Fictions

by Nancy Kress

  “Maybe,” I said, glad that she was talking to me at all. There hadn’t been much conversation lately. Karen had refused any more marriage counseling and had turned silent, escaping me by working in the garden. Our roses are the envy of the neighborhood. We have Tuscan Sun, Ruffled Cloud, Mister Lincoln, Crown Princess, Golden Zest. English roses, hybrid teas, floribunda, groundcover roses, climbers, shrubs. They glow scarlet, pink, antique apricot, deep gold, delicate coral. Their combined scent nauseates me.

  I remember the exact moment that happened. We were in the garden, Karen kneeling beside a flower bed, a wide hat shading her face from the sun so that I couldn’t see her eyes.

  “Karen,” I said, trying to mask my desperation, “Do you still love me?”

  “Hand me that trowel, will you, Jeff?”

  “Karen! Please! Can we talk about what’s happening to us?”

  “The Tahitian Sunsets are going to be glorious this year.”

  I stared at her, at the beads of sweat on her upper lip, the graceful arc of her neck, her happy smile.

  Karen clearing away Allen’s dinner dishes, picking up his sloppily dropped food. Lucy with two fingers in her mouth, studying her chess board and then touching the pieces.

  No. Not possible.

  Karen reached for the trowel herself, as if she’d forgotten I was there.

  Lucy Hartwick lost her championship to a Russian named Dmitri Chertov. A geneticist at Stamford made a breakthrough in cancer research so important that it grabbed all headlines for nearly a week. By a coincidence that amused the media, his young daughter won the Scripps Spelling Bee. I looked up the geneticist on the Internet; a year ago he’d attended a scientific conference with Allen. A woman in Oregon, some New Age type, developed the ability to completely control her brain waves through profound meditation. Her husband is a chess grandmaster.

  I walk a lot now, when I’m not cleaning or cooking or shopping. Karen quit her job; she barely leaves the garden even to sleep. I kept my job, although I take fewer clients. As I walk, I think about the ones I do have, mulling over various houses they might like. I watch the August trees begin to tinge with early yellow, ponder overheard snatches of conversation, talk to dogs. My walks get longer and longer, and I notice that I’ve started to time my speed, to become interested in running shoes, to investigate transcontinental walking routes.

  But I try not to think about walking too much. I observe children at frenetic play during the last of their summer vacation, recall movies I once liked, wonder at the intricacies of quantum physics, anticipate what I’ll cook for lunch. Sometimes I sing. I recite the few snatches of poetry I learned as a child, relive great football games, chat with old ladies on their porches, add up how many calories I had for breakfast. Sometimes I even mentally rehearse basic chess openings: the Vienna Game or the Petroff Defense. I let whatever thoughts come that will, accepting them all.

  Listening to the static, because I don’t know how much longer I’ve got.

  STONE MAN

  Here’s a walk down the Mean Streets of today’s big cities, which can be made even meaner by battling wizards—unless j/ou can get a little help from your friends . . .

  Nancy Kress began selling her elegant and incisive stories in the midseventies and has since become a frequent contributor to Asimov’s Science Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, OMNI, Sci Fiction, and elsewhere. Her books include the novel version of her Hugo- and Nebula-winning story, “Beggars in Spain,” and a sequel, Beggars and Choosers, as well as The Prince of Morning Bells, The Golden Grove, The White Pipes, An Alien Light, Brainrose, Oaths and Miracles, Stinger, Maximum Light, Probability Moon, Probability Sun, Probability Space, Crossfire, and Nothing Human. Her short work has been collected in Trinity and Other Stories, The Aliens of Earth, and Beaker’s Dozen. Her most recent book is the novel Crucible. In addition to the awards for “Beggars in Spain,” she has also won Nebula Awards for her stories “Out of All Them Bright Stars” and “The Flowers of Aulit Prison.”

