by S. T. Joshi
“Oh, but you cannot leave without first seeing the garden. You like gardens, don’t you? She was so very proud of it, and I’ve managed to make some interesting additions of my own.”
It took little effort to nudge the young man toward the back of the house and into the kitchen. He could barely stand, which made him no match for Mister Ainsley, even with his aging joints and increasingly confused architecture.
The poor fellow was staring into the sink. Mister Ainsley looked down in dismay—he had forgotten to clean that bit up.
Pieces of an animal’s desiccated corpse lay spread across the cast iron surface. Fur and bone and spoiled flesh made a kind of goulash whose original form Mister Ainsley could no longer remember. Worse, teetering on the lip of the sink was a fork with dark pieces of the animal’s meat still speared on the tines.
“I do apologize for this,” he said. “I tend to be an impulsive eater. I can never predict what might taste good, so dining has become a trial-and-error affair, I’m afraid.”
The young fellow’s eyes darted. His cheeks appeared polished to a high sheen. The freckles were like a mottled pattern buried under a warm, transparent shellac, providing a bit of tasty texture to the tender skin. Mister Ainsley looked away in embarrassment and pushed the young man out the back door before he could respond. The setting sun was still bright, but the tall plants tended to filter it.
“It is an impressive sight, if you will forgive the braggadocio. Glorious colors and smells, do you agree? My wife was very proud. I always thought it a tragedy that a woman with such a keen interest in gardening should suffer from congenital anosmia. My poor dear was born with no sense of smell at all. Of course, if she hadn’t, I’m not sure our relationship would have been possible, much less last as long as it did.”
The young man stared at him, then struggled to turn around, reaching for the door. Mister Ainsley batted the hands away and turned his guest back around. “No, no. None of that. Enjoy the garden, if you will. Drink in the day. Just let me show you what you are missing.”
Mister Ainsley proceeded to guide the young man around the garden, nudging him along step by step like a reluctant bride. Many of the plants had broad, enormous leaves and were far taller than the norm. They had a fleshiness, a substantiality, that he found reassuring. “For years my wife dumped my bath water out here—can you imagine? She was quite ecologically minded— she hated the wastefulness she saw everywhere. Initially I had no interest in the garden—I had little interest in anything, really— but then it began to remind me of all that I had forgotten.”
There was a slight rise in the ground near the back fence. Mister Ainsley took his guest to the top of this subtle elevation and pointed. “You can see the beach from here most days, and some suggestion of the ocean beyond. That was where she found me, washed up into that debris-embellished sand, barely breathing, my flesh shredded, the trip having worn my memories almost to nothing. She was a small woman, but determined. She dragged me through that field and up that incline there. She had a history of collecting things, but I believe I was her greatest prize.”
Mister Ainsley continued the tour, although it seemed his guest had lost interest. He pushed him around and around that yard, with each revolution featuring some new thing—something bloomed, something turned to display a new angle, something receded, something shyly brought forward. Eventually they came to that specimen whose extent was now the farthest, and the most spectacular. It was tall and pale, and the main portion of its body was shaped like a gigantic rounded star fruit (which supposedly Mister Ainsley had only seen in photographs, but he believed this was not the full truth of it). Its legs were like the cabriole legs on classical Greek and Chinese furniture, serving more like a stand for its body’s support, since that wasn’t its primary method of locomotion. For it had wings as well, enormous, transparent, fan-shaped combs on several sides, their surfaces wrinkled like cabbage leaves. And the head of this flower—if it could have been described as a flower—were stamen topped with these eye-shaped structures. The slits along its sides were reminiscent of gills, but they were looser, and filled with what appeared to be eggs. Its aroma, its atmosphere, was all-inclusive.
“That—that’s a plant?”
Mister Ainsley turned to the young man in surprise, because he hadn’t really expected to hear from him ever again. “I actually don’t know. I’ve always thought of it as a kind of reminder of a life I once had—of a life that perhaps no longer exists.”
His guest tried to run, but he obviously suffered from diminished capacity. After a few steps he fell to the ground, and Mister Ainsley bent over him to apologize.
Those freckles proved impossible to resist. It was all genetics, really. Mister Ainsley couldn’t help himself—his manners had always been instinctual.
