“Let me rather say this, that you all have some experience of the demi-monde. By choice or by instinct, your lives have led you into the shadows. This very hotel is a gateway to more disreputable ventures: there is an opium den behind the Turkish bath, a brothel two doors down. I do not say that any of you is a libertine at core: only that the life you lead draws you into contact and exchange with those who avoid the light for other reasons.
“I will be plain. Mr Holland, you have a known taste for absinthe and for opium cigarettes. Mr Parringer, laudanum is your poison; Mr Hereth, you stick to gin, but that jug of water at your elbow that you mix in so judiciously is actually more gin, and you will drink the entire jugful before the night is out. Mr Gribbin—but I don’t need to go on, do I? You each have your weaknesses, your ways of setting this world a little adrift, stepping aside from reality.
“We need to take you out of yourselves in order to bind you into a single motive force, in order to create a mind-space wherein you might meet an imago and understand it. I have brought an alchemical concoction, a kind of hatchis, more potent than any pill or pipe or potion that you have met before.”
He laid it on a tray, on a table that he set centre-circle between us all: a silver pot containing something green and unctuous, an array of coffee spoons beside.
“Something more from your wise men, Mr Durand?”
“Exactly so.”
“I’m not sure how keen I am, actually, to swallow some hell brew dreamed up in a government laboratory.” Gribbin leaned forward and stirred it dubiously. There were gleams of oily gold amidst the green. “Does nobody remember The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde?”
“‘Can anyone forget it?’ should rather be your question,” Mr Holland said. “Stevenson was as much a master of delicate, fanciful prose as he was of a strong driving story. But he—or his character, rather, his creation: do we dare impute the motives of the dream unto the dreamer?—he certainly saw the merits of a man testing his own invention on himself, before bringing it to the public.” Even huddled as he was against the ironwork of the stove, he could still exude a spark of knowing mischief.
Durand smiled. “I would be only too happy to swallow my own spoonful, to show you gentlemen the way—but alas, my duty is to the device, not to the entente. You will need me sober and attentive. Besides which, I am not of your persuasion. I should only hold you back. Let me stress, though, that senior officers and common troops both have trod this path before you, and not been harmed. Not by the drug. Think of the hatchis as grease to the engine, no more; it will ease your way there and back again. Now come: I promised you adventure, and this is the beginning. Who’s first to chance the hazard?”
There is a self-destructive tendency in some men that falls only a little short of self murder. We have it worse than most; something not quite terror, not quite exhilaration drives us higher, faster, farther than good sense ever could dictate. Some consider it a weakness, evidence of a disordered nature. I hope that it’s a badge of courage learned, that we will fling ourselves from the precipice in no certain knowledge of a rope to hold us, no faith in any net below.
Of course it was Mr Holland who reached first, to draw up a noble spoonful and slide it into his mouth. No tentative sips, no tasting: he was all or nothing, or rather simply all.
The surprise was Parringer, thrusting himself forward to do the same, gulping it down indelicately while Mr Holland still lingered, the spoon’s stem jutting from between his full contented lips like a cherry stem, like a child’s lollipop.
Where Parringer plunged, who among us would choose to hold back? A little resentfully, perhaps, and certainly with a great many questions still unasked, we fell mob-handed on the spoons, the jar, the glistening oleaginous jelly.
* * *
It was bitter on my tongue and something harsh, as though it breathed fumes, catching at the back of my throat before it slithered down to soothe that same discomfort. Bitter and then sour and then sweet, layer beneath layer, and I couldn’t decide whether its flavours were woven one into another or whether its very nature changed as it opened, as it bloomed within the wet warm of my mouth.
He was right, of course, Durand. Not one of us there was a stranger to the more louche pleasures of the twilit world. Myself, I was a smoker in those days: hashish or opium, anything to lift me out of the quotidian world for an hour or a night. In company or alone, sweating or shivering or serene, I would always, always look to rise. Skin becomes permeable, bodies lose their margins; dreams are welcome but not needful, what I seek is always that sense of being uncontained, of reaching further than my strict self allows.
From what he said, I took Durand’s potion to be one more path to that effect: slower for sure, because smoke is the very breath of fire and lifts as easily as it rises, where anything swallowed is dank and low-lying by its nature. I never had been an opium-eater, and hatchis was less than that, surely: a thinner draught, ale against spirits, tea against coffee. Sunshine to lightning. Something.
If I had the glare of lightning in my mind, it was only in the expectation of disappointment, rain, no storm. I never thought to ride it. Nor to find myself insidiously companion’d—in my own mind, yet—where before I had always gone alone.
