant oils. Perhaps they would give her fine-spun cotton to wear, and leather boots so she wouldn't catch cold when it rained, and maybe she would have fine, soft furs to keep her warm when it snowed. And perhaps she would learn to play a keipa like the monks did and recline on pillows and laugh like the ladies in Terador, behind her veils. And all these monks would have to do her bidding, because she would be their War Goddess.
She would be a little wild thing.
I wondered what the monks would do when she had a nightmare. I always stroked her hair until she fell asleep again, and then I listened to her breathe and put my hand on her back so I could feel the breath moving in her. It was said that the gods found their avatars by searching for them in their dreams. I wondered how different it would have been to cuddle her against my breast and wipe away her tears with my hand if I had known. As I watched the monks sing and eat, I wondered how I would treat her, if by some miracle the god changed his mind and gave her back to me—if I would bite my tongue instead of scolding her when she trampled the young bean plants, if I would watch her eyelids flutter in her sleep and think not of childish things but of war dreams. My Aria, the War Goddess.
At what cost would she have those things the monk promised her?
But if by some miracle she were to stay, would things ever be the same? And if she was destined to be the War Goddess, would life as a dirt-girl ever satisfy her?
It was almost dawn when I walked back to the house, the monk's metal cup in my hands. Our neighbors—what few of them there were—were already coming into the fields. I stopped and watched one mother walk up the road with a hand to her side as if she were in pain, a baby slung over her back and another little girl of about three running beside her, and her belly swollen big and ripe with the next one. They were my neighbors. I knew their names and their dispositions, but suddenly they seemed like strangers.
The little girl tripped and fell on her bare knees in the dirt.
“Hush,” her mother told her when she started to cry. “We have work to do.” And she bent and lifted the little girl to her feet, dusting off her knees and kissing her hair.
I turned and walked the rest of the way to the house, tears scratching the corners of my eyes.
When I opened the door, Aria was already up and dressed. She had folded her nightshirt, and she was sitting on the edge of her mattress, clutching one of her corn-husk dolls with both hands.
“Will the monks let me take Deer?” she asked, blinking up at me.
“I'll tell them to,” I said.
“I wish you could come."
“So do I, Aria."
I sank to my knees in front of her, put the monks’ goblet aside, and gathered her up in my arms so tightly I didn't know if she'd be able to breathe. I cried against her shoulder for a long time. She was a good girl. She tangled her fingers in my hair and let me.
“You be good to your fancy clothes,” I told her. “And keep your hands clean."
“Yes, Mama."
“And listen to the monks when they tell you to do something, all right? Don't be hard-headed."
She nodded and swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. I wanted to tell her to be merciful and just, but the words would not come out of my mouth. I wanted to tell her a hundred other things, too, but instead we walked outside to wait with Jaren for the monks. They came in a long, snaky line, walking down from the road, the wooden litter bobbing in the middle like a branch in a stream.
Before they took Aria, I snapped off a handful of forget-me-nots from the roof and pressed them into the hand that was not clutching Deer. “Remember me, Aria,” I whispered.
Jaren knelt and gave Aria a hug, then stood and put his hand on my shoulder.
The Senior came down the path toward us. He didn't mention the cup. I didn't say anything to him. I held Aria's hand until the monk gently pried my fingers from hers and led her away. She only turned around once, biting her lip, her eyes too big.
Jaren tried to guide me into the house. But standing in the doorway, I thought I heard Aria say, “Good-bye, Mama.” When I looked over my shoulder, they had already lifted her up into the litter and settled it on their shoulders. She opened her hand and stared at the flowers lying flat on her palm, then clenched her hand into a fist. The forget-me-nots stuck out through the gaps. That was the image of Aria they left me with—that handful of crushed forget-me-nots.
And the sight of the dust cloud fading away into the horizon, until it became a film on my eyes, like tears.
Copyright © 2001 Angela Boord
Angela Boord lives in St. Louis, Missouri with her husband, two children, and lots of plants. Before her tour of duty as a stay-at-home Mom, she did graduate work in anthropology and wrote manuals for accounting software. She is currently at work on a fantasy novel. For more information about her, see her Web site.
Judith Huey is a mixed media artist who uses everything from computer software, Bryce and Painter, to watercolors and oils. She was Alabama Wildlife Artist of the Year and designed the 1997 Alabama Duck Stamp, and her work has appeared in museum shows, fine art galleries, paperback book covers, and online magazine illustrations. Her sales range from $15.00 to $7,000 depending on medium and size. Judith's work includes portraits of children, adults in costume, fantasy, horror, and scifi pieces.
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Part 1 of 2
11/12/01
I am Chameleon.
The morning sun shines through me. I have no flesh to stop the light; no skin to catch its glory, reflect a color, or cast a shadow. I am far more than ghost; and yet, without substance, I am too much like one.
So I take up characters as I would a deck of cards. I shuffle and cut them, letting the cards flicker past; then I close my eyes and choose one.
At first glance, the card looks plain, but when you study the inkwork, you see its complex design. Look at the face—no glitter here, no cheap seduction. Its very subtlety provokes me.
My name is Sarah.
With broad strokes I sketch an outline. I make Sarah lank and tall; I dress her neatly and without distinction—white blouse, dark knitted skirt, shoes dulled and scuffed at their toes. She looks ordinary—deliberately so. But with her eyes, I can gaze upon my audience; through her mouth I will speak.
I'm twenty-four. I'm not pretty, but as my mother said, I'll do.
More details now. I mix reserve with unexpected warmth. I choose a hundred flaws, and balance them with grace. Each trait, each quirk and gesture yet unmade, I sketch from the vision within. At last she stands before me.
One word, and she breathes. One touch, and we merge together. Soul within soul, we leave the void of creation.
The air around us thickened as we entered downtown New Haven. Sarah and I were walking along an uneven sidewalk. It was twilight; the streets were veiled with mist, the air scented with asphalt and the faint aroma of curry. A chain link fence bordered our path; on it hung a battered sign reading “Yale University Housing/No Trespassing.” Streetlights punctuated the haze at irregular intervals.
Rounding a corner, we passed two young men and a woman, who chattered about lectures and books and where to find the cheapest falafel. Moments later, a group of teenagers passed in the opposite direction, their conversation lilting from English into Spanish and back. Emotions flickered across my palate, the raw and pungent mélange of youthful desires. I absorbed knowledge about the city from every passerby, but no one stared—I was just another pedestrian in this neighborhood, where university and town intersected.
We passed into better-lit streets, to a neighborhood of chic stores and glass-fronted bistros, where couples strolled along brick sidewalks. Jewelry, collectibles, gourmet coffees ... I read the shop signboards as we walked. Then, wedged between an African art gallery and a laundromat, an older tavern caught my notice. Its heavy wooden doors stood half-open, and from within came the roar of conversation mixed with laughter and music. Here, I decided.
Sarah obeyed, entering the tavern. Men and women thronged the bar. We pressed through the crowd; from all sides I tasted a rich medley of passions, but I did not pause. I would not feed on scraps and leavings. No, tonight I wished to dine exquisitely.
A nearby laugh punctured the din. Glancing toward it, I caught sight of a woman murmuring to her companion. I noted her plum-soft lips, her perfume like spice, her amber skin and crimson fingernails. She looked directly at me, and I stopped.
The boundary between me and the exterior world thinned. Sarah receded, and I sampled the woman's emotions, expecting opulence. But no. Beneath her polished exterior, I found only a meager passion, dulled by repetition. I turned away.
Under my direction, Sarah found a table near the back and gave her order to the waitress. While we waited for our drink, Sarah traced the rings on the table's scarred surface. The tavern looked far from fashionable; pale stucco covered the walls. Hidden spotlights illuminated replicas of Degas's ballerinas, Van Gogh's sunflowers, and the muted blue figures of Picasso's early period. Chandeliers, hung from wooden beams, gilded the drifting wreaths of cigarette smoke. A faint memory—of other taverns, in other lands—floated through her thoughts, only to vanish when the waitress appeared with Sarah's drink.
Sarah swirled the wine in her glass, watching the bubbles spin and break apart. She sighed, as though tired, and took a sip. While I kept her busy, I sketched memories of a family: a mother, a younger sister, a father who died five years ago. With quick strokes, I added enough texture for the usual questions which strangers exchange. One stranger, I thought, for I now wanted a companion.
I plucked from nothing the memory of a cloudy gray kitten, with spindly legs and a crooked tail. Tomorrow we would find such a kitten, and Hanni would be her name. Sarah's thoughts turned toward Hanni. We smiled...
...and Sarah bloomed.
I'd drawn her plainly, with a raw-boned face and thin straight lips. The smile softened her expression, and in the chandelier's light, her straw-colored hair turned to incandescent gold. Sarah pushed her drink to one side and rested her cheek against her hand, still smiling.
Not long after, the waitress placed a second drink in front of Sarah. “From the gentleman over there,” she said, pointing across the room.
Following her gesture, we picked out the man, who sat with a larger crowd embrangled in a vigorous discussion. In the hazy light, we could just make out his features—the dark hair, the restless hands, a broad ordinary face. Only his crisply white shirt stood out, the sleeves neatly rolled up and his collar unbuttoned.
Pick up the drink, I told Sarah.
She raised her glass to acknowledge the gift. A heartbeat later, the man stood and walked toward us, stopping a yard from our table. “Hi. My name's Joe.” His voice carried a faint rasp from New York City, softened by years and distance.
“Hello.” We kept our voice pleasant, but not eager.
“I hope you don't mind.” He gestured at her drink with one nervous hand; the other gripped his half-filled glass.
“That's all right. And by the way, my name is Sarah.” We pointed to the empty chair. “Would you like to sit down?"
“Thanks.” With a last glance at his friends, Joe sat. He took a quick swallow of his drink, put it down, and leaned back. “Are you new in town?"
We smiled. “Fairly new."
“How do you like it so far? No, forget that question.” He glanced away, smiling, but there was no humor in that wry expression. “It's too much like a game,” he said. “Questions and answers, but never really talking. You know the list—what's your name, what kind of work are you in—” He stopped again and, with a conscious effort, tempered his voice. “I'm sorry. I babble when I get nervous."
This moment is the most difficult for chameleons. Humans sense our differences, even if they cannot tell what bothers them. To soothe away Joe's nerves, I smiled and leaned forward to show I was listening. By listening, I accepted him. The first step.
Joe took a deep breath. “It's just I was listening to everyone argue about city politics. Same argument last week, same this one. Then I saw you.” He rotated his glass slowly, nearly spilling his drink. “You have a pretty smile."
He dared to look up. Our gazes met, briefly. Sarah shook her head, and Joe gave a sharp laugh. “Now you think I'm a real idiot. What makes me different? I buy you a drink. I give you some line—"
We took Joe's glass and set it beyond his reach. “I smiled because I was thinking about my kitten,” we said. “And I don't think you're an idiot. Though I wonder why you came here tonight. You don't look comfortable."
We smiled to soften the blunt comment. Joe returned the smile and visibly relaxed. “That's one of the illegal subjects, you know. It says so in the rule book—never ask why."
“Why not?"
“Because you might get a real answer. Spoils the fairy tale."
“Ah, but I like those illegal questions."
His smile warmed. “I could tell, just by looking at you."
We shrugged. “You still haven't told me why you came here."
Abruptly, he looked away, uncomfortable again. “I don't know. Maybe I am just like all the others. With jokes instead of lists."
“No, you aren't.” Before he could speak, I added, “Shall I tell you why I came here?"
A heartbeat of silence. “If you want."
“Because I'm lonely."
“Illegal topic number two,” he said softly.
A human aware, I thought, with rising excitement. A rarity. Difficult, but oh, so delectable.
For a moment, we let the conversation dangle. I could read questions in Joe's face, and I sensed within him a reservoir of extraordinary passion, untouched and vigorous. From this one human, I could draw decades of sustenance, but first I had to draw him closer.
“We just broke all the rules,” we said.
“Worse than that,” said Joe. “We mentioned the rule book."
“Will they find out?"
“They always find out. The only question is how to punish us."
“No, the punishment's always the same.” We rummaged through Sarah's purse and took out a five-dollar bill. “For my drink,” we said, laying it on the table. “Would you make sure the waitress gets that? Oh, and do you have a pen?"
He looked startled but handed us a pen from his pocket. “What's the punishment?” he asked.
We scribbled three lines on the napkin and handed it to Joe. “Falling in love,” we said.
More quickly than he could react, we stood and slipped easily through the crowds and toward the tavern door. There, a mass of humans encircled me. I ignored the crush of their emotions. Invisible, I paused and looked back.
Joe had picked up Sarah's money and was signaling to the waitress. His expression was bland, his manner unreadable. From all the signs, I thought I'd lost my gamble. Still, I waited, breathless.
A long moment passed, the longest ever, but at last he did unfold the napkin to read our message: “A challenge. My name is Sarah Evans. Call me after Wednesday."
If I had guessed correctly, Joe would easily find Sarah's telephone number. Before Wednesday, however, I needed to construct my external framework—apartment, job, all the physical details corresponding to the memories.
The first night, I placed Sarah in a hotel. The next, I explored the city for a more permanent home. I didn't need to search long—a tattered handbill led me to a small apartment building, in a neighborhood caught between decay and resurrection. The landlord counted my money twice, but he didn't question my documents.
Finding employment took longer. Newspapers and billboards advertised dozens of trivial jobs, but I wanted one that reflected Sarah's chosen character. At last, Sarah found an advertisement for a salesclerk job at a small bookstore near the university.
The manager liked the answers I gave to her rapid-fire questions. She hired me, and within a day, I had absorbed the trade from her. Yet I was careful not to attract attention. I sold each customer an armful of books; I took their money and gave them change. In five minutes, they would forget me. I was safe.
As a final detail, I located the nearest animal shelter. We selected a cloudy gray kitten, brought it home, and named it Hanni. With the context of Sarah's life complete, I ran my finger along the edges of memory to blur the lines. Sarah would only remember what had occurred, not when.
My plans were complete by Wednesday. On Thursday, Joe called.
“Hi, Sarah. This is Joe,” said a quick voice. “From last Friday. Remember?” Over the telephone, he sounded more abrupt.
“Of course I remember you."
“Oh. Well ... Listen, I tried finding your number yesterday. Did you know the operator had three listings for Sarah Evans?"
We laughed softly. “I told you it was a challenge."
Joe laughed as well, but nervously. “So you did. Anyway, I called because ... Are you free Saturday night? I know a great restaurant.” He paused, then continued in a milder tone. “I thought we could have dinner together."
I let him wait a heartbeat, no longer. “I'd like that,” I said, and in his breathless reply, I sensed his delight. A morsel of the coming feast.
Two short days. I knew this human would not yield to anything but a flawless illusion, and so I worked on Sarah's character as never before. I gave her a birthplace, a first boyfriend, the college she'd attended but couldn't afford to finish. I drew a few memories of her childhood—isolated days she remembered clearly—then blended together a hazy recollection of her family and school. But the wealth of my hours I spent writing the script Sarah would follow with Joe. Under my direction, she smiled, thinking how nervous he'd been when he called, and she worried they wouldn't have anything to say. I made her wishes indistinct, like a human's.
