Asimov's SF, October-November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  And found himself back inside the house. “All right!” he said, shouting. “Enough is enough! What do you want from me?"

  Everything turned black again. Then a new scene took shape around him, slowly, the unseen painter filling out another canvas.

  A room formed out of the dark, a different one this time. It was shaped like an egg, the floor and walls curved. A door stood in front of him; he made his way toward it carefully, but as he suspected it was locked.

  He glanced up and saw two windows high above him, too far to reach. A telescope looked out of each of them. And above that there was nothing, black paint, a blank space waiting to be filled.

  It was a head, he realized. The windows were eyes, the door a mouth. A ladder materialized against the wall. He began to climb.

  He reached one of the telescopes and looked through it. Stars and planets swam past him, then a woman perched on a crescent moon, combing her hair. An omnibus came by, and changed into a hearse. A locomotive roared through the blackness, skeletons sitting and grinning at every window. A sun moved toward him, growing until it filled the circle of the eyepiece.

  The sun came closer still. He could see a city on its surface now, a street, a house. A window, and another skeleton looking out.

  It was moving too fast, they would collide at any minute. He cried out, jerked away from the telescope. He ran farther up the ladder, not thinking now, wanting only to get away. He reached the black space and went through.

  There was nothing inside it, nothing at all. He waited for the artist to begin painting again, but the darkness remained. He felt out toward the ladder, but it was gone.

  “Stop it!” he shouted. “Stop it! What do you want from me? I'll do it, whatever it is. Anything. Just let me go!"

  The blackness pressed in around him. He flailed outward, trying to touch something, anything. “What do you want from me?” he said again.

  He shouted some more. He screamed without words, hoping to hear an echo. Nothing came.

  He began to wonder, finally, how he was able to stand. He sat and reached out around him and felt some kind of floor, smooth and even. He beat against it with his fists, but it made no noise. It's made out of darkness, he thought. Everything here is made out of darkness.

  He stood and walked forward carefully, his hands out. He came to the curved wall and felt along it; it was as smooth as the floor. He hit it a few times, angrily, but nothing happened.

  He sat against the wall and stared into darkness. He stood and shouted for a while, at Méliés, the unknown painter, the darkness. He sat back down, drew his legs up, clasped his hands around his knees. He rocked slowly back and forth. He stood up and screamed again.

  He passed a long time like this, how much he never knew. And finally he understood something, he knew where he was. He was in his own head.

  And he was nothing, no one. Not a husband, not a father. Not a good man. He had done something, stolen something...

  The blackness lightened, and Méliés appeared before him. Méliés stood in his half-finished studio; light shone on him through the glass, and he was holding a pane of glass too, with a section blacked out at the top. He pointed to the glass and said something, silently, as if he were in one of his moving pictures.

  Stevens flushed, remembering that day. All right, perhaps he had stolen the idea. But really, what difference did it make? Méliés would have given it to him anyway, he had even said so.

  It wasn't the theft, though. It was afterward, when the guilt of what he had done had begun to worm its way through his gut. He'd tried to forget, tried to put as much distance as he could between them. Tried to despise the man, because otherwise he would have despised himself.

  And so he had turned away when Méliés had asked for help. He had denied their bond, had taken the pure gold of Méliés's generosity and never repaid it.

  He stood up and spoke into the empty space around him. “I don't know what you want,” he said. “I don't know what I can do, after all this time. I think you want me to say that I'm sorry. And I am. I am sorry."

  Nothing happened. He was still inside his head. I'm not a good man, he thought again. And I don't think I can bear my own company for very much longer.

  The darkness began to lift. He heard other sounds finally, after what seemed like a lifetime of his own screaming. Footsteps, voices. The whistle of a train, and the screech of brakes.

  He was back in the train station, near the platforms. He twisted his head back and forth, panicked, expecting at any moment to see a part of the station disappear into blackness.

  He had to move, to hurry, had to break out of the fear that held him. Méliés might not have meant to let him go, might return at any moment. Someone came toward him out of the crowd, a smiling old man with a mustache and goatee. He ran.

  There was his platform, up ahead. He ran faster. A train passed him, screaming as it braked. He glanced up. Skeletons looked out from every window, their eyes empty.

  He stumbled, cried out. When he looked again the skeletons were gone, replaced by living men and women. He must have imagined it; he'd been confused by the harsh light of the station.

  The train stopped. The doors opened, and he hurried up the stairs. He'd lost his luggage, he saw. He didn't much care.

  * * * *

  He went back to Hollywood, and to his paintings. He worked hard, trying to keep busy, trying not to think about what had happened in Paris. Sometimes, though, despite his best efforts, he would falter, and then darkness would rise up around him, and his mind would create impossible things, castles and devils breathing fire. Once he saw a hearse drive past and he stood pinned to the street, unable to move for terror.

  Sometimes, even worse, he would see nothing but the darkness, and his old despair would return, the feeling that he was nothing, was empty. That he had acted badly, had wronged an old friend.

  The moments were brief, no more than a second or two. When he came back to his real life he would wonder how long his mind would play tricks on him this way, when he would finally be able to put his experience in the train station behind him.