  JARED Stoffel never even saw the car that hit him. He ollied off the concrete steps of the Randolph Street Rec Center down onto the street and was coming down on his skateboard when wham! his butt was smacked hard enough to rattle his teeth and Jared went down. A second before the pain registered, he threw up his arms to shield his face. The Bird-house went flying—he saw it in the air, wheels spinning, a moment before his body hit the street. All at once he was smothered under a ton of stones he couldn’t breathe he was going to die and someone was screaming but it was mostly the rocks—God the boulders flying to land on top of him, under him, everywhere . . .

  Everything went black.

  “YOU with us yet, child?”

  “Rocks.” It came out “bogs.” Jared put his hand to his face. The hand stopped an inch away on his swollen mouth.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Who.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Breeday.”

  “Just rest a while. You took a nasty fall.” The blurry old nurse dressed in some stupid pants with yellow ducks on them stuck a needle in Jared’s arm and went away.

  When he came to again, everything was clearer. A TV on a shelf high up near the ceiling droned out some news about an earthquake someplace. An old man in a white coat sat in a chair by Jared’s bed, reading. Jared tried to sit up, and the man rose and eased him back down. “Just stay quiet a little longer.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Perry Street Medical Center. You got hit by a car while skateboarding, but you have nothing more than two fractured ribs and a lacerated hand. You’re a very lucky young man.”

  “Oh, right. Just lousy with luck.” The words came out correctly; his lips weren’t nearly as swollen. The tiny room had no windows. How long had he been in here?

  “I’m Dr. Kendall and I need some information. What’s your name, son?”

  “I’m not your son.” Jared lay trying to remember this accident. Shawn—he’d been skateboarding with Shawn. Shawn had yelled when Jared got hit. “Shawn?”

  “Your name’s Shawn? Shawn What?”

  “I’m not Shawn, dumb-ass. He’s my friend, with me. Where’s Shawn?”

  The doctor grimaced. “Some friend. He took off running as soon as the ambulance arrived. What were you two doing that he didn’t want to get caught? Never mind, I don’t want to know. But I do need to know your name.”

  “Why?”

  “To notify your parents, for one thing.”

  “Forget it. She won’t come.”

  Something moved behind the doctor’s eyes. He glanced up at the TV, still showing pictures of an earthquake, then returned to watching Jared closely. Too closely. The guy was maybe fifty, maybe sixty, with white hair, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a—was he even really a doctor? Jared said, “Hey, stop staring like that, sicko.”

  “Ah,” the doctor said sadly. “I see. Damn. But I still need to know your name. For the records we—”

  “I don’t got any insurance. So you can just let me out of here now.” Again Jared tried to sit up.

  “Lie down, son. We can’t release you yet. Now please tell me your name.”

  “Jared.”

  “Jared What?”

  “None of your business.” If he didn’t say any more, maybe they’d throw him out of here. The doc said he wasn’t hurt bad. He could crash at Shawn’s. If Ma saw him like this, she’d smash the Birdhouse for sure. She—“Hey! Where’s my deck?”

  “Your what?”

  “My deck! The Bird! My skateboard!”

  “Oh. I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  “You mean you just left it in the street?” Gone now, for sure. And it had been a huge set of trouble to steal it!

  Again that strange expression in Kendall’s eyes. He said quietly, “Jared, I will personally replace your skateboard, buy you a brand-new and very good one, if you will answer some questions for me first.”

  “You? Buy me a new
deck? For giving you what?”

  “I already told you. All you need do is answer some questions.”

  “Nobody gives away new decks for free!”

  “I will, to you.” Kendall’s eyes, Jared saw, were light brown, full of some emotion Jared didn’t understand. But he wasn’t picking up rip-off vibes from the man. Hope surged through him. A new deck . . . maybe an Abec four . . .

  He squashed the hope. Hope just got you hurt.

  Kendall reached into his pocket and drew out a wad of bills. “How much does a good skateboard cost?”

  Jared’s eyes hung on the money. He could get a Hawk deck . . . good trucks and wheels. . . “Two hundred dollars.” Maybe the old guy didn’t know what stuff cost.

  Kendall counted ten twenties and held them out in his closed hand. “After you answer three questions.”

  “Just three? Okay, but better not try anything perv.”