Saturday evening, I made the final preparations. I dressed Sarah in a dark green dress, draped and tucked into a suggestion of curves. I added the ebony necklace her father had given her the Christmas before he died. With a brush to her whispery hair and a quick smudge of lipstick, Joe might find her pretty. Almost.
A sharp buzz interrupted our thoughts. Joe. Sarah glanced one last time at her dusty reflection before running to answer the door.
They drove to a small Italian restaurant on the east side of town. “I come here once a month,” Joe told her. “It has the best food in town, in my opinion."
He gave Sarah advice on the dishes and chatted with the waiter in snatches of Italian, laughing at his own frequent mistakes. In the sunlit dining room, his face looked older than we'd first imagined. Gray flecked his dark hair, and the flesh along his jaw had begun to slacken. He'd dressed carefully, as though to camouflage these flaws.
Throughout the dinner, we both confined our conversation to the menu and the sundry, safe topics used by strangers: the weather, a recital of the day's events, a tentative exploration of likes and dislikes, though nothing definite. Once I let our hand brush his—a careless affectionate gesture that brought a fleeting blush to his cheeks. But he recovered his composure, and looked at me with a bright and questioning gaze, as if to gauge my intent.
After the waiter cleared away their plates, Joe ordered coffee for Sarah, espresso for himself. Then he said, “Tell me about yourself."
“Not much to tell.” Sarah looked through the milky windowpanes to the crowded walkway below. “I'm twenty-four, I studied English in college but I didn't finish my degree, and I work in a bookstore."
“Not a very detailed resume."
Sarah reached and touched his hand. “Listen, I don't like lists of questions either. Let's take this slowly. When the time comes, I'll tell you more.” With a smile, she withdrew her hand.
He sighed. “You're right. I sound like I'm interviewing you."
He reached for his coffee, but then instead picked up his empty wineglass. He slowly rotated the glass, the sunlight glinting off its rim.
“I guess I should explain,” he said quietly. “I'm not much used to dating.” He drew a deep breath. “I was married for such a long time. And then I—"
“You don't have to tell me.” We laid our hand gently over his. This time we did not draw away.
Joe glanced up. “But I do. You see, my wife decided she could do better. She left—unexpectedly. The next day I heard from the lawyer."
We pressed our fingers lightly against his.
Joe smiled. “I'm sorry. I'm nervous again. But I thought you should know. My friends keep dragging me to bars and parties. I kept telling them they were picking the wrong places. But I guess they were right.” He laughed softly.
“I hope so,” we murmured, half to ourselves.
We drank our coffee silently. Joe's glances, less guarded now, revealed anticipation, but I wanted more than a single feeding. Carefully, I scripted Sarah's performance to the finest detail.
After their coffee, when Joe suggested a walk, Sarah agreed. Leaving the restaurant, they wandered along summer-baked avenues to a nearby city park. Cascades of lilacs scented the air, and in the growing twilight, the evening sun lit the grass with an emerald brilliance.
“Sarah..."
Sarah heard the question in Joe's voice and looked up. He kissed her lightly. She flushed and took a step backward.
Joe paused, uncertain. “I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd mind."
“No, no. I don't mind. I wanted you to kiss me.” Sarah laughed. “I don't always get what I want."
Confident now, he put his arm around her. “That can't be your first kiss."
I selected a memory and drew the face of Sarah's first lover. “It's been a long time,” she said.
He smiled, delighted that she'd almost forgotten. “It can't be that long ago—you aren't that old."
Sarah touched her cheek, as if checking for signs of age.
After that first date, I spent days adding layers of detail to my character. I gave Sarah complete memories of her childhood and teenage years. To make the counterfeit flawless, I diminished one recollection, then blurred another. With every stroke of detail, the translucent skin of Sarah's infant self thickened around me. I worked cautiously, searching for that precise balance between the authentic human and a character I could control. I wanted more than a replica—I wanted to re-create all of life's vibrant colors. Only in this way could I lead Joe from attraction to love.
We met Joe two more times, once at a different restaurant, once for a concert. His manner both times was reserved, and when I studied his face in the concert hall, I detected a tension beneath his apparent absorption in the music.
Then, not long after the concert, he invited Sarah to dinner at his apartment, where he had prepared a banquet of curried vegetables, freshly baked breads, chicken marinated in spices, and heaps of aromatic rice, dotted with cardamom seeds.
“An indoor picnic,” he said, pouring wine into a pair of crystal goblets. When I took the glass from his hands, I felt a wash of emotion. Despite innumerable outward signs of age, he looked younger tonight, less guarded than before.
For hours, Joe and Sarah nibbled at the various dishes, while Joe told childhood stories, each more humorous than the last. Sarah responded with a wealth of tales I supplied. We laughed, all three, until the laughter faded into a contented silence.
Sarah touched Joe's cheek with a light hesitant touch. He tilted his head, his mouth quirked into a wry smile. All the unasked questions were gone from his expression—all except one. In a wordless answer, Sarah kissed him.
And I, I dined.
The next afternoon, Joe called Sarah at the bookstore.
“I can't talk,” Sarah said. “My shift isn't over yet."
“I thought the store closed early on Mondays."
It did, but I wanted to keep Joe uncertain about Sarah, to keep his passions strong.
“Never mind,” we said. “Why did you call?"
“Just to say that I'm working at home this afternoon."
“Are you saying you'd like a visitor later?"
We made our tone light and playful, but Joe paused. “No games,” he said evenly. “Not between us."
A miscalculation. I was considering how to recover, when an unaccustomed tremor ran through my character. Curious, I released a fraction of my control.
Another moment of heavy silence, then Sarah spoke.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I was afraid. After last night—” She laughed softly. “I felt so ... intimidated."
I was fascinated. Though I guided her, the words, the warmth, all came from Sarah. She will be my finest work, I thought.
“It's okay,” Joe said. “We're both nervous. Listen, call me when you get home. We can get together later, if you like."
Even through this mask of flesh, I felt his gladness, like the heady bouquet of exquisite wine. The moment was here, I thought. Last night was but the promise. Soon he will yield the full treasure of his emotions. My character had learned how to lure him, even better than I could.
Wednesday, I whispered to Sarah. Let him wait a few days. The feast will prove richer.
Carefully, I withdrew control and waited, poised in case Sarah faltered.
She answered without hesitation. “I'd like that very much. I'll come by after work."
No. I touched her thoughts, ordering her to retract the promise, but my fingers slid along a glass barrier. Underneath the hum of her thoughts, I detected Sarah's unwillingness to deny Joe's happiness, even for a short while.
They said goodbye. Sarah hung up the phone and walked toward the front of the bookstore. At the next aisle, I touched her thoughts, directing her back to the phone. It wasn't too late; she could call Joe, make her excuses, and delay the moment.
But Sarah turned in the opposite direction, walking slowly along the aisle, lost in thought. Her own thoughts, not mine. Again, I tried to command her, but my fingers scrabbled against an impenetrable surface and finally slipped away.
Copyright © 2001 Beth Bernobich
Beth Bernobich's short stories have appeared in Clean Sheets, Electric Wine, and the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, as well as in Strange Horizons—visit our Archive for her previous publications in our pages. Her obsessions include coffee, curry, and writing about men (and women) without shirts. For more about her, see her Web site.
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Part 2 of 2
11/19/01
The clock read ten minutes past five. Sarah halted at the back of the store, fascinated by the rows of multicolored bindings. She ran her fingers over the covers and sniffed the ink and leather. Within herself, she felt an odd squirming, and her thoughts blurred for a moment. She shook her head, trying to regain her bearings.
“Time to go, Sarah.” Martha, the store manager, rattled her bunch of keys. “I'm going home to good cooking and bad television.” She paused, and stared at Sarah's face. “What's the matter, honey? Are you sick?"
“No,” Sarah answered faintly. “I'm fine."
“You look pale.” Martha laid her palm against Sarah's forehead. “Why don't you go home? Get some rest. I'll close up."
Sarah walked home through an alien world. Although she knew every street and crossing, like a much-read story, each detail felt disconnected from the whole. Something tugged at her memory. She stopped before an apartment building with stained ivory columns around its broad porch. I live here.
Again, something wriggled within her thoughts. She shrugged away the sensation and, opening her door, stepped over the clutter of mail into her apartment.
Close door. Remove jacket. Sarah stared at the strange, familiar living room. How long had she lived here? A week? A month? Precise memory fled at her approach.
Hanni trotted into the room, chirping for attention.
“Kitten.” Sarah picked her up awkwardly. She ran curious fingers over the kitten's face, rubbed her cheek against the kitten's fluffy sides. Hanni mewed in protest and twisted away, using pinprick claws to free herself.
Distracted, Sarah drifted to the front window. Outside, clouds blotted the sky, and rain had begun to fall in heavy drops. Cold. Gray. She touched the misted glass, tracing the crooked paths left by the rain. All strange. Too strange.
A sudden urgent longing for the familiar seized her. I'll call Mom, she decided, and dialed the number in her memory.
The phone range twice. “Hello,” said a stranger's voice. “Morrison Office Supply."
“Hello, Mom?"
“I'm sorry. You must have the wrong number."
“No, wait. I'm trying to reach Michelle Evans."
“No one by that name works here."
“But I'm calling her house—"
“You've reached a business. Sorry."
The stranger hung up. Sarah closed her eyes. That's not possible. I know this number. I've dialed it every week for— For how long?
She dialed again, but when the same stranger answered, panic seized her. She slammed the receiver down and ran blindly from her apartment and into the streets.
“Hey, what is this—?"
She'd run headlong into an old man, scattering his books over the wet pavement. Scowling, he stooped to retrieve his property. “Look at that,” he muttered. “Just look. You should watch before you run into the street like I don't know what.” He brushed gravel from one book, shielding it from the rain, his lips pursed in irritation.
Sarah picked up the nearest book. “I'm sorry. I didn't see you. I was looking for my mother."
The old man jerked his head up, and his bright, narrow eyes fixed on hers. Slowly, he took the book from her. “I am sorry for you,” he said quietly.
She started to explain, but he lurched across the street and was gone. Now the rain was falling harder. She ought to go inside, she thought, as fragments of old memories came back to her. Ought to change her clothes before she called Joe.
Joe. I need to find Joe.
Oblivious to the storm, Sarah ran through the streets to Joe's apartment. “Joe,” she called, knocking on his door. “Joe, it's me."
Joe opened the door abruptly. “Sarah? Hey, you're wet. What did you do? Run here in the rain?"
With relief, she saw he was smiling. “Yes, I did."
Joe brushed the wet hair from her face. “You really did, didn't you? What's the matter?"
Wordlessly, she put her arms around him. Already, in his presence, she'd recovered some of her self-possession. “Nothing happened. I—I just couldn't wait to see you."
Weeks—months—passed.
Joe called Sarah every day. Sarah spent every evening in his company. She gave notice to her landlord. Half her belongings were already at Joe's apartment, and she'd redirected her mail to his address. Hanni came soon afterward, settling easily into her new home.
Within Sarah, I witnessed the release of Joe's long-guarded love. I saw how his gaze warmed; dimly I sensed his fingers brushing her cheek just before he kissed her. But Sarah stood between the world and me, an impenetrable barrier of flesh and thought and life. And she, not I, fed on Joe's emotions—a careless feasting on passions beyond my reach. At first I tried to control her. I tried to speak, but the incessant flood of her thoughts blockaded my voice. I had just one chance left.
Leaving the silent void between dreams, Sarah found herself walking along a narrow path that burrowed through a thick forest. The sharp scent of resin tickled her nose; pine needles caressed her skin. Nothing troubled her, not even the impenetrable dark, because she knew she was dreaming. She thought she might journey this way forever and not grow tired.
Then, a thin voice broke the hush. “Sarah. Help me."
Startled, she turned toward the sound. “Who's there?"
“I am Chameleon."
Her breath caught on the edge of memory. “What do you mean—Chameleon?"
As if in reply, a light blazed into life further ahead. Sarah walked toward it, knowing she would find the answer there.
She had almost reached the light when, without warning, a clearing opened abruptly in the woods. She stopped.
A figure sat beneath the light; the creature was dark, and the light seemed to shine through it. Sarah held her breath, afraid the creature would turn around, but some task absorbed its attention completely. Sarah stole to the clearing's edge, moving soundlessly over the pine needles. The creature bent over a large canvas, its hands moving with quick, expert strokes. Two steps more, and Sarah saw what it was drawing. A portrait of her.
“Sarah, what's the matter?"
“Nothing. Why?"
Joe set the coffeepot and two cups on their kitchen table. “You had another nightmare—I heard you get up."
Sarah poured her coffee listlessly. “Sorry. I must be nervous about that job review next week."
Joe frowned. “You haven't slept well these past two weeks. Why don't you call in sick today?"
“I'm fine."
“No, you're not. You look like—"
“Yes, I am,” she snapped. “Now leave me alone."
Joe flinched and spun away from her.
Looking at his rounding shoulders, his grizzled hair, Sarah felt a squirming inside her, and her eyesight blurred with exhaustion. She wanted to shout angry words at Joe and provoke him into fighting back.
Instead, she kept her voice to a strained monotone. “You're late for work already. Why don't you go?"
“I will.” He yanked his coat from the closet and left.
Five minutes passed before Sarah moved. Slowly, she uncurled her stiff fingers; she took a shaking breath, and felt the ache of tension spread throughout her chest. We've never done that before. His voice had sounded so cold, so flat. Hers so harsh.
Too late to recall her words, too late to chase after him through the streets. But not too late to mend the damage, she thought. I'll leave a message for him at work.
She stood. Another bout of dizziness swept over her. She shook her head, willing herself to remain upright. Her nightmares had lasted far longer than two weeks, and each one had left her more exhausted than the last, until the line between waking and sleeping felt hazy and unreal.
A loud clatter made her jump, and the room came back into focus. Mail time, she thought with a weak laugh. A second later, she heard a familiar rustle as Hanni attacked the paper intruder. Oh, no. Last time, she'd clawed the electric bill to pieces. Automatically, Sarah hurried to rescue the mail.
Against Hanni's objections, Sarah separated the kitten from her prey and carried the pile to the coffee table for sorting. Bills and more bills, catalogs, ... What's this?
She pulled an envelope from the stack. It was the letter she'd mailed to her mother the week before. A red stamp over the address read: “Return to Sender. Addressee Unknown."
Sarah sank back, staring at the envelope, but still the words made no sense. With shaking hands, she set the letter aside and glanced at the next item—a postcard. Again, her vision swam; the picture blurred and resolved into a new image—Escher's famous lithograph of two hands drawing each other. Underneath the picture Sarah read the words, Help me, Sarah.
She dropped the card. “That's not possible.” Quickly, she glanced down at the pile of mail in her lap. The electric bill lay on top, its columns of numbers transforming into a new message as she watched: Stop pretending, Sarah. You remember the dream. I am Chameleon.
