by Tricia Reeks
“The birds,” I said. “When a baby’s born, it’s taken up there the next time Maderakka rises.”
Petr’s shoulders slumped. He looked sick. It gave me some sort of grim satisfaction to go on talking, to get back at him for his idiocy.
I went on: “The birds lay their eggs. Not for long, just for a moment. And they leave something behind. It changes the children’s development . . . in the throat. It means they can learn to sing.” I gestured at myself. “Sometimes the child dies. Sometimes this happens. That’s why the others avoid me. I didn’t pass the test.”
“You make yourself hosts,” Petr said, faintly. “You do it to your children.”
“They don’t remember. I don’t remember.”
He stood up, swaying a little on his feet, and left.
“You wanted to know!” I called after him.
***
A latecomer has alighted on the rock next to me. It’s preening its iridescent wings in the morning light, pulling its plumes between its mandibles one by one. I look away as it hops up on Petr’s chest. It’s so wrong to see it happen, too intimate. But I’m afraid to move, I’m afraid to flee. I don’t know what will happen if I do.
***
The weather was so lovely I couldn’t stay indoors. I sat under the awning outside my workshop, wrapped up in shawls so as not to offend too much, basting the seams on a skirt. The weaver across the street had set up one of her smaller looms on her porch, working with her back to me. Saarakka was up, and the street filled with song.
I saw Petr coming from a long way away. His square form made the villagers look so unbearably gangly and frail, as if they would break if he touched them. How did they even manage to stay upright? How did his weight not break the cobblestones? The others shied away from him, like reeds from a boat. I saw why when he came closer. I greeted him with song without thinking. It made his tortured grimace deepen.
He fell to his knees in front of me and wrapped his arms around me, squeezed me so tight I could feel my shoulders creaking. He was shaking. The soundless weeping hit my neck in silent, wet waves. All around us, the others were very busy not noticing what was going on.
I brought him to the backyard. He calmed down and we sat leaning against the wall, watching Saarakka outrun the sun and sink. When the last sliver had disappeared under the horizon, he hummed to test the atmosphere, and then spoke.
“I couldn’t stand being in the village for Saarakka. Everyone else talking and I can’t . . . I’ve started to understand the song language now, you know? It makes it worse. So I left, I went up to that plateau. There was nothing there. I suppose you knew that already. Just the trees and the little clearing.” He fingered the back of his head and winced. “I don’t know how, but I fell on the way down, I fell off the path and down the wall. It was close to the bottom, I didn’t hurt myself much. Just banged my head a little.”
“That was what made you upset?”
I could feel him looking at me. “If I’d really hurt myself, if I’d hurt myself badly, I wouldn’t have been able to call for help. I could have just lain there until Saarakka set. Nobody would have heard me. You wouldn’t have heard me.”
We sat for a while without speaking. The sound of crickets and birds disappeared abruptly. Oksakka had risen behind us.
“I’ve always heard that if you’ve been near death, you’re supposed to feel alive and grateful for every moment.” Petr snorted. “All I can think of is how easy it is to die. That it can happen at any time.”
I turned my head to look at him. His eyes glittered yellow in the setting sun.
“You don’t believe I spend time with you because of you.”
I waited.
Petr shook his head. “You know, on Amitié, they’d think you look strange, but you wouldn’t be treated differently. And the gravity’s low when closer to the hub. You wouldn’t need crutches.”
“So take me there.”
“I’m not going back. I’ve told you.”
“Gliese, then?”
“You’d be crushed.” He held up a massive arm. “Why do you think I look like I do?”
I swallowed my frustration.
“There are wading birds on Earth,” he said, “long-legged things. They move like dancers. You remind me of them.”
“You don’t remind me of anything here,” I replied.
He looked surprised when I leaned in and kissed him.
Later, I had to close his hands around me, so afraid was he to hurt me.
I lay next to him thinking about having normal conversations, other people meeting my eyes, talking to me like a person.
