Nebula Awards Showcase 2013

by Catherine Asaro

  Thorn said, “That’s not true.”

  “It is true,” Clarity said.

  Thorn pressed her lips together, feeling impossibly burdened. Why did she have to be the reliable one, the one who was never vulnerable or wounded? Why did Maya get to be the dependent one?

  On the other hand, it was a comfort that she hadn’t abandoned Maya as she had done to the ice owl. Maya was not a perfect mother, but neither was Thorn a perfect daughter. They were both just doing their best.

  “I hate this,” she said, but without conviction. “Why do I have to be responsible for her?”

  “That’s what love is all about,” Clarity said.

  “You’re a busybody, Clarity,” Thorn said.

  Clarity squeezed her hand. “Yes. Aren’t you lucky?”

  The door clicked open again. Beyond the female guard’s square shoulder, Thorn glimpsed a flash of honey-gold hair. “Maya!” she said.

  When she saw Thorn, Maya’s whole being seemed to blaze like the sun. Dodging in, she threw her arms around Thorn.

  “Oh Thorn, thank heaven I found you! I was worried sick. I thought you were lost.”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Thorn kept saying as Maya wept and hugged her again. “But Maya, you have to tell me something.”

  “Anything. What?”

  “Did you seduce a Vind?”

  For a moment Maya didn’t understand. Then a secretive smile grew on her face, making her look very pretty and pleased with herself. She touched Thorn’s hair. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about that.”

  “Later,” Bick said. “Right now, we all have tickets for Alananovis.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Maya said. “Where’s Alananovis?”

  “Only seven years away from here.”

  “Fine. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters as long as we’re together.”

  She held out her finger for the secret finger-lock. Thorn did it with a little inward sigh. For a moment she felt as if her whole world were composed of vulnerable beings frozen in time, as if she were the only one who aged and changed.

  “We’re a team, right?” Maya said anxiously.

  “Yeah,” Thorn answered. “We’re a team.”

  The Monday before spring break I told my English lit class we were going to do Shakespeare. The weather in Colorado is usually wretched this time of year. We get all the snow the ski resorts needed in December, use up our scheduled snow days, and end up going an extra week in June. The forecast on the Today show hadn’t predicted any snow till Saturday, but with luck it would arrive sooner.

  My announcement generated a lot of excitement. Paula dived for her corder and rewound it to make sure she’d gotten my every word, Edwin Sumner looked smug, and Delilah snatched up her books and stomped out, slamming the door so hard it woke Rick up. I passed out the release/refusal slips and told them they had to have them back in by Wednesday. I gave one to Sharon to give Delilah. “Shakespeare is considered one of our greatest writers, possibly the greatest,” I said for the benefit of Paula’s corder. “On Wednesday I will be talking about Shakespeare’s life, and on Thursday and Friday we will be reading his work.”

  Wendy raised her hand. “Are we going to read all the plays?”

  I sometimes wonder where Wendy has been the last few years—certainly not in this school, possibly not in this universe. “What we’re studying hasn’t been decided yet,” I said. “The principal and I are meeting tomorrow.”

  “It had better be one of the tragedies,” Edwin said darkly.

  * * *

  By lunch the news was all over the school. “Good luck,” Greg Jefferson the biology teacher said in the teacher’s lounge. “I just got done doing evolution.”

  “Is it really that time of year again?” Karen Miller said. She teaches American lit across the hall. “I’m not even up to the Civil War yet.”

  “It’s that time of year again,” I said. “Can you take my class during your free period tomorrow? I’ve got to meet with Harrows.”

  “I can take them all morning. Just have your kids come into my room tomorrow. We’re doing 'Thanatopsis.’ Another thirty kids won’t matter.”

  “'Thanatopsis?’” I said, impressed. “The whole thing?”

  “All but lines ten and sixty-eight. It’s a terrible poem, you know. I don’t think anybody understands it well enough to protest. And I’m not telling anybody what the title means.”