Even in bed, even with a slick and willing accomplice in the throes of mutual excess, my melting boundaries had never pretended to melt me into another man’s thoughts. Now, though: now suddenly I was aware of minds in parallel, rising entangled with mine, like smoke from separate cigarettes caught in the same eddy. Or burning coals in the same grate, fusing awkwardly together. Here was a mind cool and in command of itself, trying to sheer off at such exposure: that was Gribbin, finding nowhere to go, pressed in from every side at once. Here was one bold and fanciful and weary all at once, and that was surely Mr Holland, though it was hard to hold on to that name in this intimate revelation. Here was one tentative and blustering together, Parringer of course …
One by one, each one of us found a name, if not quite a location. We were this many and this various, neither a medley nor a synthesis, untuned: glimpsing one man’s overweening physical arrogance and another’s craven unsatisfied ambition, sharing the urge to seize both and achieve a high vaulting reach with them, beyond the imagination of either. Even without seeing a way to do that, even as we struggled like elvers in a bucket, the notion was there already with flashes of the vision. Perhaps Durand was right to come to us.
Durand, now: Durand was no part of this. Walled off, separated, necessary: he seemed like a prosthetic, inert, a tool to be wielded. He stood by his machine, fiddling with knobs and wires, almost as mechanical himself.
Here was the boy Barley coming in, no part of anything, bringing the hat and overcoat he’d been sent for. At Durand’s gesture he dressed Mr Holland like a doll, as though he were invalid or decrepit. Perhaps we all seemed so to him, huddled in our circle, unspeaking, seeming unaware. The truth was opposite; we were aware of everything, within the limits of our bodies’ senses. We watched him crouch to feed the stove; we heard the slide and crunch of the redcoal tipping in, the softer sounds of ash falling through the grate beneath; we felt the sear of heat released, how it stirred the frigid air about us, how it rose towards the bitter glass.
“Enough now, lad. Leave us be until I call again.”
“Yes, sir.”
He picked up the tray from the table and bore it off towards the door, with a rattle of discarded spoons. Durand had already turned back to his machine. We watched avidly, aware of nothing more intently than the little silver pot and its gleaming residue. We knew it, when the boy hesitated just inside the door; we knew it when he glanced warily back at us, when he decided he was safe, when he wiped his finger around the pot’s rim and sucked it clean.
We knew; Durand did not.
Durand fired up his machine.
* * *
We had the boy. Not one of us, not part of us, not yet: we were as unprepared for this as he was, and the more suscepti
ble to his fear and bewilderment because we were each of us intimately familiar with his body, in ways not necessarily true of one another’s.
Still: we had him among us, with us, this side of the wall. We had his nervous energy to draw on, like a flame to our black powder; we had his yearning, his curiosity. And more, we had that shared knowledge of him, common ground. Where we couldn’t fit one to another, we could all of us fit around him: the core of the matrix, the unifying frame, the necessary element Durand had not foreseen.
* * *
Durand fired up his machine while we were still adjusting, before we had nudged one another into any kind of order.
He really should have warned us, though I don’t suppose he could. He hadn’t been this way himself; all he had was secondhand reports from men more or less broken by the process. We could none of us truly have understood that, until now.
We weren’t pioneers; he only hoped that we might be survivors. Still, we deserved some better warning than we had.
* * *
We forget sometimes that names are not descriptions; that Mars is not Earth; that the merlins are no more native than ourselves. We call them Martians sometimes because our parents did, because their parents did before them, and so back all the way to Farmer George. More commonly we call them merlins because we think it’s clever, because they seem to end their lives so backward, from long years of maturity in the depths to one brief adolescent lustful idiocy in the sky. When we call them imagos—or imagines—because they remind us of dragonflies back home, if dragonflies were built to the scale of biplanes.
Which they are not. The map is not the territory; the name is not the creature. Even redcoal is not coal, not carbon of any kind, for all that it is mined and burned alike. We forget that. We name artefacts after the places of their manufacture, or their first manufacture, or the myth of it; did the homburg hat in fact see first light in Bad Homburg, or is that only a story that we tell? Does anybody know? We let a man name himself after his children, after a place not relevant to any of them, not true to any story of their lives. We assert that names are changeable, assignable at whim, and then we attach unalterable value to them.
Durand had given no name to his machine. That was just as well, but not enough. He had given us a task to do, in words we thought we understood; he had laid the groundwork, given us an argument about the uses of debauchery and then a drug to prove it; then he flung us forth, all undefended.
He flung us, and we dragged poor Barley along, unwitting and unprepared.
* * *
It started with a hum, as he connected electrical wires to a seething acid battery. Lamps glowed into dim flickering life. Sparks crackled ominously, intermittently, before settling to a steady mechanical pulse. A steel disc spun frantically inside a cage.
Nothing actually moved, except fixedly in place; and even so, everything about it was all rush and urgency, a sensation of swift decisive movement: that way, through the run of frames and wires to the umbrella-structure at the far end of the table. There was nothing to draw the eye except a certainty, logic married to something more, an intangible impulsion. That way: through and up and out into the night.
And none of us moved from our places, and yet, and yet. The machine hurled us forth, and forth we went.
If we had understood anything, we had understood that the machine would bring an imago’s voice to us, and we would somehow speak back to it, if we could think of anything to say. That would have been Mr Holland’s lot, surely; he was never short of things to say.
We had misunderstood, or else been misdirected. Unless the drug seduced us all into a mutual hallucination, and in plain truth our intelligences never left that room any more than our abandoned bodies did. But it seemed to us—to all of us, united—that we were shot out like a stone from a catapult; that we streaked over all the lights of Marsport and into the bleak dark desert beyond; that we hurtled thus directly into the static mind of an imago at rest in darkness.
