The Big Book of Modern Fantasy

by The Big Book of Modern Fantasy (retail) (epub)

  Liu collected wild fruits for the man, who lowered his head to smell them but refused to take any. Instead, the man grabbed a handful of dirt and offered it to Liu. Liu shook his head and went to the forest spring to get water for the man to clean himself. After washing himself, it seemed the man was very old, with long thick eyebrows and white hair. It was probably due to the sedentary, immobile life he had spent in the pit, but his feet were both shriveled. His skin was sickly pale due to sunlight deprivation; the many freckles on his body only served to add to the weirdness of the man’s appearance.

  But there was something even more unusual about the man: when he first climbed out of the pit, he was overjoyed; now, he suddenly seemed stiff, like he was indifferent to and unmoved by everything and everyone in the world. He had gone blind due to the long-lasting darkness, but his hearing was acute. Liu discovered the only thing that interested the old man was the beating wings and singing of the swallows. Whenever a swallow flew inside, he would slowly turn his head to follow the slightest flapping sound, with a mysterious smile at the corner of his lips. Liu sat with him for an entire afternoon, surprisingly discovering that the old man seemed to be able to distinguish each and every swallow. Every time one of them flew into the main hall, he would turn in the direction of its nest, listening to its twittering, as if he could understand it.

  He also seemed to live off the dirt. The deep pit could very well have been the result of his own digging. Sometimes, he appeared to wake from a dream and regain a moment of consciousness. At those times, he would speak to Liu with eagerness. But Liu couldn’t understand most of it, only vaguely learning that the old man was the abbot of the temple, with the Dharma name “Wushi.” Still, Liu was patient. He went out every day to look for wild fruit and sat down with Wushi to leisurely appreciate the sounds made by the swallows. Gradually, Liu became intoxicated as well: the ethereal swallows gliding across the hollow main hall, their wings flapping as if they were a refreshing spring born of mountain rock. They landed in their own nests, singing so softly and elegantly that Liu believed it more beautiful than even the finest music ever created by man.

  Over time, he was able to follow Wushi, who was indeed the abbot of Dongke Temple. More than a decade ago, when the temple was undisturbed, all the monks kept their minds on Buddhist practice, hoping one day to become an Arhat or even reach Nirvana. One spring, many swallows arrived unexpectedly. They started to build nests and breed. The merciful Buddhists naturally let the birds be and never interfered. By autumn, all the swallows took off. But the next spring brought even more of them. Ripples were set in the formerly peaceful hearts of the monks; some became addicted to the flapping of wings and the singing of the birds, believing them to be more immensely delightful than any Buddhist teachings.

  By the third year, on a dewy morning, a monk transformed into a swallow and flew away. It was the year that the stray woodsman came to stay. Wushi asked for him to be sent back and instructed that nothing should ever come out of his mouth—as it was from this consideration that people would flood into the temple on hearing of the strange event and disturb the monks’ practice.

  By spring of the fourth year, when the swallows returned once more, half the monks in the temple transformed into swallows and simply flew away. By the fifth year, all had become swallows except Wushi, who was left alone in the empty temple.

  Despair prevailed in Wushi’s mind. He no longer meditated or recited scripture, only idly sitting in the main hall, digging and eating dirt from the ground when he was hungry. Over a decade later, a deep pit had developed, and he was trapped inside. He couldn’t get out even if he wanted to. Having sat in the dark for such a long time, his eyesight had completely gone, but his hearing improved more and more over time. He began to take an interest in the flapping and singing of the swallows. He too felt that they were far more enchanting than any Buddhist teaching, especially when the baby swallows first learned to sing—heavenly. Now, his only wish was to follow in the footsteps of his disciples and transform himself into a swallow, to soar high above the forest, to carry wet mud in his beak and to build a small nest among the beams and rafters…

  However, Wushi’s wish would never come true. One day, he tried a wild fruit brought back by Liu. At night, an excruciating pain grew in his belly. He told Liu to bury him in the pit and, after his death, cover his body with swallow droppings. Liu did as he was told.

  That spring slipped away swiftly. Soon, all the azalea flowers faded, and the last swallow had left the temple. By this time, Liu had lost any desire to return home. He just sat in the main hall quietly, peace and solitude all around. The only sound was made when night fell and the bats would fly out of the hole in the walls. They sounded like bubbles bursting, breaking the long-lasting silence. He no longer went out to collect wild fruit either. When hunger struck, he would simply dig the dirt and gulp it down. Gradually, he became like Wushi, stuck deep in a pit he had dug himself. He became blind too, but his hearing was now exceptionally acute. Every year when the swallows came back, he would sober up from his bewilderment and carefully capture every single sound made by them and become intoxicated. No one knows how many years passed. But Liu grew old. He thought he would have the same fate as Wushi, to die and be buried in the pit. But one day, he seemed to hear words being spoken.