  “Cheer up,” Greg said. “Maybe we’ll have a blizzard.”

  * * *

  Tuesday was clear, with a forecast of temps in the sixties. Delilah was outside the school when I got there, wearing a red Seniors Against Devil Worship in the Schools T-shirt and shorts. She was carrying a picket sign that said, “Shakespeare is Satan’s Spokesman.” Shakespeare and Satan were both misspelled.

  “We’re not starting Shakespeare till tomorrow,” I told her. “There’s no reason for you not to be in class. Ms. Miller is teaching 'Thanatopsis.’”

  “Not lines ten and sixty-eight, she’s not. Besides, Bryant was a Theist, which is the same thing as a Satanist.” She handed me her refusal slip and a fat manila envelope. “Our protests are in there.” She lowered her voice. “What does the word 'thanatopsis’ really mean?”

  “It’s an Indian word. It means, 'One who uses her religion to ditch class and get a tan.’”

  I went inside, got Shakespeare out of the vault in the library and went into the office. Ms. Harrows already had the Shakespeare file and her box of kleenex out. “Do you have to do this?” she said, blowing her nose.

  “As long as Edwin Sumner’s in my class, I do. His mother’s head of the President’s Task Force on Lack of Familiarity with the Classics.” I added Delilah’s list of protests to the stack and sat down at the computer.

  “Well, it may be easier than we think,” she said. “There have been a lot of suits since last year, which takes care of Macbeth, The Tempest, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Winter’s Tale, and Richard III.”

  “Delilah’s been a busy girl,” I said. I fed in the unexpurgated disk and the excise and reformat programs. “I don’t remember there being any witchcraft in Richard III.”

  She sneezed and grabbed for another kleenex. “There’s not. That was a slander suit. Filed by his great-great-grand-something. He claims there’s no conclusive proof that Richard III killed the little princes. It doesn’t matter anyway. The Royal Society for the Restoration of Divine Right of Kings has an injunction against all the history plays. What’s the weather supposed to be like?”

  “Terrible,” I said. “Warm and sunny.” I called up the catalog and deleted Henry IV, Parts I and II, and the rest of her list. “Taming of the Shrew?”

  “Angry Women’s Alliance. Also Merry Wives of Windsor, Romeo and Juliet, and Love’s Labour Lost.”

  “Othello? Never mind. I know that one. Merchant of Venice? The Anti-Defamation League?”

  “No. The American Bar Association. And Morticians International. They object to the use of the word 'casket' in Act III.” She blew her nose.

  * * *

  It took us first and second period to deal with the plays and most of third to finish the sonnets. “I’ve got a class fourth period and then lunch duty,” I said. “We’ll have to finish up the rest of them this afternoon.”

  “Is there anything left for this afternoon?” Ms. Harrows asked.

  “As You Like It and Hamlet,” I said. “Good heavens, how did they miss Hamlet?”

  “Are you sure about As You Like It?” Ms. Harrows said, leafing through her stack. “I thought somebody’d filed a restraining order against it.”

  “Probably the Mothers Against Transvestites,” I said. “Rosalind dresses up like a man in Act II.”

  “No, here it is. The Sierra Club. 'Destructive attitudes toward the environment.’” She looked up. “What destructive attitudes?”

  “Orlando carves Rosalind’s name on a tree.” I leaned back in my chair so I could see out the window. The sun was sti
ll shining maliciously down. “I guess we go with Hamlet. This should make Edwin and his mother happy.”

  “We’ve still got the line-by-lines to go,” Ms. Harrows said. “I think my throat is getting sore.”

  * * *

  I got Karen to take my afternoon classes. It was sophomore lit, and we’d been doing Beatrix Potter—all she had to do was pass out a worksheet on Squirrel Nutkin. I had outside lunch duty. It was so hot I had to take my jacket off. The College Students for Christ were marching around the school carrying picket signs that said, “Shakespeare was a Secular Humanist.”