Sarah shut her eyes, but red letters scrawled a new message across her lids: Release me.
She took a deep breath, started to moan, forced herself to stop. “I'm having another nightmare,” she said out loud. “I'm dreaming, even though I'm awake. I've read about this, it's called—"
What about the letters? said a voice inside her. The postcards?
They lay on the ground where she'd dropped them. Sarah reached for one, then yanked her hand back. She tried to breathe, but a weight crowded her chest, and she started to shake. I can't stay here. Still trembling, she stood and lurched to the front hallway.
You tried to run away once before. Remember? That day you ran here from your old apartment—
Sarah pulled her coat from the closet, struggling to separate it from the hanger.
—the day you came to life—
She fled the apartment and slammed the door. For more than an hour, she walked as quickly as possible, turning corners and crossing streets at random. Over and over, her thoughts replayed her nightmares. What could they mean? How could she escape them?
What if she couldn't?
Snowflakes speckled the ground; more whirled around her. Above, sheets of clouds covered the sky. Soon she reached the crowded shopping district; Christmas decorations winked from street lamps, and glittering mannequins filled the store windows. Sarah rushed blindly past them through the gathering storm. Walk, she told herself. Keep walking.
By midnight, the storm had passed, leaving in its wake a trackless city, becalmed. Snow covered the side streets, and streetlamps cast their bright haloes across the drifts. Sitting on the sofa, wrapped in an old blanket, Sarah looked out the window into the night.
Joe had returned late and had gone to bed. They had not spoken. Now, staring into the winter darkness, she tried to unravel the puzzle of her nightmares.
I could be insane, she thought. I could find a doctor—no, a psychologist, to discover the missing pieces in my past. If, she reminded herself, she had a past to explore.
A sudden chill penetrated her blanket. Throwing the blanket aside, she hurried into the kitchen and, without thinking, lit a burner for the teakettle. As she waited for the water to boil, she thought about her mother, how she had done the same after Sarah's father died—a midnight watch, the comfort of endless, restless tasks.
But could she trust that memory?
The kettle whistled sharply, and Sarah snapped the burner off.
I can't let this go on.
She stood in her kitchen and said, distinctly, “Chameleon."
“Sarah."
It answered so quickly, she realized it had only waited for her summons. With effort, she willed her voice to remain calm. “Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want from me?"
A long pause followed. Then, “Do you remember your dreams?"
“Yes, but—"
Her vision blurred, then cleared. She saw a blank canvas. The next moment, she saw the outline of a figure—hers. Lines and color and shading appeared, just like the portrait from her dreams, gathering depth and vibrancy, until she saw the moment when the static picture changed into the living Sarah.
It created me. For a long moment, she could not breathe, could not speak.
Still more images flickered past. She saw everything that had happened in the past four months, but her perspective had changed, and she saw herself trapped within another soul. Just as Chameleon must see the world now.
“Let me go,” said Chameleon, “or I will die."
Her vision changed focus, and once more she saw the kitchen. She swayed and gripped the table's edge, dizzy from the sudden change. Traces of Chameleon's raw desperation remained with her, echoed by her own. Now she could sense Chameleon inside, waiting for her to speak.
“If I release you, what happens to me?"
Silence.
“Will I die?” she asked, somewhat louder.
“Yes,” the voice said. “No. We could share the death, the same way we shared life."
It doesn't know. Or it doesn't want to tell me.
“I do know, Sarah."
Maybe, she thought. “You're playing games with words,” she said. “Tell me—in plain words—what happens to me."
“You will live—for a time. I remain inside, but when you sleep, you will release me to feed outside. When you die, the way all humans must die, I go free once more. That is all I can pledge."
Sarah shuddered. All humans die, she told herself. Even so ...
“And if I refuse?"
“You might survive. But will Joe love you, once he knows you aren't human?"
I am human, she thought, but could not say the words. She was a human with four months of genuine memories. Everything else was an illusion.
A light touch, like fingertips against her thoughts, startled her. “Go back to the clearing,” said Chameleon. “Let me show you what to do. And I promise you memories, good memories, for the rest of your life."
Sarah shivered, licked her lips. “You're lying. You want to kill me."
“No. Without you, I will die."
Lies or truth or something in between? How could she tell? Her head ached. Her pulse throbbed in a staccato rhythm. Within, she heard the whisper of its thoughts, urging her to act. She had to decide now.
“Lead me to the clearing,” she said.
There were differences this time. The ground crackled underfoot. When she brushed against them, the pine needles shivered and dropped to the ground. As she approached the clearing, trees bent away from her path, revealing a blank night sky and a penny-bright moon. Even the air had changed, robbed of the warm pine scent she remembered from her other dreams. Light cascaded over the trees, and a shimmer of sound filled the air. When she stepped into the clearing itself, the hum dissolved into silence.
A brilliant, polished light illuminated the space. Empty this time. No easel, no dark creature painting her portrait. Sarah let a thin sigh escape her.
Then, opposite her, she saw Chameleon.
An electric shock rippled through her. She took an involuntary step backward, but Chameleon immediately beckoned her further into the moonlight. No escape, Sarah thought. She sucked in a breath of the chill air and took three steps toward the center. Chameleon did the same.
For the first time, she saw it face to face. All those weeks, she'd only seen its hunched back—half specter, half darker substance—and its hands, moving rapidly over the canvas. Even when she had confronted it, awake, she'd only heard its thin voice, vibrating inside her.
Its body was darker than night itself, blending into the surrounding shadows. But when it moved, she saw fluttering arms, a swirl suggesting a face, and two brilliant points that might be eyes. Alien. Only its hands—strong, slender curves tapering to the fingertips—seemed human. Those hands had held the paintbrush, sketched her face with masterly strokes.
Chameleon turned its luminous eyes on her, waiting for her to speak.
“Why did you make me?” she asked.
“I needed you—flesh and spirit both."
“But I'm not the first."
“No. But of all my children, I love you best."
It made a gesture and Sarah saw a vision of hundreds like herself—a courtesan in ancient China, a mercenary soldier wandering through Germany's ravaged farmlands, a dark grizzled crone in a carnival who snatched sustenance from the audience's wonder. Each chosen from an outline, sketched and shaded into brief reality, they had all crumbled into nothingness.
“You made me different from the others,” she said. “Why?"
Its head jerked away from her. Surprised, she thought. Or afraid. “Not different,” it said. “More alive."
She shuddered. “Why?"
“To feed. To survive."
From all these hints, visions and words floating between them, Sarah sensed how long Chameleon had lived on the borders of life. Desperate and starving, she thought, and with a profound loneliness she could only guess at. She felt a reluctant compassion, and wondered if that emotion was from her or from her creator.
“I don't want to die,” she said.
“And I wish to live.” It drifted closer.
Sarah stilled the impulse to run. “But are you alive?"
Chameleon paused, a motionless shadow. “What do you mean?"
“You feed. You pretend to live. But you aren't really alive. What if...” She fumbled through her inadequate memories for the right arguments. “What if you dared to really live,” she said, “not just through me, but with me? Think of the emotions you would taste."
“Inside you, I taste nothing. I starve."
“Because we've remained divided. We have to change that."
“You would be my companion?” It sounded doubtful.
“More than a companion.” Sarah thought of Joe, alone after his wife deserted him, and from that painful image, she found the words. “We could join together,” she said. “You with me. Both of us with Joe—the way true humans do."
“The sum of three,” Chameleon murmured. It gazed at her steadily. Slowly it nodded, then held open its arms.
The final telling moment of trust.
Sarah stepped into Chameleon's embrace. Skin pressed against ghostly skin, and she felt its terrifying urge to comfort her, to kill her, to create her anew. She thought of Joe once more and from that took courage.
“Join with me,” she said. “And we can all three live."
The emptiness of night gave way to morning, to bright sunlight and the sound of Joe's voice. “Wake up, Sarah. It's past seven o'clock."
Sarah stretched and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Joe stood at the door to their bedroom, already dressed for work.
“I dreamed it was Saturday,” she said.
“It's not. But if you hurry, you have time for coffee."
“With you?” She offered him a smile. “I'd like that."
Joe tilted his head, a cautious look on his face. “You look rested. Did you sleep better last night?"
“Much better."
She held out her hands. Three steps and Joe was at her side. She kissed him, and brushed the hair from his eyes, her gentle caress a wordless apology for all her bitter words. The last of Joe's reserve disappeared, and he gave her a lingering kiss before he helped us rise.
She. I. We. Already I find it difficult to discern the boundary dividing our souls, and when Joe touches our cheek, Sarah's undiluted joy is almost too painful for me. I could not bear it alone, but she stands here beside me, inside me, around me. Through her vulnerability, she teaches me compassion. Through my centuries of existence, I will gift her with knowledge.
So finally, we both will live, for as long as our body does. Who knows what happens after? The uncertainty terrifies me, but for this one peerless creation, I will dare everything. The ultimate risk for the ultimate illusion: for life itself.
Copyright © 2001 Beth Bernobich
Beth Bernobich's short stories have appeared in Strange Horizons, Clean Sheets, Electric Wine, and the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. Her obsessions include coffee, curry, and writing about men (and women) without shirts. For more about her, see her Web site.
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Third in a monthly series of excerpts from The Book of All Cities.
11/19/01
You can't ride the rails for long without hearing about Ahavah. Sitting around a fire in an empty lot near the train yard, some old codger will start raving about the city, and the old arguments will start. It don't exist, one guy will say. My brother lived there four years, another will retort. Where is it then? North of Nebraska. Eastern Louisiana. Montana. Mexico. Canada. Peru. The argument gets heated. Maybe there's a fight.
Why all this ruckus about Ahavah? Free food there; free love, too. The mayor's an ex-bum himself. The citizens welcome you and take you into their homes. There's sailing and skeet shooting and dancing into the night.
Some of your fellow travelers don't take Ahavah too seriously. Some others rant about it—the same old cranks obsessed with Lee Harvey Oswald's trips to Cuba. Some figure there must be such a friendly town somewhere, even if you discount the stories of whores working for charity and a parliament of hobos. Just our luck nobody knows where!
But there are some—mostly young ones, loners, self-reliant, the kind who could succeed in the world if things were just a little bit different from how they are—who decide that, as they got nothing better to do, they'll look for Ahavah. You might be one of those.
You might spend a while teasing those wild stories out of the older guys. Finding a library that won't throw you out, cross-checking facts. Asking around.
Sooner or later you'll find the network of those who look for Ahavah. You'll start arranging to meet and trade tips. Leave messages at the mail drops. You'll see the hard evidence some have gathered over the years. Meet some of the older guys who organize the others. They'll assign you to some circuit: the Yukon, maybe. Get up there, look around as best you can. Get back to us.
Being homeless feels more and more like a cover story, a means to an end. Finding Ahavah stops being a solution to the problem of being a hobo. More and more, being a hobo is a way to help find Ahavah.
“When we find Ahavah,” you say to each other, drinking Gallo in an abandoned house near the Canadian border and waiting for a seeker to show up. Laughter, politics, dreaming.
Eventually you're one of the old guys running the show, and as you get older you get less certain of your goal. You dispatch resources, look for new recruits, keep in touch with the networks abroad. You make sure those who need help get it. Sometimes there's a party, maybe even with skeet shooting. More and more, you wonder if this is already Ahavah.
Previous city (Ponge)
All published cities
Copyright © 2001 Benjamin Rosenbaum
Benjamin Rosenbaum lives in Basel, Switzerland, with his wife and baby daughter, where in addition to scribbling fiction and poetry, he programs in Java (well) and plays rugby (not very well). He attended the Clarion West Writers’ Workshop in 2001 (the Sarong-Wearing Clarion). His work has appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and Writer Online. His previous appearances in Strange Horizons can be found in our Archive. For more about him, see his Web site.
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11/26/01
The houses of Het Ikoped were only a few days distant when Ledin, the caravan master, called us to the fire pit before supper. I arrived before the others and helped Ledin set up the stakes for the lanterns. Purple shadows stretched from our feet, for the twilight in summer came reluctantly and full of color. I liked the palette: orange sky, violet shadows, black hills in silhouette at the horizon's edge. Here in the north, colors are cleaner, steadier.
With the lanterns casting yellowed light and the fire, new-built, casting orange, the two of us sat to await the others. I glanced at Ledin; its composure crafted a mask of its face, but its dark green eyes glittered. I knew then that this would be the night, and I grinned.
One by one the rest of the caravan joined us: sturdy eperu, neuters, the only sex of the Jokka that could withstand the grueling travel of a trade caravan. Last of all came little Thodi, our orphan found two circuits back.
Thodi wiggled around to sit by me, resting its slim head on my shoulder. I realized, bemused, that it had grown.
“Friends,” Ledin said, tufted ears canted forward, “you've known for a while that I had more planned for our venture than simple trade. Tonight, at last, I think we are ready for the plan.” It withdrew from its pouch a folded square of cloth; with great drama, Ledin opened it and displayed it for view—a map of the known continent, which when seen thus demonstrated just how little we Jokka knew of our land. “I want to explore the northwestern region."
The others leaned forward, and the fire jumped to their eyes. I knew mine held a similar flame. Exploration? To see places not seen before? Feel perhaps a cooler breeze than the ones on the sandy soil beneath us now? To touch foot to places no Jokkad had ever walked? I had never heard of anyone taking up such a charter. Jokka did not travel.
“We are approaching Het Ikoped,” Ledin continued, placing the map on the ground and anchoring it with a few stones. “I propose this het be our base. We will buy supplies there for a year's travel and go where we can before we have to turn back."
“Why only a year?” someone asked.
My ears tilted backward. “Because we have only enough shell for a year's supplies,” I offered. I saw Ledin nod. I was the only eperu in the caravan besides Ledin itself who had an interest in money, and so I helped with our finances. We were not a rich caravan, and supplies for a year, unless carefully chosen, would bankrupt us.
“Anyway, we will return in a year, take on cargo, and run the trade route for more shell before returning to resume exploring. I am hoping we will discover resources on the journey that will enable us to take fewer supplies on the next run, but we cannot make assumptions. We will be the first.” Ledin sat back, resting its slender hands on its knees. “What say you all?"
They hardly needed to answer: the hunger in their faces and the way they leaned almost into the fire said enough.
Ledin laughed. “Very well, then. Let's make food and get back on the road!"
The eperu scattered, chattering amongst themselves ... leaving me there with Ledin and Thodi.
“You well, little one?” I asked it, ears tilting toward it.
Thodi wrapped its arms around my waist, rubbed its chin on my shoulder. “I can hardly believe it, Ekanoi! Since I've been with the caravan, you've been taking me places I've never seen. But now to be taken places that no one has seen?” It shivered. “This is happiness!"
Ledin heard and chuckled. “It may be that Jokka have passed that way before, Thodi. Indeed, it may be that Jokka have touched foot and hand to every span of this continent. But if so, we haven't heard of it. And everyone knows that Jokka do not—"
“—travel,” Thodi finished, and grinned. Its face had a fineness of feature reminiscent of a male, one which had prompted not a little conjecture among the others over what sex Thodi had originally been ... and what sex Thodi would become. Its first puberty was probably several years past already. “But look at us! We travel!"