  The voice was soft and noble: “That man has sat in the pit for a long time!” Another soft and noble voice replied: “Yes! But how interesting can it be sitting in a pit? Why doesn’t he fly out and catch worms with us?” Liu’s heart twitched. He turned and listened closely, wondering why people were dropping by all of a sudden. But the sound of flying swallows followed. He could tell they were Chuntiao and Zi’er whose nest was ten steps away on the left, next to the nest of Huahong and Naxi. He continued to follow the sounds and realized that the main hall had become very busy. Words were thrown all around: some said that there were many insects by the pool of water in the east, some said that the mud on the south was the most suitable for nest building, some were scolding a youngster for flying badly, and some were uttering sweet promises to lovers…

  Liu was first filled with joy and later with sorrow. He strived to stand up but found his feet powerless. So he stretched out both hands, trying to crawl along the wall of the pit. He wanted out but was unable to escape. Suddenly, he felt brightness in front of his eyes. He saw light radiating from above. He lifted his arm in a sharp movement, and found himself flying out of the pit and crashing into a pillar. The pain was almost unbearable, but he was ecstatic. He flapped his wings with all his strength, but quickly crashed into a wall again. He no longer cared. He fumbled his way out of the main hall, turned his tail and dashed through the green leaves. The blue sky poured in, flooding into him with an overbearing love, encompassing him…

  Many years later, the Dongke Temple was rediscovered. The azalea flowers were still blooming in front of the main gate, but all the buildings had completely collapsed. Swallows had moved their nests to the cliffs. When the light of the setting sun beamed down from behind the mountain, the swallows flew between the bright light and the darkness. Sometimes like a flock of fiery, blazing birds, sometimes like a school of green fish swimming freely underwater.

  Rochita Loenen-Ruiz (1968– ) was born and raised in the Philippines and currently lives in the Netherlands. As a university student, she studied music; in the early 2000s, she began publishing fiction, first in the Philippines, then internationally. In 2009, she became the first Filipina writer to attend the prestigious Clarion West Writers Workshop. Her story “Improvisations of an Ocean Call” was the lead story for the XPRIZE anthology Current Futures in 2019. Her stories have been published in Fantasy Magazine, Apex, Interzone, Realms of Fantasy, The Apex Book of World SF 2, Weird Fiction Review, and Weird Tales Magazine, where “The Wordeaters” first appeared in 2008.

  THE WORDEATERS

  Rochita Loenen-Ruiz

  SHE BEGAN BY chewing o
n the words he left out on the sofa at night. They were little words he’d written on a napkin and they tasted of beer and peanuts and the salt of his sweat.

  In the beginning, he used to write poems that made her weep. He created odd little tales filled with laughter, stories peopled with vicarious images, and pulsing with life.

  Nowadays, she watched him scramble for words.

  “They slip through my fingers,” he said.

  She watched him write short jagged sentences on bits of paper, and discarded boxes. Sometimes, he hissed through his teeth, his breath harsh and labored with effort. She listened to him groan in despair and her heart cracked under the weight of his sorrow.

  * * *

  —

  When they walked through the streets, she linked her fingers through his and cuddled up to him; wanting to arouse him, desiring to shake him out of the forgetfulness that made him walk like a man in a trance.

  “Sorry,” he said when she complained about it. He looked at her and shook his head.

  “Sometimes I want to write something so bad,” he said. “I can feel the words waiting to burst out, and here I am walking the boardwalk, desperate to go back home and all the while the words just keep on flowing…”

  She knew better than to tell him what she thought about his words. She’d told him before and she didn’t think she could endure another week of him languishing away beside the window, moaning about words that didn’t come as they used to.

  * * *

  —

  Nights, he came to bed late.

  After the first blush of infatuation faded, she realized he was obsessed with only one thing. Still, she stayed, believing the time would come when he would wake up and recognize his need for her.

  “I’ll stay with him forever,” she’d promised. But she was growing weary of waiting and she was filled with longing for a baby.

  One night, the moon shining through her window was a bright sliver of silver fire. It fell across the covers of her bed and she saw them. They were little creatures with skin the color of nothingness; dark eyes like an iguana’s and thin sticks for extremities. They crept up to her, and peered into her eyes.

  Wordeaters. That was what they called themselves. They did not have teeth or claws, they did not threaten or hurt her, they simply slipped down her throat like water.

  “Eat words for us,” they whispered.

  When he came up to bed, she lay still. She waited for the sound of his breathing, listened for his snores rising and falling in the quietness of the room.

  “Eat words,” they commanded.

  She sat up and dragged on her housecoat. Shivering in the dark, she made her way down the crooked stairs to the living room where he’d sat all night, drinking beer and chewing peanuts, cursing as he watched the telly.

  She found the words jotted down on a white napkin folded up to a fourth of its size.

  * * *

  —

  In the morning, he walked through the house dressed in his bathrobe. His eyes were bleary and red, and she felt guilty thinking of the words she’d consumed the night before.

  “Can’t think straight,” he said. He headed for the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer.

  She smelled the despair on his breath when he shuffled away from her.

  “I’ll be writing today.” His words bounced off the walls and she caught them on the edge of her tongue. They tasted like dried up gum, but she swallowed them nevertheless.

  * * *

  —

  Days passed and she watched him sink deeper into despair. At night, she ate the words that tasted like burnt Brussels sprouts and sour milk.