***
I’m thrifty. I had saved up a decent sum over the years; there was nothing I could spend money on, after all. If I sold everything I owned, if I sold the business, it would be enough to go to Amitié, at least to visit. If someone wanted to buy my things.
But Petr had in some almost unnoticeable way moved into my home. Suddenly he lived there, and had done so for a while. He cooked, he cleaned the corners I didn’t bother with because I couldn’t reach. He brought in shoots and plants from outside and planted them in little pots. When he showed up with lichen-covered rocks I put my foot down, so he arranged them in patterns in the backyard. Giant Maderakka rose twice; two processions in white passed by on their way to the plateau. He watched them with a mix of longing and disgust.
His attention spoiled me. I forgot that only he talked to me. I spoke directly to a customer and looked her in the eyes. She left the workshop in a hurry and didn’t come back.
***
“I want to leave,” I finally said. “I’m selling everything. Let’s go to Amitié.”
We were in bed, listening to the lack of birds. Oksakka’s quick little eye shone in the midnight sky.
“Again? I told you I don’t want to go back,” Petr replied.
“Just for a little while?”
“I feel at home here now,” he said. “The valley, the sky . . . I love it. I love being light.”
“I’ve lost my customers.”
“I’ve thought about raising goats.”
“These people will never accept you completely,” I said. “You can’t sing. You’re like me, you’re a cripple to them.”
“You’re not a cripple, Aino.”
“I am to them. On Amitié, I wouldn’t be.”
He sighed and rolled over on his side. The discussion was apparently over.
***
I woke up tonight because the bed was empty and the air completely still. Silence whined in my ears. Outside, Maderakka rose like a mountain at the valley’s mouth.
I don’t know if he’d planned it all along. It doesn’t matter. There were no new babies this cycle, no procession. Maybe he just saw his chance and decided to go for it.
It took such a long time to get up the path to the plateau. The upslope fought me, and my crutches slid and skittered over gravel and loose rocks; I almost fell over several times. I couldn’t call for him, couldn’t sing, and the birds circled overhead in a downward spiral.
Just before the clearing came into view, the path curled around an outcrop and flattened out among trees. All I could see while struggling through the trees was a faint flickering. It wasn’t until I came into the clearing that I could really see what was going on: that which had been done to me, that I was too young to remember, that which none of us remember and choose not to witness. They leave the children and wait among the trees with their backs turned. They don’t speak of what has happened during the wait. No one has ever said that watching is forbidden, but I felt like I was committing a crime, revealing what was hidden.
Petr stood in the middle of the clearing, a silhouette against the gray sky, surrounded by birds. No, he wasn’t standing. He hung suspended by their wings, his toes barely touching the ground, his head tipped back. They were swarming in his face, tangling in his hair.
***
I can’t avert my eyes anymore. I am about to see the pro
cess up close. The bird that sits on Petr’s chest seems to take no notice of me. It pushes its ovipositor in between his lips and shudders. Then it leaves in a flutter of wings, so fast that I almost don’t register it. Petr’s chest heaves, and he rolls out of my lap, landing on his back. He’s awake now, staring into the sky. I don’t know if it’s terror or ecstasy in his eyes as the tiny spawn fights its way out of his mouth.
In a week, the shuttle makes its bypass. Maybe they’ll let me take Petr’s place. If I went now, just left him on the ground and packed light, I could make it in time. I don’t need a sky overhead. And considering the quality of their clothes, Amitié needs a tailor.