  Delilah was lying on the front steps, reeking of suntan oil. She waved her “Shakespeare is Satan’s Spokesman” sign languidly at me. “'Ye have sinned a great sin,’” she quoted. “'Blot me, I pray thee, out of thy book which thou has written.’ Exodus Chapter 32, Verse 30.”

  “First Corinthians 13:3,” I said. “'Though I give my body to be burned and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.”

  * * *

  “I called the doctor,” Ms. Harrows said. She was standing by the window looking out at the blazing sun. “He thinks I might have pneumonia.”

  I sat down at the computer and fed in Hamlet. “Look on the bright side. At least we’ve got the E-and-R programs. We don’t have to do it by hand the way we used to.”

  She sat down behind the stack. “How shall we do this? By group or by line?”

  “We might as well take it from the top.”

  “Line one. 'Who’s there?’ The National Coalition Against Contractions.”

  “Let’s do it by group,” I said.

  “All right. We’ll get the big ones out of the way first. The Commission on Poison Prevention feels the 'graphic depiction of poisoning in the murder of Hamlet’s father may lead to copycat crimes.’ They cite a case in New Jersey where a sixteen-year-old poured Drano in his father’s ear after reading the play. Just a minute. Let me get a kleenex. The Literature Liberation Front objects to the phrases, 'Frailty, thy name is woman,’ and 'O, most pernicious woman,’ the 'What a piece of work is man’ speech, and the queen.”

  “The whole queen?”

  She checked her notes. “Yes. All lines, references, and allusions.” She felt under her jaw, first one side, then the other. “I think my glands are swollen. Would that go along with pneumonia?”

  Greg Jefferson came in, carrying a grocery sack. “I thought you could use some combat rations. How’s it going?”

  “We lost the queen,” I said. “Next?”

  “The National Cutlery Council objects to the depiction of swords as deadly weapons. 'Swords don’t kill people. People kill people.’ The Copenhagen Chamber of Commerce objects to the line, 'Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.’ Students Against Suicide, the International Federation of Florists, and the Red Cross object to Ophelia’s drowning.”

  Greg was setting out the bottles of cough syrup and cold tablets on the desk. He handed me a bottle of valium. “The International Federation of Florists?” he said.

  “She fell in picking flowers, “ I said. “What was the weather like out there?”

  “Just like summer,” he said. “Delilah’s using an aluminum sun reflector.”

  “Ass,” Ms. Harrows said.

  “Beg pardon?” Greg said.

  “ASS, the Association of Summer Sunbathers objects to the line, 'I am too much i’ the sun,’” Ms. Harrows said, and took a swig from the bottle of cough syrup.

  * * *

  We were only half-finished by the time school let out. The Nuns’ Network objected to the line, “Get thee too a nunnery,” Fat and Proud of It wanted the passage beginning, “Oh, that this too too solid flesh should melt,” removed, and we didn’t even get to Delilah’s list, which was eight pages long.

  “What play are we going to do?” Wendy asked me on my way out.

  “Hamlet,” I said.

  “Hamlet?” she said. “Is that the one about the guy whose uncle murders the king and then the queen marries the uncle?”

  “Not any more,” I said.

  Delilah was waiting for me outside. “'Many of them brought their books together and burned them,’” she quoted. “Acts 19:19.”

  “'Look not upon me, because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me,’” I said.

  * * *

  It was overcast Wednesday but still warm. The Veterans for a Clean America and the Subliminal Seduction Sentinels were picnicking on the lawn. Delilah had on a halter top. “That thing you said yesterday about the sun turning people black, what was that from?”

  “The Bible,” I said. “Song of Solomon. Chapter one, verse six.”

  “Oh,” she said, relieved. “That’s not in the Bible anymore. We threw that out.”

  Ms. Harrows had left a note for me. She was at the doctor’s. I was supposed to meet with her third period.

  “Do we get to start today?” Wendy asked.

  “If everybody remembered to bring in their slips. I’m going to lecture on Shakespeare’s life,” I said. “You don’t know what the forecast for today is, do you?”

  “Yeah, it’s supposed to be great.”