  “First, your name and address.”

  “Jared Parsell, 62 Randolph.”

  Kendall withdrew his hand. “You’re lying.”

  How did the old bastard know? “Wait, don’t put the money away. . .I’m Jared Stoffel, and I live at 489 Center Street.” When he lived anywhere at all. Ma, strung out on crystal most of the time, only noticed when he screwed up, not when he stayed away. She was pretty lame about time.

  Kendall said, “When were you born?”

  “April 6, 1993.”

  Closing his eyes, Kendall moved his lips silently, as if figuring something. Finally, he said, as if it mattered, “Full moon.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Now the last question: How did all those stones get around you during the hit-and-run?”

  “What?”

  “When the ambulance arrived, you were lying on, and were covered with, small stones. They appear to have come from a flower bed on the other side of the Recreation Center. How did they get with you?”

  A vague memory stirred in Jared’s mind. Rocks—he was being smothered with rocks, and someone—him—said “bogs.” And Shawn yelled something as Jared fell, something Jared couldn’t remember now . . . Jared had thought the rocks were in his mind—something from, like, the pain of the accident. Not real. But maybe. . .

  Kendall was watching him sadly. Why sad? This old psycho gave Jared the creeps.

  “I don’t know anything about any stones.”

  “You and Shawn weren’t playing some game involving the stones? Throwing them at cars or something?”

  “Jesus, man, I’m thirteen, not eight!”

  “I see,” Dr. Kendall said. He handed the two hundred dollars to Jared, who seized it eagerly, even though leaning forward caused pain to stab through his torso. Jared moved his legs toward the end of the bed.

  Kendall eased them back. “Not yet, son, I’m afraid.” He looked even sadder than before.

  “Get your hands off me! I answered your stupid questions!”

  “Yes, and the money is yours. But you can’t leave yet. Not until you see one other person.”

  “I don’t want to see any more doctors!”

  “It’s not a doctor. I’m a doctor. Larson is a . . . well, you’ll see. Larson!”

  The door opened and another man entered. This one was young, big, tough-looking, with long hair and a do-rag. He wore a leather jacket and gold necklace, serious gold. A dealer, maybe a gangbanger, maybe even a leader. Or a narc. He stood at the end of Jared’s bed, big hands resting lightly on the metal railing, and stared unsmiling. “So is he, Doc?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure? Never mind, I know you don’t make mistakes. But, God. . .look at him.”

  “Look at your dumb-ass self,” Jared said, but even to him the words sounded lame. Larson scared him, although he wasn’t going to admit that.

  “Watch your mouth, kid,” Larson snarled. “I don’t like this any better than you do. But if you are one of us, then you are. The doc doesn’t make mistakes. Damn it to hell anyway!”

  “If I’m what? What am I?” Jared said.

  “A wizard,” Dr. Kendall said. “You’re a wizard, Jared. As of now.”

  LARSON left the explanations to Kendall. With a disgusted look over his shoulder at the hospital bed, Larson stormed out, slamming the door. Jared caught the scandalized look of a passing nurse just before the door shook on its hinges.

  “A wizard. Yeah, right,” Jared said. “Any minute now I’m gonna turn you into a pigeon. No, wait—you’re already a pigeon if you believe that crap.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” Kendall said. “During your accident you summoned those rocks. The smoothest stones from the flower bed flew through the air and landed on you, under you, around you. You skidded across the pavement on them as if on ball bearings. That broke your fall, maybe saved your life.”

  “Right. Anything you say.”

  “You were born under the full moon, also a requirement, although we don’t know why. You—”

  “And you’re a wizard, too, huh?”

  “No,” Kendall said sadly, “I’m not. I can spot one, is all, and so the Brotherhood uses me.”

  “Uh-huh. So you can’t, like, show me something wizardy right now, and Larson left before he had to. Convenient.”

  “Nothing ‘wizardy’ could be done here anyway. Not here, in the presence of metal. Not by any wizard now living.” Kendall leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “Magic is very old, Jared, much older than even the most primitive civilization. It governs only the things found in nature, and it cannot operate near to the things that are not. The only reason you could summon those stones at all is because your skateboard went flying, you weren’t carrying a cell phone, and you had on pull-on running shorts with no zipper.”