Contributors
Charlie Jane Anders is the author of All the Birds in the Sky, a novel coming in early 2016 from Tor Books. She is the Editor-in-Chief of io9.com and the organizer of the Writers With Drinks reading series. Her stories have appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Tor.com, Lightspeed, Tin House, ZYZZYVA, and several anthologies. Her novelette “Six Months, Three Days” won a Hugo award. Website: http://CharlieJane.com
Aliette de Bodard lives in Paris, where she has a day job as a System Engineer. In between programming and mothering, she writes speculative fiction–her stories have garnered her two Nebula Awards, a Locus Award and a British Science Fiction Award. Her newest novel, House of Shattered Wings, is set in a devastated Paris where rival Houses fight for influence–and features fallen angels, Vietnamese dragons and entirely too many dead bodies. Website: http://aliettedebodard.com
J.D. Brink - If taking a college fencing class, eating from the trash can, and smelling like an animal were qualifications for becoming a sword-swinging barbarian, J.D. Brink might have been Conan’s protégé. Instead he’s been a sailor, spy, nurse, and officer in the U.S. Navy, as well as a gravedigger, insurance adjuster, and school teacher in civilian life. His work has appeared in Pseudopod.org, Tales of the Talisman, Ascent Aspirations, and Cemetery Moon, and his novels Hungry Gods and Tarnish have been published by Fugitive Fiction. Website: http://brinkschaostheory.blogspot.com
Leah Brown is a biomechanical engineering student and a fiction writer living in Golden, CO.
Carla Dash resides with her husband and two cats in Quincy, MA, where she video games, teaches English Language Learners, and occasionally squeezes in some writing.
Terry Durbin is a writer of suspense, horror, and other less classifiable fiction. He’s a husband, father, grandfather, and proud caretaker to two remarkable dogs. His books Chase, The Legacy of Aaron Geist, and his short story collection, Reflections in a Black Mirror, are available from Amazon. http://www.amazon.com/author/terrydurbin
Keith Frady is a short story writer living in Atlanta, GA. He has been published in Eunoia Review, Gravel: A Literary Journal, Drunk Monkeys, and Bewildering Stories. He hopes to write a Batman comic one day, and to publish a collection of his short stories in the near future. Twitter: @Keith_Frady
Hugh Howey is the author of the acclaimed post-apocalyptic novel Wool, which became a sudden success in 2011. Originally self-published as a series of novelettes, the Wool omnibus has been a #1 bestselling book on Amazon.com and is a New York Times and USA Today bestseller. The book was also optioned for film by Ridley Scott, and is now available in print from major publishers all over the world. Hugh’s other books include Shift, Dust, Sand, The Shell Collector, the Molly Fyde series, The Hurricane, Half Way Home, The Plagiarist, and I, Zombie. Hugh lives on a boat that he hopes to sail around the world. Website: http://www.hughhowey.com
G. Scott Huggins makes his money by teaching history at a private school, proving that he knows more about history than making money. He loves writing both serious and humorous fiction. When he is not teaching or writing, he devotes himself to his wife, their three children, and two cats. He loves good bourbon, bacon, and pie. If you have any recipes featuring one or more of these things, Mr. Huggins will be pleased to review them if accompanied by a sample.
Michelle Ann King writes science fiction, fantasy and horror from her kitchen table in Essex, England. Her work has appeared in various venues and anthologies, including Strange Horizons, Daily Science Fiction, and Unidentified Funny Objects 2. She loves Las Vegas, zombie films and good Scotch whisky, not necessarily in that order. Her short stories are being collected in the Transient Tales series, and she is currently at work on a paranormal crime novel. Website: http://www.transientcactus.co.uk
Morgen Knight is an award-winning horror/thriller author living in Kansas City. She is currently working with her agent on the release of her debut novel. Website: http://morgenknight.wordpress.com
Matt Leivers - When he isn’t writing, Matt Leivers runs a small record label. When he isn’t doing that, he plays in psych-folk oddbods United Bible Studies. When he isn’t doing that, he’s an archaeologist. He lives in England with his girlfriend and cats. Visit him on Twitter at http://twitter.com/MALeivers
Dan Micklethwaite does most of his writing in a small, wet town in the north of England. He escapes vicariously via his short fiction, which has traveled extensively and internationally, to such wonderful, exotic locales as Timeless Tales, Birdville, AE SciFi, BULL, 3:AM, Litro, and the Missing Slate, in whose New Voices competition he was runner-up in 2014. His debut novel, a contemporary riff on Don Quixote set in aforementioned small, wet town, is due for release in 2016. Website: http://smalltimebooks.blogspot.co.uk
Michael Milne is a writer and teacher who lives in Suzhou, China. He teaches little kids all about using periods and capitals and juicy words, so he does that really well. He roams the world looking for the best bowl of noodles.