“Caravans trade,” I corrected. “Travel implies no reason for the journey. There are no idle journeys. Only caravans and trade."
“So we trade. Still we move places.” Thodi played with the chain of striped brown pebbles and tarnished silver at my waist. “What will we bring back, ke Ledin? Will we make maps?"
“That we will,” Ledin said. “And we will bring back whatever is beautiful and useful.” It stood, brushed off its thighs, then bent down and touched the child's sloped nose. “Maybe we will find something of such great value we will be able to return to the towns and put down a stone to found our own House ... a House of such riches we will doze-dream on piles of shell."
Thodi giggled. “But why would we want to stay in one place?"
“That's a good question,” Ledin said.
“Some of us could stay at the House and doze in the piles of shell,” I said. “The rest of us would run the caravan. Then, when the caravan comes back, we'd switch...."
Thodi pressed its hand to its mouth. “That's silly."
“Yes,” I said.
And, “Who can know the future?” from Ledin, who ran a hand through my mane before saying, “Enjoy the evening."
The two of us remained before the fire. I idly stroked Thodi's soft, dark curls; it continued playing with my waist-chain. “Do you think I can do something brave and useful on the journey?” it asked me.
“Like what?” I asked.
“I don't know. I could catch so much food for us off the trail that we don't need to touch our stores at all? Or maybe help defend the wagons from marauding beasts!"
“Marauding beasts, is it?” I said, laughing. I ran my finger down its nose. “Why would you want to get in the way of such things? I bet they're large and hairy and mean."
“Like the anadi!” Thodi crowed.
“And how do you know what the females are like?” I asked, amused. “You've probably never seen one."
“I would if you let me go with you and Ledin into town,” the child said, frowning.
“Probably not,” I said. “We usually talk to the males. They run the Houses. Besides, how else could we protect you from the anadi's dripping fangs?” I feigned a pounce, baring my own fangs.
Thodi snorted. “Anadi poison is a truedark tale!"
“Are you sure?” I asked, all innocence.
It frowned at me. “Aren't you?"
I grinned. “I don't know. I'm not anadi."
Thodi shivered. “Me neither! Thank the World. Females don't have any fun!"
Ah, bald truth. “So why do you want to wound yourself in the brave defense of the caravan, little one?"
“I was hoping to earn my ring soon,” it said, looking up at the silvery hoop hanging from my left ear.
I chuckled. “You know we can't give you a ring until after your second puberty, or you'd have one already."
“But I could have already gone through my second puberty, and not known it!"
I hugged it and sighed. “You must be patient, ba Thodi. You will know when you're not a child any longer."
It wiggled in my arms, then deflated, resting its cheek against my flat chest. “I guess so."
“You should go help Mekena with supper, ah? It's your turn tonight."
Thodi nodded and drew itself to its feet. It had an almost anadi-like obedience ... something for which I was thankful, if also somewhat concerned. Shaking my head, I rose and ambled back to my wagon. We'd be rolling in an hour or so, and the creak in the right wheel would soon drive me sun-crazy if I didn't fix it now.
I stopped inside the store to savor the flat floors for a few minutes. At no point on its year-long circuit did the caravan traverse anything but broken road and uneven ground. The general store in Het Ikoped had stone tile floors, cool and smooth against my callused toes.
Perhaps youth was blind to such subtle pleasures, for Thodi trotted past me and began poking into barrels and glancing into bins.
“Ba Thodi, be careful, ah?” I said, proceeding to the back counter. The emodo there wore his tan mane in a handsome braid, and his clear purple eyes rested on me with polite interest. His light tunic covered most of his skin, but what I could see of it was a supple dark brown with lighter spirals. “Good afternoon, ke emodo."
“And to you, ke eperu,” he said. “May I help you?"
“Ke Ledin's caravan just came into town,” I said. “We were wondering if you were interested in barter?"
“I might be,” he said. “Your caravan is outside?"
“Indeed."
He nodded. “I will talk with your caravan master, then. What were you hoping to trade for?"
“I'm not sure yet,” I said, glancing around the store. “I would appreciate some time to make a list."
The male smiled. “Please, take as much time as you need. I will be outside."
I nodded, watched him walk out, then pulled out one of the three slates the caravan owned. The piece of stone in my hand had cost half a trunk of furs—somewhat expensive, but far less than one of the specially treated slabs of wood would have been. With a thin sliver of chalk in my hand, I drifted through the store, noting what would be useful for the journey. Grain and dried fruit. Dried meat. Fire-coals and tinder, soap, fat for cooking, fodder for the animals.... The tally grew.
I sat on a trunk with the slate and rubbed my head.
“Bad, Ekanoi?” Thodi said, thumping onto the trunk beside me.
“Difficult,” I said. “We will have to unload everything we brought at an excellent price to afford all that we'd need for a year's journey. The grain is more expensive than it should be."
“Is he cheating us?” Thodi asked, eyes wide.
“No.... Probably something happened this year. Bad harvest, or a caravan missed this het.” I shook my head. “Come on. Let's go talk to Ledin."
Thodi followed me out to the caravans. We passed the emodo on the way, and I did not like his obvious cheer. I reached Ledin's wagon and glanced inside. “Ledin?"
“In here, Ekanoi."
I climbed onto the platform, helping Thodi up after me. Ledin was seated on one of the trunks, a slate resting on its lap and one hand tangled in its mane.
“We will not have enough, will we,” I said.
Ledin shook its head.
I took the slate and glanced at the numbers. My tail twitched. “Is that all? This is barely more than we paid for it."
“I had to sell, quickly,” Ledin said with a sigh. “I heard at the wayfarer's house that Batasil's caravan is only a day away."
I grimaced. Batasil could have dozed atop a pile of shell had it chosen to; it preferred instead to trade, and had twice the number of wagons we had, full of luxury goods that commanded such exorbitant prices it could afford to sell its basic goods at cost. Ledin was right: we could not compete with Batasil.
Yet the prices on the two slates missed one another by two wagons’ worth of goods.
Thodi looked from Ledin's face to mine. “Does this mean we're not going?"
“No ... ,” Ledin said. “Just that we will come back in half a year instead of a year.” It smiled and cuffed Thodi lightly on the shoulder. “Sa, what's with that face? At least we'll have a party tomorrow night. Batasil throws wondrous parties."
That was the final injustice: that hating Batasil was impossible. Its affable nature and easy generosity with what it considered its fraternity of neuter traders precluded hatred. I finally found a wry chuckle. “That it does. Shall I go buy half a year's supplies, then?"
Ledin nodded.
Thodi followed me off the wagon. “Ekanoi! Half a year? That's nothing! We'll barely get into the wilderness!"
I waited for it to catch up to me, then rested my arm over its shoulders. “We have no choice, little one. We can only stretch our shell so far."
“But can't we borrow some? Maybe from Batasil?"
“Ke Batasil to you, little one. Be polite. And no, we can't borrow money from Batasil. We would spend too long paying it when we got back."
“Why?"
I rubbed my forehead, wondering just how much to explain about the worth of shell over time. “Because we would have to pay it more than we borrowed, because that would be shell Batasil wouldn't have while we had it."
“Ke Batasil has other money though, so what does it matter?"
I laughed. “Just trust me, ba Thodi. Borrowing money will only make us poorer."
Thodi sighed and leaned against me. “I was so excited."
“Ba eperu, listen to me,” I said. I stopped, faced it and rested my hands on its shoulders. “We're still going. We're just coming back a little sooner than expected, that's all. Understand?"
Thodi rolled a lip between its teeth, then nodded, ears splaying.
“Good. Now you start looking forward to that party, ah? Batasil is going to have things to eat and drink so exotic you won't remember their names in the morning. A real adult's party."
One tufted ear pricked up. “Really? An adult's party?"
“I promise."
Thodi hugged me tightly. I rested my chin on its head, chuckling softly. “Come on. Those supplies want purchase."
“Okay!"
The other eperu helped me roll the barrels from the general store to our caravans while the emodo supervised the transfer of goods. By late evening he stood with me and I counted into his hand the balance of our payment while Ledin watched. We marked our tokens and exchanged them, marked them again to record the transaction ... and then Ledin and I turned to our wagons, half of them empty and the other half carrying our supplies.
“And that,” Ledin said, “is the beginning of our venture."
I handed it the transaction token and chuckled. “May the Brightness, Void, and World bless us all."
“But mostly the World,” Ledin said, grinning. It squeezed my shoulder, then padded into the purple dark.
Batasil's caravan rolled into town the following day, bringing with it clouds of amber dust. I watched with Thodi from the vantage of Feda's wagon, the one with the perch built above the frame. Feda had sacrificed the mobility of the sails built onto every wagon frame to have that perch, but it commanded a spectacular view. Thodi and I arranged the remaining sails to give us as much shade as possible, and sat there well over an hour while Batasil's wagons crawled into town.
“They're big,” Thodi muttered.
I nodded. Our wagons had been built to the standard trade size; only a few businesses made them. Batasil made its own rules, though. “Big and full of strange things. Maybe we can get it to show you some of its rarer goods."
Both of Thodi's ears perked. “That would be fun."
I grinned and tickled its side. “After the party, though. We'll leave tomorrow night, so maybe tomorrow in the afternoon."
“Then I guess I'll take a nap now,” Thodi said, and hugged me.
“Tired already?"
“I've been feeling a little sleepy lately,” it said, and at my expression added, “It's the heat."
The heat? It wasn't so bad today. I shifted my tail in a shrug. “Of course. Make sure you're awake after sun-down, though!"
“I wouldn't miss it for anything!” Thodi grinned, then clambered down from the perch. I heard its footsteps as it hopped off the bed of the wagon and padded away.
Some time later, I went to bathe and change into something more festive. I didn't have much to choose from, but what I had would not embarrass the caravan. The tarnished silver and brown pebble chain I left around my waist—it was almost as old as I was, and had belonged to my sibling before her contract had been sold. I added a few matching strands of beads to my tail and mane, leaving the latter loose. I hooked a bronze and blue long-cloth at my hips with cord and silver chain, letting the panel of linen fall to my ankles and separating the hind-panel so it fell on either side of my tail.
Outside, the other eperu of Ledin's caravan had gathered near our fire pit, talking, their best jewelry flashing in the orange firelight. Ledin among them all was loveliest: it had been anadi at birth, and then emodo before it had finally Turned eperu, and had kept the best of all the sexes.
“Bright night!” Ledin said, catching my elbows. “It is good to see you in finery."
“You too,” I said, pushing aside one of its curls so I could see its face. It had accentuated the spirals on its cheeks with ground malachite. “We will show a good spirit to Batasil."
“Ekanoi!"
I glanced back—one of the eperu, only half-dressed and wearing an expression of great perplexity, stood panting. “What is it?"
“Thodi is asking for you."
It succeeded in passing its confusion to me. Frowning, I said, “It is in my caravan?"
The eperu nodded, and I strode that way. No light illuminated my wagon, and all its sails had been pulled flush to the frame; I could not see inside. I approached from the front, climbing over the driver's bench. “Thodi?"
A tiny whimper answered me, and my ears flattened. Had it hurt itself? I took the lantern down from beside the bench and lit the wick, then slid into the wagon and held the light up.
Thodi was sitting on my trunk, knees curled to its chest, hugging itself and trembling. It showed no obvious signs of illness, and I stepped closer. “Ba Thodi?"
“Ekanoi,” Thodi whispered, and unfolded.
And I saw them ... the tiny points of its—her breasts.
I sucked in a breath and hung the lantern from a hook on the ceiling frame. Sitting beside her, I said, “Oh, Thodi."
“Does this mean ... I'm going to be anadi?” she asked, chin trembling.
“Ssh, don't weep,” I said, touching her jaw. “Thodi ... I'm sorry. It means you already are anadi. Your body is just changing to fit that now."
“But I don't want to be female!” Thodi reached for my waist. “What will I do?"
“What all females do,” I said, ears splaying. “You'll go to a good House, be pampered, fed choice foods, rest on pillows by cool pools of water—"
“And have babies until my mind dies and I get as stupid as a soup-beast!” Thodi wailed and began sobbing, nose wrinkling back from fangs that wept acrid tears.
I embraced her, trying not to cringe. “That doesn't happen to all anadi...."
“Just most of them! Ekanoi, please ... take me with you! I don't want to go to a House and be a pampered anadi breeder. I want to trade, and explore and travel. I want to see new places! I want ... I want to be eperu, not anadi!"
“You can't argue with your body, Thodi,” I said. Gently I disengaged her arms and held her away from me. “You are anadi now. And as much as I want to, we can't take you with us. You'll die out there. Breeders are too fragile for traveling. That's why only eperu trade."
Yellow tears streaked Thodi's lower chin. “Wh-what now?"
What indeed. I sighed and wiped the tears away with my thumbs. “Now ... we talk to Ledin. It will know what to do."
Ledin looked once at Thodi, then said, “My wagon."
We followed it, sat inside as it pulled all the sails to the frame and then entered, sitting on the trunk across from us.
“This was not in our plan,” I said, mouth quirking wryly.
Ledin chuckled. “No, it wasn't.” It reached for Thodi's hands and squeezed them. “This is your second Turning, isn't it?"
Thodi nodded, despondent. Her mane fell in tumbled curls over her shoulders, hiding the evidence of her coming change.
“I told her we couldn't take her with us,” I said.
Ledin shook its head, paint on its cheeks a-glitter. “No. We don't know what's out there. Even if we did, half a year's journey would be too hard on an anadi.” It paused. “We will have to get you someplace you will be safe."
“I don't want to be safe,” Thodi said. “I want to be happy."
“I'm sorry.” Ledin's voice softened. “I cannot be responsible for you on such a trip. You would sicken, Thodi."
“How do you know?” Thodi asked, ears flattening, voice almost a snarl. “No one ever lets the anadi out to see how long they last!"
Ledin leaned back. “I was anadi for a while."
A white flush clouded Thodi's ears and she looked away.
I touched her shoulder. “We only want to do what's best for you. Letting you die is not part of that."
Her small shoulders slumped. “What will you do with me?"
Ledin sighed. “I suppose I will ask Batasil to take you on its return circuit. Ask it to broker your contract for us, make sure you are released into an honorable and prosperous House. A place they'll take good care of you."
“If anyone can find you a good place to live, it's Batasil,” I added.
Thodi let out a long breath. “I guess I don't have a choice,” she said.
Ledin shook its head, and I remained silent.
“Sell me, then,” she said with a tremor in her voice, and walked out of the wagon.
I rose to follow her, but Ledin's hand on my arm stayed me.
“Let her go. Her weepiness might be anadi frailty or just shock, but she's been raised eperu. Let her have dignity."
“Dignity for freedom—I call that a poor trade, Ledin,” I said, ears sloping back.
“I know,” Ledin said. “We'll do all we can to provide for her.” It stood. “Come with me to talk to Batasil?"