  “You leave my shorts out of this,” Jared said. “How come I never did any magic before, huh? You tell me that?”

  “That’s easy. Your accident. The ability to do magic, among those who possess it at all, is only released in the presence of pain.”

  “Pain?”

  “Yes, Jared,” Kendall said quietly. “Everything in life costs, even magic. The price is pain.”

  This was the first thing the old man had said that made any sense to Jared. He knew things cost. He knew about pain.

  But the rest of it was pure psycho bull. And bull with a reason. He said, “So now you tell me I’m going to one of those wizard schools, huh? Like in that book? Only guess what—it’ll really turn out to be just another lock-down, like Juvie.”

  “There is no such thing as a wizard school. All we have is the Brotherhood, and that all too inadequate to its task.”

  “Listen, this sucks. I’m outta here, man. What do I gotta sign?”

  “You’re a minor. A parent must sign your release forms.”

  “Like that’s gonna happen. My mom’s strung out most of the time and my dad’s long gone. You wait on a parent, I’ll be here forever. Where’s my clothes?”

  “You can’t—”

  “Watch me. I ain’t waiting here for Child Services to stick me in a foster home. And I ain’t listening to no more of your bull, neither.”

  “You can talk better than that when you want to,” Kendall said. “I’ve heard you do so. Here, if you’re really going—no, your shoes are in that cupboard over there—take this. It’s my home address. You can come see me anytime you want, Jared. For any reason.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.” He found the shoes, finished dressing, and walked out of the medical center. He had to lean twice against walls to do it, breathing deeply and fighting his own stomach, but he did it.

  “Welcome to the Brotherhood, Jared,” Kendall said sadly.

  “Forget you,” Jared said.

  IT was a week before he could make it out of the house. He lay in his bedroom, fighting the pain, distracting himself with the songs on the radio and with the Game Boy he’d stolen three months ago. Ma had sold the Xbox, but he’d hidden the Game Boy and the radio behind the broken dishwasher, and she hadn’t found them. He
should have gotten painkillers before he left the clinic. The old doc would probably have given him some, but Jared hadn’t thought of it. Fortunately, it was one of the times when there was food in the house. Ma’s new guy, whom Jared encountered in the kitchen in his underwear, liked to eat well.

  After a week the bedclothes, not too clean to begin with, stank, but Jared felt better. He knew he was better because he was bored. The day after that he dressed and went out. He didn’t find anybody on the street. Then he remembered that school had started.

  He walked to Benjamin Franklin Middle School, scowled at the security guard, and passed through the metal detector. When classes changed, kids flooded into the halls.

  “Hey! Shawn!”

  Shawn Delancey glanced up from the girl he was talking to, and a strange expression crossed his face. He nodded coolly. Jared hobbled over to him.

  “I’m back, man.”

  “Yeah, I see.”

  “So what you doing here? In school?”

  Shawn didn’t answer. He turned back to the girl, without introducing her. Jared felt his face grow hot.

  “Hey, you dissing me, Shawn?”

  “I’m busy right now. Can’t you see that?”

  This had never happened before. He and Shawn were tight, had always been tight. The girl snickered. Jared limped away.

  The prick, the bastard . . .

  But he couldn’t let it go. He caught Shawn later, leaving school after fourth period, carrying his deck. Jared stepped out from an alley and said, “Shawn. What’s wrong, man?”

  “Nothing. I gotta go.”

  Anger and hurt made him desperate. “Dude, it’s me! Me!”

  Shawn stopped, turning from embarrassment to anger. Maybe, Jared suddenly thought, they were the same thing. “Just leave me alone, Jared, okay? I don’t need you and your lame crap!”

  His crap. He didn’t have any crap except . . . it was weird and stupid, but he couldn’t think of anything else. He said quietly, testing, “The stones?”

  “I don’t know how you did that, but . . . just leave me alone!” Shawn hurried off.