Satiety
JASON V BROCK
Jason V Brock is an award-winning writer, editor, scholar, filmmaker, and artist whose work has been widely published in a variety of media (Weird Fiction Review print, S. T. Joshi’s Black Wings series, Fangoria, and others). He describes his work as Dark Magical Realism. He is also the founder of a website and digest called [NameL3ss]; his books include A Darke Phantastique, Disorders of Magnitude, and Simulacrum and Other Possible Realities. He has compiled the documentary films Charles Beaumont: The Life of Twilight Zone’s Magic Man, The AckerMonster Chronicles!, and Image, Reflection, Shadow: Artists of the Fantastic.
“Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn.”
—GORE VIDAL
1
THE PRIVATE HELICOPTER’S BLADES SLOWLY WOUND to stillness as the powerful whine of the Pratt & Whitney Canada PW210S engines faded into the approaching twilight.
In the distance, the glowing nightscape of Dubai slowly revealed itself as the sun slipped below the horizon, dragging the last ochre flames of another day behind it. The muted azure of nightfall gradually cloaked the sprawling city and the lifeless desert beyond in a velvety prelude to the impending brilliance soon to be displayed by the unfolding canopy of the Milky Way. Fading into view through the scrim of darkness that now blurred the line between the inky nighttime depths of the Persian Gulf and the boundless void of outer space, the massive skyscrapers of Dubai’s spiky skyline sparkled and shimmered like jewels cleaved from multi-hued gems as wisps of fog began to roll in off the evening sea, swallowing the gently lapping surf of the pristine coastline and hazing the traffic streams and homes hundreds of feet below the massive hotel Burj al-Arab tower in impressionistic smears of colored mist.
Near the scaffolding that connected the helipad to the roof of the Burj al-Arab, a saffron-colored windsock fluttered stiffly in the cool winds coming off the darkened Gulf. Once the rotors had been secured by the ground crew, a member of the hotel’s concierge walked up to the aircraft, his monstrous shadow looming over the luxurious four-seat executive Sikorsky S-76D as he strode past the flood lights that illuminated the landing area; the other three members of the greeting party— one holding a large bouquet of roses and other flowers, another a serving tray with two flutes of champagne, the last cradling a 24-carat gold-and-diamond encrusted iPad—waited stoically. The bespectacled man, who appeared to be in his late fifties, was stocky, dark-skinned, and attired in a sharply tailored charcoal-gray Armani suit; a black halo of curly hair, gently ruffled by the nocturnal breezes, ringed his high forehead. Opening the door to the passenger cabin, the hotelier lowered the retractable boarding steps and smiled faintly at the couple inside; through the window in the cabin divider, the pilot, a young Asian woman, nodded her acknowledgment from the cockpit before returning to her paperwork.
Welcoming them with warm formality in a rounded British accent, he said, “Good evening, Lord Vanderbulle and Ms. Lyghes! Most welcome to Burj al-Arab. Please watch your step as you exit. I am called Om, and I shall be assisting you this night.”
2
AS ANASTASIA STARED OUT ACROSS THE MESMERIZING panorama of Dubai from the huge
windows of the gigantic two-bedroom Royal Suite, she was stunned by the stark beauty of the clear desert night; pulling the collars of the hotel robe close around her neck, she felt relaxed, sedate. The rough terrycloth felt good against her nude body. Nearly five hundred feet below and several miles distant from the man-made island that the hotel was situated on, she could just make out the busy activities of people as they went about their nightly business in one of the most exclusive places in the world.
Focusing momentarily on the sight of the massive bedroom reflected in the window glass, she noted that he was still in the four-pillared soaking tub. Closing her eyes, she relished the mysterious aromas of myrrh, sweet vanilla, and sharp frankincense wafting from the dining area as the sound of his splashes and quiet singing reverberated from the huge marble, glass, and hand-decorated tile lavatory. Opening her eyes again, she returned her gaze to the window, marveling anew at the ornate and lavish furnishings of the room, reversed in the dim reflection: multiple bright red and richly black throw pillows adorning a large divan and an accompanying chaise longue, both upholstered in embroidered beige silk and emeralds; black marble end tables with solid gold lamps highlighted in platinum and studded with blood-red rubies. The magnificent chamber itself—its thirty-foot ceiling and walls softly lit and decorated in yellow, pink, and orange hues accented with 24-carat gold trim—was anchored by the king-size, rotating canopy bed, above which was suspended an enormous round beveled mirror. She smiled in remembrance of the love they had recently made as her gaze played over the thickly knotted red and gold bed sheets.