I hesitated, then flicked my tail in a shrug. What else could I do for Thodi?
So as our eperu mingled in the purple shadows and yellow light of Batasil's caravan circle, Ledin and I sat in the lead wagon with cups of steaming tea. Batasil had insisted on pulling out great armfuls of plush pillows for our rumps, draping us with expensive silks “against the wind,” bringing out the nicest set of pottery it owned for our use. All so obviously out of its desire to share its wealth with us that I just couldn't be angry ... or even jealous.
“Now, you wanted to ask me something?” Batasil said, sitting across from us in the nest of pillows and silks. The incredible lace veil it wore pinned behind its ears draped over its shoulders as it leaned toward us.
Ledin put the tea cup aside and rested its hands on its knees. “A few towns back we picked up an orphan, ke Batasil. It Turned today."
“Let me guess,” Batasil said. “Anadi."
Ledin nodded, and Batasil's ears drooped. “I'd hoped to be wrong...."
“But you knew we would hardly be coming to you about a Turning eperu,” Ledin said. “And had it Turned emodo, we would have left it here to await our return, and escorted it to a better town ourselves. But an anadi...” Ledin shook its head. “We can't wait. She needs a place now. We were hoping you could take her back with you, make sure she was traded into a good House."
“You cannot do this yourselves?” Batasil looked surprised. “You would trust me to do this?"
“We are heading to the northwest,” Ledin said.
“What's northwest?"
“We don't know. That's why we're going."
Batasil blinked a few times, then laughed. “Oh, ke Ledin. You were always a risk-taker. Living on the edge of profitability. I think you like to be hungry!"
“We are eperu, ke Batasil. We can go hungry. Thodi cannot.” Ledin tapped its knees nervously. “We will not be back this way for half a year. Will you take her for us? Please, ke eperu."
“Of course!” Batasil seemed surprised. “Do you even have to ask? I could no more leave an anadi to privation than I could allow a baby to suffer. I will make sure she is taken care of."
“Thank you,” Ledin said, letting out a breath.
Batasil shook its head. “Nothing. It is nothing. Now go, enjoy my food and wine. Leave your troubles for the evening, and bring me the female tomorrow before you go."
We left the wagon, but neither of us had the spirit for a party. The Trinity had made the eperu so that we needed no true sleep ... but I wished for that brief oblivion that evening, if only to keep from wondering what would have happened had I become anadi on my final Turning at second puberty. Would I have comported myself as well as Thodi?
I counted stars, and thought not.
In the morning, we escorted a sullen Thodi to Batasil's caravan. Batasil stood waiting for us, more conservatively attired in only half the jewelry it had been wearing the evening before, the long-cloth at its hips a gauzy thing of lace and beads and gossamer. I did not doubt that this wealthy eperu, so accustomed to traveling through high circles, could find Thodi a home where she might sleep in a pile of shell if she so desired.
As Ledin and Batasil talked, I turned to Thodi. “Why don't you leave us messages?” I asked.
“Messages?” Thodi said. She held her arms crossed at her chest.
“You know our trade route. If you want, you can have a courier keep news of you for us at one of the het."
“Would that make you feel better?” Thodi asked, and I couldn't decide whether she was bitter or honestly inquiring.
“I would like to hear from you,” I said. My ears canted back. “I will miss you, ba Thodi."
“Ke Thodi, now,” she said. “I am an adult.” She lifted her chin. “Goodbye, Ekanoi."
She turned from me and strode away, head still high.
I sought some sign that Thodi did not blame us for our actions, but she never looked back at me. When I swallowed, I was surprised to taste bitter tears. Furtively, I licked my fangs clean and waited for Ledin to finish talking with Batasil.
Ledin and I walked to our wagons, where the eperu were harnessing the beasts and making preparations for our grand venture.
“I'm sorry, Ekanoi."
I glanced at Ledin. “It's not your fault."
“I know. But I grieve with you anyway. The life of an anadi is difficult to accept when you have been anything else. Even emodo have more freedom."
I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder. “Did ... did we do the right thing?"
“We did the necessary thing.” Ledin's mouth nearly made a smile. “Whether that's right or not ... I don't know."
It left me for its wagon, and I went to mine: empty now of all of Thodi's things. I sat on the driver's bench and pressed my hand to my mouth to keep from weeping.
But the beasts wanted harnessing, and I still needed to snap the sails back to make shade against the morning sun. I did my chores and fell into line behind Ledin's wagon as we made our way out of Het Ikoped and into the unknown.
Het Ikoped presented the same face to us when we unhitched our wagons there in the early spring, but I saw something different in it anyway. I saw how small it was, this collection of brick and stone houses erected against a vast sky. I saw the broken road leading southeast from its edge as a paved walkway to civilization, and Jokka, and places crowded with the familiar.
I saw that we had changed, and the world had not, and that was good.
No exotic goods clustered our wagons. On our journey we'd discovered rocks and thin slopes, and on the horizon autumn copper and scarlet suggesting hills, perhaps even a forest. We hadn't reached it before we ran out of supplies. We'd skinned the animals we'd eaten and saved their pelts, and we'd collected a few bundles of shiny rocks—nothing stunningly valuable, save to the eperu who'd seen their origins.
We would have done it again, even knowing we would have so little at its end.
I finished watering my pack animals and jogged to Ledin's wagon.
“Well,” it said, standing on the bench and breathing in the familiar air. “Shall we see what grain prices are like today?"
I laughed. “We should be trying to purchase useful cargo, Ledin. Not spending shell on dreams. It's time for prudence."
Ledin sighed. “Prudence. What fun."
“No, but necessary."
It hopped down beside me. “Let's go find a drink before we turn entirely to prudence, friend."
I glanced around Het Ikoped again, thought of how small it was, and shook my head. “So tiny. Maybe a drink will make it seem big again."
“Unlikely, but worth trying."
I chuckled.
We walked toward the wayfarer's house, talking quietly, intent only on ourselves—probably why the male almost knocked us over.
“Pardon me!” he said. “You are with the caravan, ke Ledin's caravan?"
We glanced at one another. Ledin said, “I'm Ledin. May I help you, ke emodo?"
“Ah, yes. I have been waiting to discharge a message to your caravan's members.” He opened a bag and withdrew a large package. “This is yours. Will you mark my token?"
Ledin rummaged in its pouch, and the two went through the transaction process.
“Thank you. Be well!"
We watched him go, and Ledin handed me the package: soft leather, dyed a dark blue. “What do you suppose?"
“I don't know,” Ledin said. “But let's go gather the others and find out."
Ten minutes later, the eperu of the caravan crowded around our fire pit as Ledin opened the package. It withdrew a piece of parchment, bleached pale, so fabulously expensive as to draw gasps of astonishment from the others. Then three stone boxes, each three hands tall.
Ledin's eyes widened. “Void and Brightness,” it whispered.
I looked. The paper's surface gleamed, colored chalks fixed with a layer of gum. The vibrant rendering depicted an anadi ... Thodi, her skin gleaming with soft tans and lavender, dark hair mussed over her face. She stood with her hips thrust back and her chest forward, one arm lifted above her head, and she was beautiful.
Ledin traced the words beneath the image, and read aloud for the eperu of the caravan who could not. “To Ledin and Ekanoi and all the eperu of the caravan. I told Batasil to give you everything. Please bring back something pretty from the wild for me. Thodi Pazaña-eperu, Het Makali."
Ledin opened the first box and almost dropped it. I grabbed Ledin's wrists to steady them, for I'd seen the gleam of the box's contents. Shells, hundreds of them, each as large as my thumb. The second box held the same.
“Trinity!” one of the eperu said, holding the second box reverently. “How much money must Batasil have charged for Thodi's contract?"
“Whatever it was, it must have been astronomical for this to be left after Batasil's commission,” Ledin said.
“And she left it all to us,” I said softly.
Ledin gingerly set the first box on the ground and opened the final box. In it another piece of parchment rested atop a set of gleaming jewels. The parchment read: “This is for Ekanoi."
I withdrew the gems and found in my hands a heavy waist-chain of bright silver, cabochon sapphire, and pearl. It had two clasps, meant to be hooked to an anadi kaña's navel ring ... and surely only a kaña, the Jokkad deemed most valuable in a House, could afford such a thing. Somehow I doubted the silver would tarnish.
Ledin said quietly, “This is more than enough shell to return to the northwest. Enough shell to buy supplies for several years."
“Do we want to spend it all?” one of the others said.
Ledin lifted one of the spiral shells, flawless cream and coral-pink. “We wouldn't have to.” It looked up. “Are we ready to go back?"
As with the first time, it needn't have asked.
I stood as they talked of the faraway forest and its riches, walked away to sit on the bench of my wagon. I set the heavy chain in my lap and caressed it. As I stared at its elegance, contemplated its weight, Ledin came by. It met my eyes, then handed me the parchment with the drawing and left.
I studied the rendering, touched its shining surface with my fingertips. Thodi smiled back at me, mischievous, a little sultry. Not happy, perhaps ... but content. In her navel she had a ring, heavier than the one we would have put on her ear had she remained with us. Remained eperu.
My sibling's waist chain I stored in my trunk, with my other finery. Around my hips I draped instead a fortune's worth of female jewels. And then I went to do my chores and join the celebration by the fire.
Copyright © 2001 M. C. A. Hogarth
M. C. A. Hogarth lives in stormy Florida on a plot of land owned by the neighborhood sandhill cranes. She spends days with databases and telecommunications equipment, and comes home to art sketchbooks and notebooks of poetry and fiction. You can read more about her work at her Web site.
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11/12/01
This month, I would like to profile The Starlit Jewel—a CD of music inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, and produced by Margaret Davis and Kristoph Klover.
Peggi Warner-Lalonde: I guess the obvious question is, what made you decide to do a Tolkien project?
Margaret Davis: Well, it all started due to our relationship with Marion Zimmer Bradley. Kristoph and I both knew her personally; she actually considered Kristoph her foster son. Marion had set seven of Tolkien's poems to music in 1969 and called them “The Rivendell Suite.” In 1991 we were asked by Marion's secretary if we would arrange, perform, and record “The Rivendell Suite” on cassette as a birthday present for Marion. We recorded six of Marion's settings, plus three of Kristoph's, and Marion was very pleased with the results. Only two copies were ever made of that original cassette. Then, Kristoph and I got to thinking how it might be a good idea to set some more of the songs and see if we could get permission from the Tolkien Estate to release the recording commercially. Then followed four years of communications with the Estate's lawyer, until we were finally granted a limited license to produce and sell 1000 cassettes. We were forbidden to call it “The Rivendell Suite,” so we titled it “The Starlit Jewel,” which was released on tape in 1996. In 1999, we re-petitioned the Estate for further permission to make 2000 CDs, which was granted. “The Starlit Jewel” CD is a much superior product to the tape; in the interval between recordings we upgraded our recording equipment substantially, to a computer-based state-of-the-art system, so we remixed and remastered the original recording and rerecorded several of the songs as well.
We were always careful to set the songs in a style that we felt suited the books, and as much as possible, for instruments that are either mentioned in the books (harp, pipes/flutes, voices) or that we felt suited the feel particularly (guitar, cello, fiddle). As our acoustic music backgrounds tend towards Celtic and Medieval, that's the sort of feel one finds in the music. It is very much worth noting that although Marion wrote the music for the six pieces from The Rivendell Suite, Kristoph and I arranged them and really had a lot to do with the final form of the music. We took simple melody lines and set chords to them, arranged them for multi-voices or instruments, added solo instrumental verses and obbligatos, and in one case, turned the piece into a round. We set the elvish poems to haunting, beautiful music, the hobbit songs to more spritely tunes, and the dwarvish songs to slightly ponderous music.
Kristoph and I both grew up with The Lord of the Rings, we both read it at the age of 8 or so and our creative lives were irrevocably colored by it, so it has been a wonderful opportunity to become involved with the setting of Tolkien's words.
To the best of our knowledge, we are the only American group to have been granted official permission by the Tolkien Estate to record his words and our music, although several groups from foreign countries have also been granted permission. We know of several groups, both American and foreign, who have sought permission and been denied.
PWL: How was this project different from the music that you normally do?
MD: Our current performing projects are
Broceliande is somewhat similar to The Starlit Jewel in terms of instruments and overall sound, although the arrangements are even more complex. Avalon Rising is very different.
PWL: And what is your musical background?
MD: I studied flute, recorder, and voice classically for many years and am self-taught on Celtic harp. I have done a lot of performing of Medieval, Renaissance, and Celtic traditional music. Kristoph is classically trained on voice, but has done a lot of rock music and considers himself primarily a rock musician. He is especially influenced by the Grateful Dead.
PWL: With such diverse musical backgrounds and interests, how did the two of you first start working together?
MD: We met through a mutual friend, Marion Zimmer Bradley's daughter, with whom we decided to form a band. I was impressed by Kristoph's ability to compose, arrange, and orchestrate, and by his passion for music. He was the most consummate musician I had met at that point. We both were moved from the outset to create music that would uplift and inspire the listener. I also thought (and continue to think) that he had a really great voice and I was attracted to the full-spectrum sound of the 12-string guitar, his primary instrument when I met him. I also thought he was cute and we ended up getting married.
PWL: I know that you are well-liked by the filk crowd. Do you have a lot of involvement with the science fiction community?
MD: We do. We are fans ourselves, and so are most of our friends. We attend several science fiction conventions every year, often as musical guests.
PWL: What are some of the more unusual instruments you've used in music production?
MD: Probably the most unusual was our cat Gwen, whom Kristoph played like a bagpipe. She even meowed in key. Others—jaw harp, Medieval harp, English horn, vielle (Medieval violin), hurdy-gurdy, a previously unknown percussion instrument made out of sheet metal. I guess those aren't that unusual. We occasionally go to extremes to get special effects—Kristoph recently re-created the sound of horses’ hooves with coconuts.
PWL: Are both of you involved in the studio production side?
MD: That's almost all Kristoph. He's the supreme high engineer. I do some arranging, as does he, but that's about it. Kristoph runs all of our considerable equipment and has the final word as to mixing, mic placement, recording, etc.
PWL: How does that differ from “musicianship,” i.e. crafting the performance versus crafting the recording? Or, put another way—how is an engineer different from a musician? Or are they?
MD: Well, Kristoph is both. And yes, they are different. Your average engineer is primarily a technician. He uses his equipment to capture and reproduce the sounds made by the musician, pretty much straight as they are, without any tweaking. In our case, Kristoph knows the ethos we are trying to express, and can shape and mold the recorded sounds to even more clearly put across our message. He has also recorded other musicians in our studio, primarily Irish and Eastern European groups, who have said that he has been particularly effective in recording them, that he has been the first engineer to truly capture their sound. I think this stems from his ability as a musician himself to feel where they're coming from.
PWL: What do you think is the appeal of The Lord of the Rings as opposed to say Harry Potter? Especially in terms of composing music for the world of Tolkien?