  But the black moments also reminded him of what he had discovered about himself, and he tried to be as generous as Méliés once was. He encouraged the younger artists at the studio, showing them things he had learned over the years: tricks of perspective, how to paint clouds. He took an interest in his children; he even tried to be patient with Adele.

  Yet he never wrote to Méliés, though he thought about the other man a great deal. At first he could not decide what to say, where to start. Then he realized that it was his shame that held him back, and by then it was too late, too much time had passed.

  He did some research, and talked to a few people, and finally he sent a letter to the Ciné-Journal in Paris. He wrote that he had seen Georges Méliés working in a train station, that that was a shameful way to treat a pioneer of film, that something should be done.

  A while later someone from the journal sent him an article. It was by a journalist named Léon Druhot; it said that Druhot had “discovered” Méliés, that a gala was being planned in Méliés's honor, that a cache of films had been found. Someone had even offered the old man an apartment; Stevens contributed money to it, anonymously.

  He was sixty when he retired. He moved to Arizona, met a widow, married her. He began to feel content with his life, and the darkness came less and less often.

  The sunsets in Arizona were amazing, gold and saffron and purple, like nothing he had ever seen. They looked like a backdrop, as if a portion of the sky had been blacked out and a painting of spectacular colors filmed in its place. He enjoyed looking at them, most of the time.

  Sometimes, though, he wondered about the unseen artist behind them, the magician who had created the illusion. He remembered the skeletons on the train, and the other things he'd seen since then, the pictures he'd put down to his imagination. And horror would sweep over him, and he would wonder if all his life since his last meeting w
ith Méliés had been one long illusion, if he had ever truly left the train station.

  Copyright (c) 2007 Lisa Goldstein

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  * * *

  Poetry: THE ANGEL WHO WRITES

  by Ruth Berman

  The angel who writes you down

  In the Book of Life

  Has to be really good

  At spelling

  And calligraphy

  In every alphabet.

  -

  An angel's feather

  Sharpened not too sharp

  And not too square

  Writes thick or thin

  As the downstroke

  Or the sidestroke

  Of a character demands.

  -

  Angel ink glows

  Brighter than felt-tips

  Colors ranged

  Like a rainbow after storm

  Or sundogs on the winter sky.

  -

  The angel illuminates

  Your capitals.

  -

  Good year or bad

  The angel writes you down

  Attentive to your lot

  Nothing it with care

  And elegance.

  -

  Before the alphabet

  The angel

  Did hieroglyphs on scrolls

  And before that hands

  Shadowed on the cavewalls of the sky.

  -

  —Ruth Berman

  Copyright (c) 2007 Ruth Berman

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Short Story: THE TURN

  by Chris Butler

  Chris Butler was born in Nottingham, UK, in 1964 and now lives in the city of Brighton & Hove. His short fiction has appeared in Interzone, GUD, and Albedo One, and his first novel, Any Time Now, was published by Wildside Press. Chris is currently working on his second novel. His latest news can be found at www.chris-butler.co.uk. In his first story for Asimov's, Chris takes a bizarre look at the mysterious voyage that leads up to...

  Quill could see nothing through the fog. He stood at the prow of The Raft, buffeted by the wind, trying to block out the dreg chatter. Precious water trickled down through the netting of The Fin, farmed from the mist, but still he wished for the clear skies of the morning. Or rather, he wished Oat would return.

  He heard the familiar fizz of a canister launch from the port side, and turned his head to follow it. The wind hissed off the rim of his hat, while in the distance he heard the canister strike the ground and cast its contents into the surrounding dirt, just short of the jungle.

  The Raft moved on, its base flying above the dust. Quill returned his attention forward and heard the slow, tired beat of wings. At last. The scout appeared out of the white. When he touched down on the deck he stumbled a step. An extra beat of his wings brought him back to his feet. He leaned forward and heaved air into his lungs.

  “Oat,” Quill said, “you were gone so long. Was it the strong winds delayed you?"

  The women gathered round. Sower threw a blanket over the scout's wings and shoulders. “Quill!” she said. “Let the little grub catch his breath."

  But the scout clutched at Quill's tunic and stopped him from backing away. “No, archer. Not the wind, nor the mist.” Oat's eyes went wide as he spoke. “I saw The Turn!"

  The archer stooped down and grabbed the scout by the arms, steadying him. “Turn? Are you certain?"

  More dregs came forward, talking excitedly. The scout nodded. “I flew a long way out, just to be sure."

  “How far?” someone called out.

  “Less than two days at Raft speed,” he said.

  Other questions were called. “What was it like?” and “Did you see the Chorus?” But the boy's head lolled forward, and he seemed too tired to say any more.

  “He's exhausted,” Sower said, “let him rest.” The archer nodded and they led the boy over to the water trough at the base of The Fin. He watched them fill a cup and press it into the boy's hand. On this occasion, Quill didn't mind; in a few hours they had farmed enough water to last them all for several days.