Beyond the city, her attention was abruptly drawn to distant flashes of lightning on the dark horizon, pulling her out of this waking reverie. He appeared from the bathroom, dressed in a robe, scrubbing a thick towel over his still-damp hair. He smiled slightly at her as he blotted his face dry.
“Nothing like the water here, did you notice? Feels fantastic after a hot day of sightseeing,” he said.
She turned to face him, her hands in the pockets of her wrap. “I agree. And . . . this place! My god, I’ve never seen anything like it!”
He laughed, draping the towel around his shoulders. “I come here every year during the Festival. My accountant says I may as well enjoy myself while I burn through some of the cash. Can’t say I disagree. What’s twelve thousand dollars a night if you can swing it? Last year I stayed for the whole month of January—”
She arched her eyebrow. “All by yourself? In this . . . mansion on the Persian Gulf?”
He reddened faintly. “Ha! Well, I suppose we don’t need to get into that too much, come to think of it. Let’s say I had a few friends over from time to time.”
She arched her other brow, nodding her head in silent comprehension. “I see. Well, that was then, as they say.”
He walked over to the bar and poured himself a Scotch, two fingers, neat: “Yes—and this is now. You want anything?”
“Sure, why not? I’ll have what you’re having.”
He poured her drink; bringing it over, they stared out at the cityscape. The storm was getting closer. After a few more moments of contemplation, she announced that she was going to ready herself for dinner.
“Excellent,” he replied, checking his Patek Philippe as she retired to the lavatory. “Our reservations at Al Muntaha are in half an hour.”
3
“SO TELL ME MORE ABOUT YOURSELF,” SHE SAID, gently swirling her glass of Pinot Noir and inhaling the aroma before taking a sip. The piano player performed a gentle rendition of “Killing Me Softly” in the background. “For starters, is that your real name?”
He smiled, his eyes catching the gleam from the ambient lighting of the tabletop candles. He leaned back in his chair, smoothing his tie after unbuttoning his suitcoat. “It is, actually. My brother’s name is Scotty; he’s a reverend in California by way of New Mexico. Has a couple bad marriages behind him, as most of us do. Sort of went crackers a few years ago. We’re originally from Alaska, and the remnants of our family are mostly back there. I have a few cousins in Florida, too. I suppose we tend to gravitate toward extremes.”
She crossed her arms, squeezing her cleavage together and letting it spill out of the low-cut black dress as she leaned forward on the table, a mischievous grin bowing her scarlet lips. “Really? So Lord is really your first name? I guess I can say I’ve bedded a Lord now.” She giggled.
He took a crust of bread from the basket on the table, spreading a pat of butter on it while mighty Dubai glimmered through the windows, providing a dazzling backdrop as lightning from the slow-moving storm flickered behind it.
“Well, I guess you can,” he said, laughing while he reached for his wine glass.
“I always figured it was a pseudonym,” she continued. “I loved your last book, by the way. I was so . . . disturbed by it. Very well written.”
“Well, I appreciate that. Writing isn’t easy. It’s a lonely profession. Especially so-called weird fiction. There are very few who can make a living doing the type of writing that I do. Even the masters of the craft struggled with that.”
“Mmmm. I understand. Though I do like quite a few of your contemporaries, I’ll admit.”
Vanderbulle’s jaw tensed. He tilted his head. “Oh? Such as?”
Anastasia took a piece of bread and buttered it, absentmindedly pursing her lips in thought. “That Jack M. Antatas is intriguing. A bit hard to follow at times, as he seems too taken with imitating Hunter S. Thompson. I follow him on Twitter—he’s funny!—but his work gets kind of stale after a whole book of it. I prefer less on-the-nose writers, like that Horace Z. Rubble, Esq. Now he is something! I also like a lot of the micro-presses from Canada and the West Coast. I’m a real sucker for the Odd Nouveau and New Weird, especially. I’ve even friended a few of the writers on Facebook.”
Vanderbulle shifted in his seat, swishing his wine as he listened. “Anyone else you like to read?”
“Really, anybody in The Year’s Greatest Horror Tales series. It’s an aesthetic that I . . . get, y’know? It’s modern. Atmospheric, a lot of it, not so focused on plot, or hung up on cultural stereotypes promoted by straight, cisgendered old white guys. I mean, haven’t we heard enough from those people? They’re what’s wrong with society, I believe. I want to experience stories from the other—people of color, QUILTBAG/LGBTQ, female authors, non-Christians. Women and Gender Studies was a focus of mine when I attended Smith College.”