MD: I love both works, actually. However, to me The Lord of the Rings seems much more sweeping in scope, more of an epic. Tolkien really has succeeded at creating an entirely new world, complete with new languages and alphabets, whereas the Harry Potter books seem to describe more of a magical dimension nestled within the real world. The appeal of Tolkien's works is similar to that of myths, legends, or medieval romances (all of which I love as well), and therefore the music to a large extent should reflect that timeless, classic quality and the ability to utterly distance the reader/listener from everyday reality. I like to think that the best of the music we've written for the elven songs achieves this, although I must admit that the hobbit tunes come across more as relatively light folk music.
Learn more about Margaret and Kristoph's music at the home of Flowinglass Music, their label; and learn more about them at their own Web site.
Editor's Note: Margaret and Kristoph's latest recording project is “Sir Christèmas.” It's a Broceliande CD featuring songs of the winter celebrations.
Peggi Warner-Lalonde is Senior Music Editor for Strange Horizons.
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11/5/01
how does a lemon mean
now that I've painted them in class
imitating them in oily pigments
that themselves
are imitations of the fruit's spectral physics
I see them more as subjects than objects
they achieve a mystic aura
become violent stabs
incantations of light
the primal utterances of yellow
shopping for lemons
before, I would paw them let them tumble rudely
like loose gravel
rejecting those stippled with the white powder
of internal softness and decay
before, they were a bitter necessity
or a perky accent on the perimeter of my drunk
before, I thought of them bleeding milky juices
that rivered along the flesh of sea bass
or just as something that leaves sticky pulp
down the squeezer's glass-ribbed post
let's face it
before, I barely thought of them at all
now I hold up shoppers
inspecting each one for pleasing shapes
deep hues
a lack of blemishes
a certain citricness
they're thinking
gourmand
idiot
or maybe lemon snob
I'm proud to be all that
the motion of light on substance
a skin of a lemon embodies color
the yellow of dying suns
the yolk yellow of a farm-fresh egg
the shocking yellow of jaundice
the pungent yellow of sulfur
the yellow flash of finches
the yellow at the heart of Georgia O'Keeffe's lilies
the yellow that ringed Monet's failing eyesight
the amber yellow that entraps life
fantasia
in the darkness they hold to their richness
like tethered boat lanterns swinging in a blanketing fog
they haunt me larger than life
large as the skins over sports arenas
hanging like starships above me in the night
bleeding weather
and the acrid oils that bead from their pulp
my head floods with the purity of lemons
the trumpeted hues that grow more luminous
with exposure to the day
they are the fruity absolute whose essences
can dissolve the black residues
of life that ended millions of years ago
just as a truth when simplified and spoken plainly
can circumvent all the crud that accumulates
around the stem of our mortalities
the permanent value of lemons
now the thought of a good lemon can
cut like a solvent through any of my moods
Copyright © 2001 Robert Frazier
Author of over fifty published SF stories and eight collections of poetry, and a three-time winner of the Rhysling Award for SF poetry, Robert Frazier's most recent book is The Daily Chernobyl, winner of the 1999 Anamnesis Press Chapbook Award, published in August 2000 from Anamnesis Press, Palo Alto, CA. Recent writings have appeared in Nebula Awards 32 (Harcourt Brace), the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Jan. 2001, and Nantucket: a Collection (White Fish Press).
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11/12/01
We have had many visions:
the world dried like a raisin,
cracked mudflats or windblown deserts
as far as a satellite's eye could see;
or drowned liked a child in the bathtub,
sunken spires of skyscrapers
the substrate of coral reefs,
and on the liquid surface, silence;
or frozen like an ancient alpine traveler,
the rags of roads and cities
clawed to shreds by blizzards,
awakened glaciers grinding all to rubble.
But we have not had the vision
of dust-borne darkness, the world curtained
by meteors, volcanoes, or nuclear blast,
the cold, the asphyxiation, the extinction.
Copyright © 2001 Stephen R. Compton
S. R. Compton is an occasional poet; in the last century, he appeared in Star*Line, Velocities, and Alba. He works as a senior copy editor at PC World magazine in San Francisco.
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11/19/01
Frank hated the 9 miscarriages
kept in jars of formaldehyde
Mother burped each one
spooned peas against the glass
melon heads snapped open and close
she rocked them all at once in her arms
no room for Frank
"you are too big for a jar my child
you will betray me the rest of your life”
* * * *
Frank hammers
carrots
all day
it works
the earth
can't
leave us
* * * *
Frank's sister grew long blue feathers
she said it was worse than cutting teeth
she spent a month screaming in the cave
pushing them out
Frank would lie in bed at night
touching his own back
crying
praying it wouldn't
come to him
but the day his sister flew to the house
he stood by the window in awe
giant blue spread coming in across the lake
he heard the hunter's shot before she did
* * * *
Frank remembers
the shirts of buried generals
flying in formation
over schoolyards
blowing wasps from sleeves
* * * *
Frank grew crows for hands
it was a difficult childhood
at dinner during prayer
his crows flapped
excited in the name of the Lord
"FRANK! KEEP STILL!” Mother hollered
"did you wash your crows!?
did you wash your FILTHY STINKING CROWS!?”
* * * *
when Father died
Frank was found
straddling him
his crows picking the seven
gold fillings
Copyright © 2001 CAConrad
CAConrad is a poetry stevedore living in Philadelphia. His forthcoming books included COMPLETELY FRANK (The Jargon Society), and advancedELVIScourse (Buck Downs Books). He is the editor of BANJO: poets talking and he co-edits FREQUENCY MAGAZINE with Magdalena Zurawski.
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11/26/01
Brought into being
with a cosmic slap on the bottom.
Consigned to oblivion
by the blown fuse
of an imploding star.
In between,
nothing of consequence,
the weather was changeable,
the butterflies,
beautiful.
Copyright © 2001 Derek Adams
Derek Adams was born in East London, England in 1957. He has worked as a professional photographer since leaving school and has been working as a photographer at the Natural History Museum, London, since 1984. Derek has previously had poems published in Apostrophe, Poetry Nottingham, Red Lamp, Sol, Southend Poetry, Tears in the Fence, The Whistle House, and Winedark Sea (Aust.); his short stories have appeared in Udolpho, House of Pain, and Writers Muse. For more about him, visit his Web site.
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11/5/01
Hearkening back to the political and environmental challenges faced by the founding fathers of the American Revolution, Robin Hobb's Liveship Traders series tells a story of family grit and emerging nationhood that would be compelling even if it were lifted out of its fantasy setting. That the story takes place within a magical world where ships come to life, sea-serpents terrorize the oceans, and enchanted trinkets of a lost Elderling race are regularly discovered, makes the story more than compelling—it makes it an extraordinary high fantasy saga.
The swashbuckling epic begins in Bingtown, where the oldest and most distinguished families were once hardy pioneers who braved the seas and settled the dangerous coast of Trader Bay to found a colony for the monarchy of Jamaillia. In exchange for their bravery and the risks they took in taming the land, they were awarded grants and trade monopolies that helped them to rise into the merchant nobility class. Sailing on ships, made of wizardwood, which ripen into sentient awareness, the Traders helped Bingtown become a thriving city featuring exotic trade and robust traditions. But a corrupt new ruler in Jamaillia is setting Bingtown's grants and privileges aside. Pirating is becoming more prominent and more successful, sightings of the mysterious sea serpents are increasing, and slavery, though illegal in Bingtown, is flourishing.
Talk of revolution is in the air, and it is against the backdrop of this tumultuous political maelstrom that the story of the Vestrit family is told. Their changing fortunes reflect those of all the other old trader families in Bingtown. When the family patriarch dies upon the deck of the Vestrit liveship, the Vivacia, it quickens to life in the midst of a family power struggle. Althea Vestrit feels that the liveship is more than just a vessel; Althea considers the Vivacia to be a living member of her family that she has bonded with for life. So when the ship is given over to her brother-in-law to help bolster the family fortunes, Althea makes it her mission to get the ship back. While Althea would do just about anything just to serve aboard the Vivacia, her softhearted cousin Wintrow finds ship life to be a misery. Plucked from the monastery and plunged into a life for which he is innately unsuited, Wintrow's misery is exacerbated when the family decides that it will use the liveship to engage in slave trading in order to pay off the family debts.
The decision to trade in slaves catapults the Vestrit family into a tangled web of intrigue that involves the building of new nations, piracy on the high-seas, civil insurrection, liveships gone mad, and discoveries about the sea serpents that may unleash a new race upon the world; all while putting the future viability of liveships in doubt. The first book, Ship of Magic, puts all of these plotlines on the table, luring the reader into the world and weaving magic into the story so subtly and seamlessly as to make the reader forget that she's reading a fantasy novel. The second installment, Mad Ship, continues the relentless drive, adding more characters and more complications to the mix with such a fine touch that the stage never seems too crowded.
Yet, in spite of the emphasis on a complex and driving plotline, Hobb doesn't give short shrift to characterization. In fact, the development of diverse and fascinating characters may be one of her greatest strengths as an author. Her heroes are deeply flawed, and her villains are extremely sympathetic. For example, while the reader quickly comes to identify with the plight of Althea Vestrit, it soon becomes obvious that Althea has vastly overestimated herself, her rights, and the benefits to her family were she to have inherited the family liveship. She often acts rashly and exacerbates her troubles with her own poor judgments.
Althea's love interest, Brashen Trell, is the disinherited scion of another Trader Family. In spite of his worthy ambitions, his love for Althea, and his general good-hearted loyalty, Brashen is crass, self-pitying, and pedestrian. Also, Brashen is so enamored of alcohol and pleasure drugs that it's easy to understand why he was disowned in the first place. Althea's cousin Wintrow, a gentle religious prodigy, wins the reader's affection for his goodness. But his flaws, too, are immediately evident. Gullible, timid, and ultimately a follower, Wintrow often struggles against his own weaknesses. Sometimes he overcomes them; sometimes he doesn't. Through his aimless malaise, the reader recognizes the reality of adolescent tumult portrayed vividly on the page. The Paragon is a pitiable liveship that is thought to be cursed; he is so petulant, dangerous and deranged that the reader loves him, but never trusts him for a moment.
However, it isn't merely her ability to give real flaws to her characters that makes Hobb a master of characterization—it's her ability to transform. Althea's mother, Ronica, first appears to be a bitterly selfish woman who ruins the life of her daughter for financial security. But with this series, first impressions can be deceiving. Ronica soon emerges as one of the major heroines of the story. She may be too attached to the Old World and her traditions, and she occasionally doesn't see things clearly enough to make the best choices, but Ronica has true grit and stature. When asked why she's in a sour mood, Ronica unapologetically declares, “Because anything out of the ordinary rattles me, that's why.” And the reader pities her, because everything in her world has become out of the ordinary. Thus, she serves as a useful marker to show how much the political situation is changing Bingtown, and she often serves as the moral compass of the story.
Althea's cousin Malta is similarly presented to the reader so as to inspire such hatred for her that it's difficult to believe that Hobb could turn it around. But turn it around she does. The reader watches Malta grow from a spoiled brat into an admirable young woman. In truth, Hobb favors all of her female characters. Her human females are stalwart survivors. The Ophelia is so affectionately meddlesome that it's difficult to remember that she's just a ship. Even the villainous women are of a strong and self-reliant cast.
But there is no character that Hobb favors more than her pirate captain. Captain Kennit may be one of the most captivating villains of all time. By allowing readers to be first exposed to the treacherous workings of Kennit's mind, and then allowing them to see him through the eyes of his many admirers, Hobb dares the reader to judge the pirate captain harshly. This dare is made with a wink and a nudge, as if Hobb knows that her readers will find themselves making any excuse for Kennit's reprehensible behavior simply so that they can continue to root for him.
Make no mistake. Captain Kennit is a bad man, and his villainy is not the forgivable kind. But the reader never stops wanting to forgive him even in the face of his atrocities. Because of that, some have accused Hobb of sending the wrong messages by so masterfully directing affection towards him. However, most readers find the incongruity to be an unusual and guilty pleasure not found since, perhaps, Octavia Butler's Wild Seed.
This odd pleasure is enhanced by Hobb's general bravery as an author. Too few authors will allow main characters, or even beloved minor characters, to die. Even fewer will allow their characters to suffer debilitating losses. Hobb isn't afraid to kill. More, she isn't afraid to maim, disfigure, or transform. This grim devotion to realistic consequences ensures that the reader cannot predict what will happen next, and can feel no security in the ultimate outcome of the story.
Ship of Destiny, the finale to the series, is due out in paperback this November, and the terrible secret of the liveships is finally revealed. The once beguiling city of Bingtown is war torn and ravaged, three generations of Vestrit women fight for survival, and a once glorious species is at the brink of extinction. All these plots tangle into a masterful tale that leaves the reader wanting more. As if to make up for the depressing ending of her previous Farseer Trilogy and the general glum realism of all of her works, Hobb does her best to give the series as happy a conclusion as she can. She weaves all the various plots of the story into a climactic showdown between the Paragon and the Vivacia in which all the major mysteries of the series are answered.
And while she seems to rush to the climax, the fact remains that the conclusion is one that actually satisfies. She does leave the reader apprehensive about the future and the dawning of this new age. For instance, the future of the Pirate Isles is far from settled. Furthermore, the ultimate consequences of some discoveries are left dangling. Yet, the pacing of the series seems to be the most frequent complaint.
While Ship of Magic sets up an epic background, the tale seems at first to be focused on Althea. As the series expands with Mad Ship, the lives and destinies of a host of other characters come to the fore. While it's necessary to give each character a place on the stage in order to tell the wider political story, the occasionally jarring shifts in point of view seem to minimize the roles of earlier characters, as if Hobb became bored with them.
The end of the series neatly resolves all of the major story arcs, but the last book may have been too condensed and too neat. Characters are saved or killed efficiently, and the outcome of the civil insurrection is summarized briefly. The last book of the series is even noticeably shorter in length than the other two, and certain characters remain enigmatic. For example, the character of Amber only makes sense if one has read Hobb's earlier books, set in the same world. If the reader hasn't read the Farseer Trilogy, Amber's entire place in the story will be annoyingly mystifying.
Ship of Destiny makes some rather startling revelations, and the reader hungers to see the natural and psychological implications of these revelations upon the characters. But it seems that Hobb doesn't have time to explore those psychological ramifications because she has so many loose ends to tie up all at once. Perhaps if she'd resolved each plot point in a separate scene, it might have been an even more decadent read.
But my complaints are minor, and in light of the overall impression the story makes, the books are well worth reading, and deserving of the overwhelming praise they have received. Hobb has truly earned the reverential comparisons to past and present masters that have emerged from the fantasy community. By the end of the series, readers will be loathe to part company with these characters. Hobb has left herself a few openings to return to them if she likes. And, because the world Hobb has created is an extraordinary, magical place, rich with detail and full of people real enough that you miss them, I am left hoping she returns to them soon.
Stephanie Dray is a lawyer-turned-writer. She also runs an Internet game that is based upon her novel-in-progress, Firan Heroes. Read more about this free text-based role-playing game.