Mel Paisley is an illustrator, activist, and peddler of strange stories working out of Savannah, GA. Their work centers around using fairytales to open up a dialogue on mental illness that surmounts stereotype while expanding imagination. When not writing or painting, they work as the head publicist for Douleur Magazine, scour Wikipedia, and get overly excited about pilfered color swatches and cracks in the sidewalk. They have been published previously in the Port City Review and Psyched Magazine, and featured in nine gallery exhibitions. Currently, they are working on a novel length illustrated storybook about a boy who’s mind takes a walk out of his body and gets pulled through the water of a Holocaust survivor’s painting in 1950s New York City. Website: http://melpaisley.tumblr.com
Holly Phillips is Canadian. Some people think that’s all you need to know about someone, and in her case this may be true: she is frequently polite, often drinks beer, and will wear a toque if it’s cold enough. She’s also an omnivorous reader, a hard-core sleeper, and a yoga-mat owner. She hunts lattes with her partner Steven through the mean streets of Vancouver, BC.
Shannon Phillips lives in Oakland, CA, where she keeps four chickens, three sons, a dog, and a husband. Her first novel, The Millennial Sword, is about the adventures of the modern-day Lady of the Lake in San Francisco. Website: http://joshannonphillips.com
Kyle Richardson writes about shape-shifters, superheroes, and the occasional clockwork beast. He currently lives in the suburban wilds of Canada with his adorable wife Michelle, their squirmy little son Kai, and an imaginary dragon named Chloe who scorches everything she eats. He also works as an Assistant Editor at Meerkat Press, where he’s constantly impressed by the imaginations of contributing writers.
A. Merc Rustad is a queer non-binary writer and filmmaker who lives in the Midwestern United States. Favorite things include: robots, dinosaurs, monsters, and tea. Their stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Fireside Fiction, Daily Science Fiction, Escape Pod, Inscription Magazine, Scigentasy, and Vitality Magazine. When not buried in homework, Merc likes to play video games, read comics, and wear awesome hats. Website: http://amercrustad.com
Steve Simpson lives in Sydney, Australia, mostly. He has a paid job but the voices at night tell him to write speculative fiction. He thinks it might be the neighbors. Simpson’s hobbies include experiments with negative light
and time travel, and research on epileptic seizure detection. Info on his short fiction, poetry, and other random stuff can be found at: http://www.inconstantlight.com
Jody Sollazzo grew up in the suburbs of New York City. She now lives in Northern California with her partner, their dragon-loving daughter, and food-loving dog. She works in mental health, disability rights, and anti-bullying. Always a fan of bad timing, she is also achieving her life long dream of being a writer. Her short stories appear in several anthologies. She is working on a novel that is a role reversal of Beauty and the Beast that takes place in a prep school with time-traveling fairies with disabilities. Blog: http://thatdisabledmom.blogspot.com/
David Stevens lives in Sydney, Australia, with his wife and four children, where he teaches law. His stories have appeared in Crossed Genres, Aurealis, Three-Lobed Burning Eye, Pseudopod, Cafe Irreal, and elsewhere. Website: http://davidstevens.info
Karin Tidbeck is the award-winning author of Jagannath: Stories and the novel Amatka. She lives and works in Malmö, Sweden, where she makes a living as a freelance writer. She writes in Swedish and English, and has published work in Weird Tales, Tor.com, Words Without Borders anthologies like Fearsome Magics and The Time-Traveler’s Almanac. Website: http://www.karintidbeck.com