Vanderbulle nodded. “I’ve actually never been in that series, Year’s Greatest. When I dip into them, it seems like a lot of the same writers appear over and over. Sort of narrows the field over time. Thinking about it, I guess a key difference in my work and theirs is that I strive for realism—my stuff is real. I know what I’m writing about, where they’re just playing around. Also, I have something to say. A message. Several, to be honest. That’s quite lacking in their works for the most part. I think people get that, which is why my books sell so well. Readers can sense the difference—the weight, the energy. Theirs tends to be kind of inward, niche, limited. Ponderous, even.” He paused, rubbing his forehead. “Granted, I stopped writing short fiction some time ago. You don’t get rich writing poetry and short stories. Novels are the way to go. And options, of course.”
“Options?”
“For film rights and so on. That’s where I made my fortune—all the movies. I don’t like most of them. I mean, how can you film the types of things I write? But they keep throwing cash at me, so I figure why not take it? Do that enough, and you become very wealthy . . . and the films they have made, Jesus! I tell everyone who asks in interviews that I don’t care what they do with the movies and videogames anymore, ’cause at the end of the day I still have my books on the shelf—they’re my true legacy.”
“Interesting. Do you read the people I’m talking about?” She drained her glass and refilled it.
“Read them? Not so much. I’ve read enough, I suppose. A few of them are talented, certainly on a line-by-line basi
s. Even conceptually. Others are simply terrible writers. I’m not a pastiche guy, or trying to ride a trend. I’m working toward something else, something they cannot even begin to comprehend, not really. Most of these folks don’t have that kind of ambition, not from what I’ve read. And not very much of their work is appealing to the masses, which is something that I aim for. I know many of the bigger fish in the pond personally, mainly from the old days when I was starting out. Cons, film festivals, that sort of thing. I quit going to those a few years ago once my weird trilogy broke through. After I sold seventy million books, it became hard even to walk the dog in my own neighborhood. That’s when I moved to my Calabasas compound, just to have a bit more privacy.”
He took another drink of the Pinot before continuing. “Once people began shoving books under the stalls in restrooms for me to sign at events and following me to my hotel room as if I was Stephen King the Second, I stopped having fun. And everyone suddenly . . . wanted something from me, especially those who were also in the trenches back in the day; several of that lot had stepped on me on their way ‘up.’ After I hit, though, there was much ass-kissing on their part, which was normally reserved for well-known editors. And, interestingly, they somehow managed to recall many ‘good ole days’ that I didn’t personally want to revisit, for the reasons stated. Suffice it to say there were more than a few instances of the folks you’ve noted acting as little more than boorish, smarmy glad-handers once I was in demand.”
“Well, you could just rise above all that, right?” she asked.
“Easy to say, harder to practice when you’re getting smeared and ganged up on everywhere you turn. I guess they figured I’d just overlook the nasty comments made behind my back, or the snotty way they had treated me and my family. It contributed to the breakup of my marriage, even. And they insisted on making everything political. It wasn’t anything I wanted to be party to, I finally decided, figuring their behavior had to be rooted in some deranged jealousy or envy. After all, none of them had anything that I needed; I just wanted to do my thing. And now I do. As they say, living well is the best revenge, no? So I was burned early on, and then chose to divest myself of these slime molds rather than be manipulated by less talented rivals who were hell-bent on a careerist path doomed to failure; then, success. Now I ignore them; of course, they still want to exploit my name and hard-won status in the field to their advantage. Can’t blame them, I reckon.” He took another taste of wine. “Combine that stuff with the normal pitfalls of sudden widespread celebrity—death threats, stalking, harassment from the overzealous, you name it—and it gets to the point that you have to ruthlessly excise people from your life. You just have to scrape them off and never look back.” He paused, thoughtfully considering his glass of Pinot Noir. “All that said, though, I’m not completely averse to attending cons in the future. Some of them—World Nightmare Convention leaps to mind—are great for professional networking and socializing. My agent, Charly Weinhouse, gets after me about not attending, and I feel a bit guilty sometimes, as they’re the only chance I get to catch up with old friends like Straub, Tem, Jones, Etchison, Shirley, or Tibbetts.” Vanderbulle paused again, reflective.