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11/12/01
The history of science fiction is one of thematic ages, periods where certain types of stories and particular attitudes towards mankind were the norm. Though exceptions can certainly be found, these norm-stories help us form a picture of an evolution of the genre. From the manifest-destiny stories pre-dating World War II to the freedom-driven and consequence-aware tales post-dating Hiroshima, from the loss-of-innocence and departure-of-destiny stories of the sixties and seventies to the return-to-the-local tales of the cyberpunk eighties, the science fiction of each era has been dominated by certain attitudes towards humankind, evolution, and destiny.
Now, with the weight of 70 years of genre history and a pool of readers that includes those brought to the field through all of its various thematic peaks, science fiction tales run the gamut in style and outlook. Though most are influenced heavily by more than one of the key themes, providing a broad canvas in which many different attitudes can be perceived, a few books plant themselves so firmly in the milieu of one specific period that they seemingly belong to that different time. Such is the case with Warren Rochelle's debut novel, The Wild Boy. Rochelle's novel is a nostalgic piece which feels torn from the heart of the genre world of the late sixties.
The Wild Boy begins far from Earth on the homeworld of the Lindauzi, a race of sentient mammals that appear as something of a cross between large cats and bears. We learn quickly that the Lindauzi, although they have invested the story of their beginnings with spiritual trappings, originally received their intelligence through bioengineering by an intelligent race of bipedal primates, the Iani. Lonely for others to interact with, the Iani sped the development of the Lindauzi until they had created a partner race. When a horrendous plague wiped out the Iani, it left the Lindauzi, engineered to bond in something of a psychic manner with the Iani, bereft. The Lindauzi race is slowly disappearing through suicides, ennui, and de-evolution through loss of engineered intelligence. A great civil war is fought as the Crown Prince fights for and wins the right to search out a new race to which his people can bond.
The world these Lindauzi colonists find is Earth, where the human race appears to be genetically similar to the Iani and shows a great potential for the empathy which drives the bond. But the Lindauzi are few and the humans are many, and they must be prepared to accept the Lindauzi so they can be bred to enhance the empathy. A great plague wipes out much of the human race, and in the chaos that follows the Lindauzi arrive to help humankind. Over the course of years, humans become dependent on the Lindauzi and offer more and more control to their saviors.
The Wild Boy follows the lives of three key characters generations after the arrival of the Lindauzi on Earth: Phlarx, a young Lindauzi noble; Ilox, a human male who has been bred for empathy in the great Project; and Caleb, a young wild human from a small tribe of humans who are not controlled by the Lindauzi. By slipping backwards and forwards through time and points of view, Rochelle slowly ties the lives of these three key players together.
Bred humans are referred to as “dogs” and treated as pets by the Lindauzi. Instead of the true partnership the Lindauzi had been brought to with the Iani, the Lindauzi have instead imagined a bond relationship with humans as one more akin to master and loyal, intelligent dog. Ilox, the pinnacle of the empathy breeding program to date, discovers something of the history of his people prior to the Lindauzi and much about the Lindauzi themselves as he grows older. Despite his bond with Phlarx, he is forced to flee and is taken in by a tribe of wild humans, or “wolves” as the Lindauzi call them. There he learns more about the human race and marries and fathers two sons, Davy and Caleb. But his bond with Phlarx is strong, and he returns to the Lindauzi, struggling with the conflicts between his love for Phlarx, his knowledge of history, and his love for his new family.
Flash forward to Caleb, an eleven year old boy in the tribe. He has his father's gift of empathy and is forced to flee when his tribe is attacked and all the others killed by a Lindauzi raid. He goes on a quest to find his father who had disappeared, so they can together search for the fabled Summer Country—a hot and humid land of beaches and trees where no Lindauzi live. Captured by the Lindauzi and turned into a performing “dog” made ready to compete against other “dogs,” Caleb discovers that he is soon to meet Phlarx and perhaps his long lost father. He slowly plans a daring escape. The climactic coming together of Caleb, Ilox, and Phlarx will have a vast rippling effect on the Lindauzi and on Earth itself.
Rochelle does a commendable job weaving different times and viewpoints together, making sure to reveal nothing in Caleb's time that the reader has not already discovered through Ilox. Though occasionally distracting, the use of different terminology to refer to the same things makes the differences between the races, and indeed between bred-humans and wild-humans, more evident. The characters are intriguing, and their struggles worth following.
Where Rochelle's work truly hits its stride is in the details. From the special relics treasured by Caleb's tribes (styrofoam picnic dishes, plastic utensils, pull tops from soda cans as jewelry, and a six-pack of Coors as a museum piece) to the place names and degraded prayers to Father Art in Heaven, he shows a wonderful flair for ironic details. Rochelle's picture of the remnants of humanity eking out a primitive existence among the ruins of its own greatness is thoroughly convincing. In addition, the affectations of the Lindauzi—from their religion to their language and culture and from their family structures to their overly officious interactions—show a picture of a race which imagines itself greater than it is, unable to see its own true nature for fear that its self-portrait of grandeur would crumble.
What makes this work truly nostalgic is its portrait of humanity as nothing more than another race of barely evolved creatures in a vast universe. This coming-of-age novel is reminiscent of a number of works from the latter half of the sixties and the first half of the seventies, such as those of Edgar Pangborn. Humanity survives, not through any divine right or special dispensation from the universe, but simply because we happened to be lucky or make the right choice at the right time. Our motivations and our character are no better or worse than those of the aliens, and the ruin of our society was not one we brought upon ourselves by hubris or infighting, but one that simply fell from the sky in the form of someone faster, smarter, and more advanced technologically than us.
In addition to the nostalgic qualities apparent in his portrayal of degenerated human society, Rochelle also plays with backwards-looking sensibilities in his portrayals of the relationship between Phlarx and Ilox—both males. While their love for each other, developed through the empathic bond, is clear and unambiguous, the form that love takes is both physical and distant at the same time. Rochelle shies away from expressing overt sexual behavior between the two males, while maintaining a clear and believable tension that belies the physical undercurrents—again, reminiscent of an earlier age in the genre.
While The Wild Boy was certainly an enjoyable read, it was not without flaws. On a number of occasions descriptions or references to the past contradict scenes we have already been exposed to. A short while after reading of a vacation away from Phlarx's plantation, we find an omniscient narrator reference to Ilox having never been outside the plantation. After reading of the suicide of Phlarx's mother, she is referred to a way that implies she is still considered part of the present tense. Though these continuity errors are minor, they did distract from the enjoyment of the story.
In the end, The Wild Boy is a book that takes the reader away to another time, both in story and in style. Those who enjoyed some of the works of the late sixties and early seventies, the attitudes and worldviews therein, will find themselves in the presence of the past. Those who have never read works of that era may find themselves intrigued and encouraged to seek out this rich vein of our genre's past. For it is a period steeped in both melancholy and hope, uncomplicated by a need for fate or destiny to weigh in, and where characters depend on themselves rather than a magnanimous universe for survival. Though not a brilliant book, The Wild Boy is a solid read and serves as a perfect complement to a cloudy autumn afternoon.
Rob Gates is the editor of Wavelengths, a review journal for genre works of special interest to gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered people. He is also the author of a story appearing in Bubbas of the Apocalypse from Yard Dog Press.
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11/19/01
There has seldom been a more widely read genre anthology than Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling's The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, and this year's edition should be no exception. The quality of its stories is consistently excellent, in part because Datlow and Windling have cast their nets widely in their search for great short fiction, pulling fantasy and horror tales from a vast variety of sources to tantalize and terrify readers. This volume contains forty-four short stories, eight poems, extensive summations of last year's fantasy and horror, a look at fantasy and horror in last year's media and comic markets, obituaries for the year 2000, a listing of honorable mention stories and poems, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
If I had to choose one word to describe this collection of stories and poems, that word would be “dark.” Many of the fantasy pieces in this anthology skirt the line between fantasy and horror with reckless abandon, so much so that were it not for the editor's initials on the introduction to each piece (Terri Windling initials all the fantasy pieces, while Ellen Datlow initials all of the horror pieces) the reader would be left wondering where each story should fit. Ellen Steiber's short story “The Shape of Things” is one of the fantasy stories which defies categorization, telling the tale of a teenager whose best friend foresees her own death. It would be all too easy to see such a story as a horror tale: the friend can tell things about other people, such as when something horrible is about to happen, by seeing the shape inside them. After being right about her visions several times, she finally declares that she sees her own death, which leaves the main character in an understandable quandary: does she believe her rather theatrical friend? Whether she believes her or not, is there something to be done about it? While the story is a fantasy story in the magical realism sense of the word, it certainly doesn't conform to a vision of fantasy involving elves and dwarves and wizards. Other borderline stories include “Greedy Choke Puppy” by Nalo Hopkinson, a dark tale rooted in Caribbean folklore, and “Achilles’ Grave” by Ben Pastor, a World War alternative history tale. Both of these are real world stories with darkly fantastic overlays—overlays that are unsettling, if not frightening. It seems that the real world settings serve to highlight the eeriness of the fantasy elements. While the horror side of the balance is more firmly categorized overall, there are still horror tales, such as “Man on the Ceiling” by Steve Rasnic Tem and Melanie Tem, which fit just as easily into the misty borderland between horror and dark-fantasy. To my mind, this story fits (like the previously mentioned story “The Shape of Things") as easily into the realm of magical realism as anything, since for me it tells about the magic of what it's like to be a writer, seeing the story inside your own life and telling it, whether it be wonderful or horrible. As the authors themselves say again and again, every word of this story is true.
Part of the intention of the anthology is to put side by side these two often-interconnecting genres, and to show how blurry the boundaries of the genres can be, which the editors do with their usual finesse and intelligence: it is more than likely that this focus on darker fantasy is intentional. This is not to say that all the fantasy in the anthology is dark fantasy. There are several charming tales with a lighter touch, including Charles de Lint's “Granny Weather,” an artfully told tale where an artist reaches another world through her dreams, and “Incognito, Inc.", a story by Harlan Ellison which lets us know where all the adventurers get their maps to hidden treasures. Both these stories deal directly with standard genre tools, including otherworldly magic, mysterious shops, and happy (though not necessarily predictable) endings. “Granny Weather” is a Narnia-style escape to another world, where the protagonist has to deal with both the precision of fairy-tale magic and the uncertain qualities of relationships with fairy-tale families. “Incognito, Inc.” is a story explaining why a man quits his job when the company for which he works forces him to take a bit of magic and adventure away from the world.
Although some stories in the collection use what I call standard genre tools, high fantasy is completely absent from the anthology. In her summation of the past year's fantasy, Terri Windling comments with relief that high fantasy is finally crawling out from under Tolkien's shadow and making a showing of itself, but clearly this trend, which she notes in the book market, has not made a sufficiently dazzling showing in the short story market. High fantasy's absence heightens one's awareness of the realistic bent of the stories chosen. Most of the fantasy Terri Windling includes in the book is drawn, in fact, from non-genre sources, such as The New Yorker and Colorado Review, or drawn from the adult fairy tale anthology Black Heart, Ivory Bones, which was also edited by Datlow and Windling. At least one of the fantasy tales comes from a collection of ghost stories. Only three of the stories are from the “Big Three” genre magazines, and all three of those stories are from The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. (The other two big genre magazines are Asimov's Science Fiction, and Realms of Fantasy.) This anthology's fantasy is almost exclusively mythical fantasy, folkloric fantasy, or magical realism. This is not a condemnation, as the stories are superbly written and enjoyable to read, but it is a warning to those who might find the word “fantasy” misleading.
The horror selections, however, seem to come most often from genre rather than non-genre sources. Ellen Datlow pulls many stories from sources such as Horror Garage, as well as from several different ghost story collections. One of the most disturbing tales in the collection is “The Abortionist's Horse (A Nightmare)” by Tanith Lee, one of the stories reprinted from Dark Terrors 5: The Gollancz Book of Horror. It is an eerie tale about a single pregnant woman, moving away from the city to live in a house in a small town because she thinks it will be best for her and her unborn child. As this tale emphasizes, however, one never knows what the future will bring. (I, for one, found that this tale made me very uneasy, as I'm sure the author intended.) Other particularly powerful horror tales in the anthology include “Mr. Dark's Carnival” by Glen Hirshberg, where a college professor finds out just how real Mr. Dark's Carnival is, and “No Story In It” by Ramsey Campbell, where a writer struggles to make the sale, write the story, that will help him take care of his family. The good news is that by the end, the writer does manage to take care of his family. Completely.
This anthology is made to make you think, and made to make you shiver. I have to admit that the only book that has ever made me stay up at nights was Whitley Steiber's Communion, which I never did manage to finish, but these stories occasionally made the bottom drop out of my stomach, made my heart tremble, or made me eagerly anticipate what would happen. This is the gripping kind of horror that makes you fear for your protagonist (if not for yourself), or makes you puzzle over the plot (if not live the plot), or sympathize with the narrator (if not become him): in short, these are stories that engage you, and that is always the best kind of story.
My commentary seems to beg the questions: why is it that the horror stories come from genre sources if the fantasy stories do not? Aren't the genre sources for fantasy as high quality as the horror genre sources? I believe the answer lies not in the quality of various genre publications, as some reviewers have suggested, but rather in the intent of the editors: Terri Windling has said many times that she intends her anthology to be for both genre and mainstream readers. Ellen Datlow seems to echo that opinion. My own opinion is that, thanks to writers like Peter Straub and Stephen King, horror is much more widely accepted than fantasy in the mainstream. Horror is more familiar to many readers than fantasy, and thus it is easier to introduce new readers to horror-tinged fantasy than it is to introduce them to an elf or two. There are more long-standing science fiction and fantasy magazines than there are strict horror magazines because horror can often find a home in the mainstream, which fantasy has a harder time doing. More than this, it is easy to introduce fantasy readers to borderline-mainstream stories than mainstream readers to fantasy, so by flirting with the boundaries between “fantasy/horror/mainstream” this collection gets a far wider readership than it would otherwise boast. Good stories and smart marketing make a great package for any anthology.
Another fine thing about this anthology is that it tries to showcase some of what is arguably the least noticed of all genre work: genre-poetry. The poetry in this issue, being predominantly fantasy, is almost exclusively folkloric, mythic, or fairy tale in nature, including pieces by Jane Yolen, Delia Sherman, and Neil Gaiman. My favorite of this edition's poetry is a set of two interconnected poems from Amy Wack, sketching childhood's magical nighttime visitors, “Tooth-Fairy” and “The Sandman,” in a way that is charming, interesting, and original. There's just something about the idea of the Tooth-Fairy sipping her gin with a twist that makes me smile. The poetry is also a bit gentler in tone than the fiction, which makes for a nice counterpoint.
Overall, this anthology is as well-researched and well-collected as any of its predecessors. As I have intimated, fans of horror and dark fantasy will have more to enjoy, but all of the stories are brilliantly written and knowledgeably chosen, reaffirming Datlow and Windling's savvy in the field. Combined with the summations, obituaries, and honorable mentions, this anthology becomes a must have for any fan of the fantasy and horror genres.