  I had her collect the refusal slips while I went over my notes. Last year Delilah’s sister Jezebel had filed a grievance halfway through the lecture for “trying to preach promiscuity, birth control, and abortion by saying Anne Hathaway got pregnant before she got married.” Promiscuity, abortion, pregnant, and before had all been misspelled.

  Everybody had remembered their slips. I sent the refusals to the library and started to lecture.

  “Shakespeare—” I said. Paula’s corder clicked on. “William Shakespeare was born on April 23, 1564, in Stratford-on-Avon.”

  Rick, who hadn’t raised his hand all year or even given any indication that he was sentient, raised his hand. “Do you intend to give equal time to the Baconian theory?” he said. “Bacon was not born on April 23, 1564. He was born on January 22, 1561.”

  * * *

  Ms. Harrows wasn’t back from the doctor’s by third period, so I started on Delilah’s list. She objected to forty-three references to spirits, ghosts, and related matters, twenty-one obscene words (obscene misspelled), and seventy-eight others that she thought might be, such as pajock and cockles.

  Ms. Harrows came in as I was finishing the list and threw her briefcase down. “Stress-induced!” she said. “I have pneumonia, and he says my symptoms are stress-induced!”

  “Is it still cloudy out?”

  “It is seventy-two degrees out. Where are we?”

  “Morticians International,” I said. “Again. 'Death presented as universal and inevitable.’” I peered at the paper. “That doesn’t sound right.”

  Ms. Harrows took the paper away from me. “That’s their 'Thanatopsis’ protest. They had their national convention last week. They filed a whole set at once, and I haven’t had a chance to sort through them.” She rummaged around in her stack. “Here’s the one on Hamlet. 'Negative portrayal of interment preparation personnel—’”

  “The gravedigger.”

  “'—And inaccurate representation of burial regulations. Neither a hermetically-sealed coffin nor a vault appear in the scene.’”

  We worked until five o’clock. The Society for the Advancement of Philosophy considered the line, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” a slur on their profession. The Actor’s Guild challenged Hamlet’s hiring of non-union employees, and the Drapery Defense League objected to Polonius being stabbed while hiding behind a curtain. “The clear implication of the scene is that the arras is dangerous,” they had written in their brief. “Draperies don’t kill people. People kill people.”

  Ms. Harrows put the paper down on top of the stack and took a swig of cough syrup. “And that’s it. Anything left?”

  “I think so,” I said, punching reformat and scanning the screen. “Yes, a couple of things. How about, 'There is a willow grows aslant a brook/That show
s his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.’”

  “You’ll never get away with 'hoar,’” Ms. Harrows said.

  * * *

  Thursday I got to school at seven-thirty to print out thirty copies of Hamlet for my class. It had turned colder and even cloudier in the night. Delilah was wearing a parka and mittens. Her face was a deep scarlet, and her nose had begun to peel.

  “‘Hath the Lord as great delight in burnt offerings as in obeying the voice of the Lord?’” I asked. “First Samuel 15:22.” I patted her on the shoulder.

  “Yeow,” she said.

  * * *

  I passed out Hamlet and assigned Wendy and Rick to read the parts of Hamlet and Horatio.

  “'The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold,’” Wendy read.

  “Where are we?” Rick said. I pointed out the place to him. “Oh. 'It is a nipping and an eager air.’”

  “'What hour now?’” Wendy read.

  “'I think it lacks of twelve.’”

  Wendy turned her paper over and looked at the back. “That’s it?” she said. “That’s all there is to Hamlet? I thought his uncle killed his father and then the ghost told him his mother was in on it and he said 'To be or not to be’ and Ophelia killed herself and stuff.” She turned the paper back over. “This can’t be the whole play.”

  “It better not be the whole play,” Delilah said. She came in, carrying her picket sign. “There’d better not be any ghosts in it. Or cockles.”

  “Did you need some Solarcaine, Delilah?” I asked her.

  “I need a Magic Marker,” she said with dignity.