  He went back to the prow, where The Raft rumbled beneath his feet and spat hot oil into the wind. If he had wings of his own he would fly out to see for himself. When they were a little closer he would send more scouts. Quill took the hat from his head and held it against his chest. His hands felt big and clammy. His bow lay heavy across his broad shoulders.

  Soon, then, would come the moment every archer trained for, but few ever knew. He tried to imagine the mist cleared and The Turn come into view, but in his mind's eye he could only see the same horizon as always. For generations it had been the same: the mass of the jungle to port, endless dust to starboard, and he had not thought there would be any change in his lifetime.

  * * * *

  Night fell as the mist cleared, leaving no time for hunting. Quill took no more than a glance at the stars, then went below deck and made his way through the crowded corridor to his bed. He pulled his hat down over his eyes and tried to settle down in his blanket, but there was too much noise, too much excitement buzzing around him, and he barely slept that night. He feared The Turn. He hated to admit it, for he had always thrown scorn on those who feared to go above deck, or those who were afraid to fly; but there it was, twisting in his gut.

  In the morning he stretched to work out the knots in his limbs, then set off in the direction of the Engine Room. People hushed as he went by. A child dreg watched him in fascination while he waited for the lift. Quill did not care for the attention. A day earlier he would have been treated no differently than any of them.

  At last he heard the lift ascending and then the doors opened with a loud squeal. “You should oil your pulleys,” Quill said to the lift attendant.

  Mons locked the vertical ropes, leaned a little to one side, and his gaze tracked along the line of the thinner ropes operating the doors. “You have a point,” he said. “Are you coming in or just standing there?"

  Quill frowned and stepped inside.

  Mons worked the ropes with his massive arms and the lift descended down to the level of the Engine Room. “I hope you won't forget us little people,” the brute said, and the lift rattled against the walls of the shaft as he laughed.

  Quill smiled and shook his head slightly as he stepped out. And smiled again as the stink of sweat assaulted him on entering the Engine Room.

  “Heave,” the crew called as they hauled on the chains with practiced precision. They leaned forward, pulled back, and the cry rang out with every eighth beat of the nome.

  “Well, well. Quill Archer,” Fraz said. The steward's bright blue eyes glistened, as if playing deliberately with the void-light. “To what do we owe this honor?"

  “I just wanted to see a friendly face,” Quill said. He went forward, almost up to the void from which the two heavy chains emerged. They were only visible inside the Engine Room, no sign of them outside The Raft, though logically they should stretch away fore and aft. He held his hand up and let the links brush against his fingers as the crew heaved. Quill's gaze followed the chain back to the aft void. “The links are sound?"

  “Never seen a bad one,” Fraz said.

  “Keep an eye on them anyway."

  “It's definite, then? We really are coming to The Turn?"

  “Oat says it is just as the records claim: a wall barring the way, bigger than you can imagine and stretching from horizon to horizon."

  “Any sign of the Chorus?"

  “Not yet."

  Fraz shook his head. “Didn't think I'd live to see it. Tomorrow morning, I'm told."

  “Yes. Tomorrow we will be there.” Quill put his hand on Fraz's shoulder. “Pick your finest team. We shall need all the speed they can muster."

  Fraz sniffed and nodded.

  * * * *

  Quill stood at the port rail, the light fading, his gaze fixed on the edge of the jungle. Sometimes there was good hunting in the last moments
of the day, when the nocturnals first appeared, not yet fully awake. As if on cue, a Mool hopped out onto the dust and paused. Quill let fly an arrow and pierced it through the chest.

  A scout flew out and collected the last catch of the day. Quill stared into the dark knots of the trees, then up into the restless shimmer of the canopy. He turned away, went to the starboard side and watched the sun setting.

  A slim dreg girl came and sat down beside him. Elin had been born to a large litter, he remembered. There were so many of them now; too many mouths to feed, really, but what could be done? “That's lovely,” she said, staring out into the distance. “Just look at that amber glow on the dust. It's just beautiful, isn't it?"

  Quill said, “Can you imagine seeing it on the port side?"

  The dreg slapped the deck with her tail excitedly. “Oh, just think of it. I can't wait to see it. How about you?"

  Quill sat down beside her, landing a little heavily. “Sorry,” he said.

  “No problem, Quill Archer,” she said. “Practically an honor.” She brushed her whiskers with her small hands. “You can knock me over any time."

  Quill decided to ignore this, and persisted with his melancholy. “I cannot imagine seeing the sunset on the port side. But I will see it. It is my duty, and I will not fail those who have put their trust in me."

  The girl looked at him and smiled. “I wish I could see that part. When you fire the arrow. Oh, I wish I could see that part."

  Quill nodded. There was only so much space above deck; not many would see the moment when he let fly the most important arrow of all.

  “Have you heard that Oat is ill?” the girl said, her mood changed.

  Quill had not heard of it. He said good night to the girl and went immediately to investigate.

  * * * *

  He was shocked to see loose feathers scattered on the bed, and the boy's wings were withered and edged with brown, like a plant that tried to grow in the dust. Oat's mother fussed over him. And Sower was there, and others too.