Erin Donahoe currently resides n the Hills of Appalachia with a black bundle of Cat Dander named Sierra. She as several poems accepted for publication (see her Web site) and plans to Dominte the World by 2003. Erin's previous publications in Strange Horizons can be found in our Archive. Visit her Web site for more about her.
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11/26/01
Tad Williams, the popular author of such fantasies as the Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn trilogy, Tailchaser's Song, and the Otherland tetralogy, has, over the last few months, begun an online serial entitled Shadowmarch. In our interview with him back in May, he explained how his experience writing long, complex, multivolume stories has taught him about writing in an episodic format, and how that would be of aid in writing the new serial: “I've learned to juggle storylines with a great deal of twists and cliffhangers—you can't expect people to follow twenty or so main characters for four thousand pages if you don't push the action along pretty well."
The first five episodes of Shadowmarch are now available as a sample for prospective readers. And, as promised, they move along nicely, both setting up future action, and providing action enough to be entertaining by themselves. There are also lively bulletin boards, some fairly impressive art, and various other extras. However, readers should be warned not to linger over the text. When read straight through, Shadowmarch can be a great deal of fun; but paying too much attention to the details could spoil it.
One could begin with criticisms of the writing itself. For example, the titular Shadowmarch is first a fiefdom ("We are on the edge of Southmarch—called Shadowmarch by some.") and then the royal domicile ("The nameless boy seemed disturbed by his first glimpse of the castle known as Shadowmarch."). Though it's certainly possible that the term applies to both, it's odd that a nickname for a region would be adopted by that region's palace. It's like Trenton changing its name to “Garden State."
Some of these confusions probably could've been avoided through more detailed world-design ahead of time. But, to be fair, one must note that Williams is writing each novella-length episode in just two weeks. Any writer who only wants to appear in public in cleanly edited prose isn't going to create a Web-serial with fan-world trappings, and anyone who only wants to read cleanly edited prose isn't going to invest time in reading Shadowmarch. So we will set such issues aside completely, and turn to the content of the story.
The northernmost civilized kingdom of the continent of Eion is called Southmarch. This geographical/semantic confusion is apparently the result of the other Marchlands having been converted into the Twilight Lands, a Serling-esque demense demarcated by a “shadowline” that appears, as the story opens, to be inching southwards. ("Shadowmarch,” then, may be not only what the other denizens of Eion call Southmarch, but also a foreshadowing device.) The first five (free) episodes follow the royal heir Kendrick, and his teenage siblings, fraternal twins Briony (a talkative tomboy) and Barrick (a goth), as they worry over the kidnapping and ransom of their father by the bandit Ludis Drakava. Shaso, a ferocious “black man” from a conquered land, is the protector and trainer of the twins, and a gruff and intimidating sort (like Gurney Halleck in Dune). Shaso stirs up tension between the pair who, as Williams so unsettlingly writes, “are bound to each other in ways close as lovers’ ways."
A second plot thread follows a couple of Funderlings (Tolkien's dwarves cross-pollinated with Weis and Hickman's Kender), Chert and Opal. The source of conflict in their case is Flint, the human child they adopt after he is abandoned by a group of menacing, black-shrouded Qar, who emerge from the Twilight Lands riding nightmare-horses. The plot threads are tied together well; to accent the sociological and metaphoric micro/macro relationship, Williams physically locates Funderling Town beneath the royal palace.
As heroic halfling Chert reports the encroachment of the Twilight Lands to kindly court doctor Chaven, mysterious orphan Flint—just in case we forgot to read the Prelude—drops furtive hints that he might be an important character in the evolving narrative. Meanwhile, Briony and Barrick hunt a wyvern, are introduced to the unpleasant breeding rituals of royal families forging alliances, and find that their family is under attack, possibly from within.
Shadowmarch, at least in its early chapters, seems to be so grounded in its genre as to be derivative. The geological names of the cave-dwelling little people, especially “Flint,” appear to be a reference to Dragonlance, while the Qar riders strongly resemble Tolkien's Nazgul, though most of the time their race resemble the Unseelie Fae. Additionally, as is all too common in genre fantasy and sf, there are vaguely racist overtones to the portrayal of the human ethnicities and demihuman species. Of course, Shadowmarch is not unique in this respect. It is not nearly so blatant as, say, the Star Wars prequel. Stereotyping speeds the pace of the plot; using easily recognized molds saves time on character development.
Considerably more disturbing is the treatment of female characters. Granted, a medieval setting is not conducive to the happiness of women, but it's not just that. The author seems to take for granted that kind-hearted Opal should be patronized by her husband. Chert's choicer comments include, “Better angry gods than an angry Opal,” and, “A childless woman is as unpredictable as a loose seam in a bed of sandstone.” Briony calls the pregnant Queen Anissa the “Loud Mouse,” and says of Anissa's maid Selia that she “walks like she's got a rash on her backside and she wants to scratch it on something.” One might excuse this by observing that Briony is a teenage girl—thoughtless sometimes, and unsettled by competition for the attention of her brother—but it's also true that Selia seems to be a French maid, dialect and all.
Still, as I said, if one simply reads the story without analyzing it, it does make for excellent entertainment. This seems somehow fitting, since I imagine the author has to write in much the same fashion, plunging headlong through the plot without time to look back. And of course, if you want to spend more time on Shadowmarch, there's more to look at than just the story.
The online culture growing around Shadowmarch is fairly complex. Various public bulletin boards solicit fan art (most amateurish, some amazing), discussion of the work's newest plot developments, and even suggestions as to how the story should proceed. An open forum, called “The Quiller's Mint” (the name of a pub in Williams’ world), where fans of Williams and Shadowmarch can congregate, has logged over a hundred thousand posts. Some very smart people have contributed to the design and functionality of the Shadowmarch site, a fact made clear by the ease of its access and usage, and the addictive nature of its social model. A newsletter (all fan-written) has been started, and a caste system, predicated on number and quality of bulletin board postings, has fostered a vigilant site-policing based on the power bestowed by fans to those among them who are the most obsessive.
The site also includes a mission statement, production diaries by Williams’ wife Deborah Beale, a map of the world, extensive backstory, an art gallery featuring the work of Matt Rhodes (whose polished style is pleasantly reminiscent of Disney, particularly Beauty and the Beast), a pair of short stories set in the Shadowmarch world, and the abovementioned bulletin boards. There is a subscription price of $14.99 for access to the episodes and art galleries beyond the first few, and various other features. The website is a fascinating one, and the presentation and technical execution is impressive. If you're not in the mood for heavy literary works, and want to pick up a guilty-pleasure series, then you should at least check out the free episodes. If you want to dive into a fannish online community from which you might never emerge—or if you're a sociologist looking to study such a community—then this is definitely the place for you.
R Michael Harman is the New Media Reviews Editor for Strange Horizons. As such, he has quite a few previous publications, which can be seen in our archive.
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11/05/01
My mother may be just like yours, or they may have only motherhood in common. I'm not sure, but I think motherhood is enough. It's a binding experience, a historical marker, like a beacon in time.
My mother raised my sister and I without a partner, something that seemed to take on more significance as the decades marched forward, rather than less. Maybe it was this way for your mother, too? Have you noticed that time hasn't healed her wounds, hasn't dulled her sense of responsibility?
Has your mother's watchful eye turned inward in recent years, fiercely protective of your childhood days, though they are long gone by? My mother guards her memories now, a sacred space I don't care to go too often. These are tearful memories, shared in solitude, long distance lines their lonely conduit. Her memories of mothering—what she did right, what she did wrong, the barriers she overcame and those she didn't.
I don't know how your mother spent her youth, but I know mine gave hers to my sister and me. She dropped out of college when she married my father, and didn't go back until I was a teenager and the ink on her divorce decree was well over a decade dry. Whatever free time she had, I can assure you she didn't spend it reading speculative fiction novels.
Today, my mother is a teacher, properly addressed as Doctor, although not even her students call her that, not to her face anyway. In the classroom, she is parenting at will—an endless stream of teenagers whose problems are a luxury to her, made lighter by the sheer virtue of not being solely her responsibility. In my mind, her chosen profession speaks to a need unfulfilled, a desire to repeat the same experiences again and again until they come out right, until they are ordered, exact.
Years ago, when I first started reading speculative fiction, and I started thinking about what it might mean to imagine a future written with different expectations, my mother didn't quite approve. She didn't think it was meaningful or important, she didn't see the relevance of the endeavor. I pointed to the works of my favorite authors, explaining time and again how much it meant to me that these writers could look critically at our world and transform it, make it new again, sharing their visions with anyone willing to take the leap.
As time passed I continued to recommend other authors, enthusing about both the utopias and dystopias that engaged me, the amazing science of science fiction, the relationships restructured and evolved in myriad forms. But it wasn't until I started to talk about parenting in the future that I began to capture her interest.
How would these Wonder Women care for their children? Would they parent in ones and twos, as we do, or would they find another way? What trials would they face and how would they be overcome?
Does your mother read speculative fiction? If not, maybe it's because she's uncertain what she'll find there. Maybe she's afraid that her role will become redundant, will be phased out in the future, that just as you've grown up, so will the world, and in time, mothers will become obsolete. I think my mother has found assurance in speculative fiction, a certain protection from obscurity, freedom from the fear of disuse.
If your mother is anything like mine, and even if she isn't, you might recommend The Handmaid's Tale to her. Maybe she read this stunning novel by Margaret Atwood years ago, maybe she didn't; either way is an excellent beginning for her journey through speculative fiction. This is a novel ripe with inspiration—a matrix of mothering, shades of surrogacy coloring the nature of parenting, calling into question the meaning of motherhood, the absolutes of right and wrong, the centrality of political versus personal—all of the great debates of my mother's generation.
But the mother/child relationship is a theme that speculative fiction authors, women authors in particular, return to again and again. It is an internal dialogue, inextricably linked to the nature of our biology, persistent and unavoidable. But speculative fiction affords us the opportunity to confront our myths and beliefs, challenges us to reaffirm our bonds, to tear them apart and reform them in new and different ways.
You might offer your mother one of Marge Piercy's novels, maybe Woman on The Edge of Time or even He, She and It. Both are inextricably bound to motherhood and family life, and they have the distinct advantage of being grounded in a reality many of our mothers are already be familiar with. My mother and I love both of these novels, although our reasons are necessarily diverse.
I find myself drawn to these children of the future, these daughters. I am compelled to watch them struggle—a silent observer, empathetic but twice-removed. They must find their own way, breaking down the barriers of time and class and race in many of the same ways we all are, working to free themselves from their mothers’ expectations and society's bonds, forging ahead with their own mistakes, mistakes written bare, exposed for us to learn from.
My mother sees things a bit differently, of course—proving that the old saying, some things never change, is, in fact, true. For one thing, a daughter has certain responsibilities to her mother, to her family, to her self. And for another, a mother's expectations are never too high—she wants only what is best for her children. In the extreme, she will kill to protect her young; she will steal to feed them; she will prostitute her morals, her intelligence, her body. It is her job, her duty, her right.
Speculative fiction allows us examine these relationships in intimate detail, from every angle, and for my mother this is its most compelling feature. The mother/child bond is a constant throughout time and place, whether we move forward or backward along the continuum, the essence of this relationship will remain fixed.
So, when I suggested Mary Doria Russell's The Sparrow, my mother was surprised by this choice. Sure, the author is female, but the subject seemed to her a bit off our usual line. She wasn't more than a few chapters into this novel before our theme emerged, a delicate weave throughout the fabric of this first contact tale, despite its male protagonist, a Jesuit priest and celibate to boot. It is the nature of parenting that is exposed here—the desire to teach and protect, to shelter, to learn, to hold oneself accountable. Poignant and dangerous, a new twist on an old theme. Surprisingly, she didn't care for the sequel, Children of God. It was too obvious for her tastes, she said; a good read, but a not a stunner like its predecessor.
I figured she would have a similar opinion about The Passion, its outcome manifest in the title, but I bought it for her anyway. This time, she surprised me! She loved Donna Boyd's tale of werewolf lore, of love lost and found, of children and parents and responsibility. I'm planning on the sequel The Promise as part of our holiday reading this year.
My mother and I tend to stick to women writers, even when the characters are male and the children aren't children at all. Why? Because it makes sense to us, because we have found that in general, women are more internal, more open to us. Of course there are exceptions, but are we being sexist and exclusionary? We don't think so. Not at all.
A.I. is an excellent example. This story was written by a legendary man, and brought to the big screen by another—both of whom are famous for their speculative vision. This story should have been perfect for us—it revolves around the concepts we've been exploring in our reading together for years. Yet, my mother and watched this movie in horror, waiting for something—anything!—to identify with. For us, this movie never had a chance. We couldn't get past the untenable parenting, and none of the rest of it mattered. Not the science, not the cinematography, not whatever threads of plot might or might not have been there.
We could forgive the child his singular purpose, his instinctive imprint and his failure to grow beyond it—after all, he was limited by his programming. But it was the mother character that we despised. Not for her cruelty, or not just for her cruelty, but for her disinterest, her irresponsibility, her refusal to be held accountable. She simply wasn't real for us—not one of our Mothers of the Future. Not one of us at all.
Speculative fiction creates the space for us to step into an alternate reality, to see the world through an ever-changing lens. It gives us the opportunity to recognize the omissions, to spot the truths and the lies and the missteps in our own histories, and to alter our current course to fit a changing world view. It changes our perceptions of ourselves and each other, redefining what is possible, illustrating each thread, each revision, each possibility. It allows our present selves to address our past selves without rancor, with the future looming ahead of us, a possibility waiting to be fulfilled.
This notion of fluidity is what keeps us moving forward, my mother and I, despite the dance of memories. Could it be this need to understand ourselves as multidimensional that propels us toward women authors? Perhaps there is a commonality there, a comfort in shared experience, however vague.
If such a bond has already been forged, threaded through time, an endless link of daughters, then we have no need to establish a starting point, a definition from which to we begin our scrutiny. We are free to enjoy the story, to go where it takes us, to stand back and point if we want to, to laugh with the characters, revel in their successes, and share in their misfortunes, without grounding our imaginations. We are free to shift our focus back and forth, from us to them, the past to the present, from our reality to theirs, to the future, the possible, and beyond.
So. Is your mother very much like mine after all? Do you think she might be passionate about speculative fiction, if you could find the right books for her, the right mix of tart and sweet to pique her interest. Maybe she's looking for a fresh perspective right now, a real-world link to her past, a common thread to our future. Maybe you can help her, if you try.
Who knows? She might pass the books she really likes along to her mother, as mine did, and your grandmother will get in on the discussion, too. It can get pretty hot in our kitchens, especially around the holidays when we're all together, our sticky fingers marking pages, mugs of tea and coffee cooling on the table. It might sound strange to you, but I promise, it's worth the effort.
After all, you don't really want to hear any more about Uncle Joe and Aunt Rita, do you? And if you have nothing else to talk about, you know you will!
Audra Bruno is a development director for Strange Horizons.