  “Please.” She whispered to the darkness as she swallowed the words. “Please make him look beyond the words and see me.”

  * * *

  —

  One morning he looked at her and she knew what he wanted even before he spoke.

  He stopped writing and got a job at the local factory.

  And her belly began to grow.

  Inside her head, the Wordeaters grew more insistent. She developed a habit of going to the library. Wandering through the rows of books she became a connoisseur in identifying authors whose works were pleasing to the tongue.

  Gabriel Garcia Marquez tasted like red wine and chocolate. Michael Moorcock was a feast of secret flavors with hints of exotic spices and expensive vodka. Virginia Woolf went down like a slice of paprika and lemon. Ernest Hemingway was tart, stinging her tongue like red chili pepper. Visions of luxurious banquets appeared before her eyes as she took in the words of ancient writers. Pliny and Plato, Aristotle and Dante. She wept as she savored their words on the back of her tongue.

  She consumed a thousand literary works. Nobel Prize winners, the classics, current history, everything written with soul in it, she ate. They left behind a satisfying, nourishing taste that made the Wordeaters inside her head burp and sigh.

  And her belly kept on growing.

  * * *

  —

  They painted the baby’s room blue with clouds floating on the ceiling and birds flying through the walls.

  “There are words on the wall,” she said.

  “Where?” he asked. His eyes searched the cloud covered ceilings and the bird dotted walls.

  “There,” she said.

  But no matter how he looked, he could not see them.

  “I’m off to work,” he said.

  He kissed her and walked out the door.

  She smiled as she danced around the bedroom. Inside her, the Wordeaters were singing.

  She opened her mouth and they floated out, they populated the walls, and filled the baby bassinet with their smell of warm earth, ripening rice, wild lilies and giant tuberoses.

  “Time,” they said to her. “Time for the baby to be born.”

  She gazed into their dark eyes and felt no fear.

  * * *

  —

  She called him Ariel.

  “Look, look how he turns to follow my voice?” her husband said. “I bet he’s a genius.”

  He leaned in close and cradling them both in his arms, and he sang a lullaby with nonsensical words that made her laugh.

  In Ariel’s bedroom, the Wordeaters were waiting. She smiled when she saw their stomachs distended with all the words she had swallowed for them.

  “Feed him,” she whispered.

  They floated around the baby, their stick limbs touching his head, caressing him.

  “Pretty baby,” they purred.

  One by one they crooned words to her baby. They gathered him up in their arms and comforted his sobs with weird songs, and jibber-jabber words.

  “Beautiful child,” they sang.

  The walls reflected the colors of their songs. They sang into him, blood-red sunsets, purple mountains, hazy green meadows, and the black of night.

  “Ariel,” they said. It was as if they tasted the sound of his name.

  They looked at her and smiled.

  “No need for fear,” they whispered.

  * * *

  —

  In the morning the Wordeaters were gone.

  She did not see the Wordeaters again and she stopped consuming books.

  Ariel grew fast. At three his vocabulary was extraordinary.

  “Constellations,” he would say. “Cosmos, curtail, constellations.”

  He smiled, rolling the words on his tongue as if tasting them before releasing them with a sigh.

  At four he told her a story about a world where dragons and unicorns lived together in harmony. Where fairies convened with naughty imps who jumped from moonbeam to moonbeam and answered the wishes of mortals on a whim.

  “Imps?” she asked. “What do you know of them?”

  He looked at her with wise eyes and smiled a slow smi
le.

  “Listen,” he said. “There are stories on the wind.”

  She strained her ears, but all she heard was the sound of the nightbird singing and the tall grass blowing.

  “What did they do to you?” She wanted to ask him.

  “Write it down,” he said. “Write down my words.”

  And he told her a story of dragons at sunset, of winds that brought news of secret wars. His words were filled with the dreams of a thousand warriors; they were heavy with the pathos of years, and dripping with the anguish of fallen nations.

  “Write faster,” he said. But her fingers were too slow and she lost some of his words and his stories when she read them were only a pale shadow of what he had said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, when she read them back to him.

  He smiled and looked at her with his eyes that were so dark she could barely see her reflection in them.

  “Tell me a story,” he said.

  And she told him the story of a woman who sat alone in her chair, waiting for the moon to come out. She told him of the silver sickle moon, of Wordeaters sliding down the moonbeam onto her bed, of the words she had eaten and the way they tasted.

  When she was done with telling, he was fast asleep.

  She held him in her arms and sang the songs that her own mother sang when she was a child, and she cried a little because she didn’t know how to soothe the ache inside her heart.

  “If only we could stay like this forever,” she whispered. “There would be no need to say good-bye.”

  It was dark in the house when her husband came home. In the bedroom, the sheets of white paper were scattered around the bed like fallen leaves.

  “Ariel,” he whispered.

  He ran his fingers over the words.

  A breath of wind fluttered the pages in his hands and from outside the window, a flame of light illuminated the dragons rising up from the page. He watched them tumble in graceful flight. Green-gold fire licked at the pages, curling the edges, turning them to ash.