* * *
No creature’s thoughts should be … architectural. Or vast. At first we thought we were fallen into halls of stone, or caverns water-worn. But we had found our shape by then, in the flight from there to here; we might fit poorly all together, but we all fitted well around Barley. And something in that resettling, that nudging into a new conformation, caused a shift in our perspective. A thought is just an echo of the mind-state it betrays, as an astrakhan overcoat is a memory of the lambs that died to make it.
Where we fancied that we stood, these grand and pillared spaces—this was an imago’s notion of its nighttime world, beyond all heat and passion, poised, expectant. A memory of the chrysalis, perhaps.
Expectant, but not expecting us. Not expecting anything until the sun, the bright and burning day, the vivid endeavour. We came like thieves into a mountain, to disturb the dragon’s rest; we were alien, intrusive, self-aware. It knew us in the moment of our coming.
I have seen set changes in the theatre where one scene glides inexplicably into another, defying expectation, almost defying the eye that saw it happen. I had never stood in a place and had that happen all about me; but we were there, and recognised, and its awareness of us changed the shape of its thinking.
Even as we changed ourselves, that happened: as we slid and shifted, as we found our point of balance, with Barley at the heart because we could each of us connect through him. Even Mr Holland, who would need to speak for us all, if anything could ever come to words here; even Parringer, whose motives were as insidious as his manner. There was an unbridgeable gulf between the imago as we had always understood it, flighty and maniacal, and this lofty habitation. A naiad in the depths might have such a ponderous mind, such chilly detachment, but not the frenzied imago, no. Surely not.
Save that the imago had been a naiad before; perhaps it retained that mind-set, in ways we had not expected or imagined. Perhaps it could be contemplative at night, while the sun burned off its intellect and lent it only heat?
It closed in upon us almost geometrically, like tiled walls, if tiles and walls could occupy more dimensions than a man can see, in shapes we have no words for. We should have felt threatened, perhaps, but Barley’s curiosity was matched now by his tumbling delight, and what burns at the core reaches out all the way to the skin. We sheltered him and drew from him and leaned on him, all in equal measure; he linked us and leaned on us and drew from us, in ways for which there never could be words.
With so many names for our kind—leering, contemptuous, descriptive, dismissive—we know both the fallibility and the savage power of words. The map seeks to define the territory, to claim it, sometimes to contain it. Without a map, without a shared vocabulary, without a mode of thought in common—well, no wonder men alone went mad here. No wonder men together had achieved so little, beyond a mere survival. Mr Holland might have flung wit all night with no more effect than a monkey flinging dung against a cliff-face, if we had only been a group forgathered by circumstance, struggling to work together. With the drug to bond us, with each man contributing the heart’s-blood of himself in this strange transfusion, there was no struggle and we found what we needed as the need came to us.
Whether we said what was needed, whether it needed to be said: that is some other kind of question. Did anyone suppose that the confluence of us all would be a diplomat?
The imago pressed us close, but that was an enquiry. There was pattern in the pressure: we could see it, we could read it almost, those of us with finger-talk or bubble-talk or both. What lives, what choices? Swim or fly, drown or burn? Swallow or be swallowed?
We knew, we thought, how to press back, how to pattern a reply. Mr Holland gave us what we lacked: content, poetry, a reply. Meaning more than words. Sometimes the map declares the territory.
For he who lives more lives than one
More deaths than one must die.
He would have turned the bitterness all against himself, but our collective consciousness couldn’t sustain that. We all want
ed our share, we all deserved it: all but Barley, who had no hidden other self, who’d had no time to grow one.
Suddenly he couldn’t hold us together any longer. Fraying, we fled back to Durand, back to our waiting bodies—and the imago pursued, flying by sheer will in the dreadful night, wreaking havoc in its own frozen body. It followed us to the Dolphin and hurtled against the conservatory where we were anything but sheltered, battering at the windows like a moth at the chimney of a lamp, until the only abiding question was whether the glass would shatter first or the machine, or the creature, or us.
The Muses of Shuyedan-18
INDRAPRAMIT DAS
Relative newcomer Indrapramit Das is a writer and artist from Kolkata, India. His short fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Asimov’s Science Fiction, Apex Magazine, Redstone Science Fiction, The World SF Blog, Flash Fiction Online, and the anthology Breaking the Bow: Speculative Fiction Inspired by the Ramayana. He is a grateful graduate of the 2012 Clarion West Writers Workshop, and a recipient of the Octavia E. Butler Memorial Scholarship Award. He completed his MFA at the University of British Columbia, and currently lives in Vancouver, working as a freelance writer, artist, editor, game tester, tutor, would-be novelist, and aspirant to adulthood. Follow him on Twitter (@IndrapramitDas).
In the story that follows of a passionate love affair between two scientific researchers on a remote alien world and the unexpected effect that it has on one of the alien inhabitants, a being as mysterious and vast as a living mountain, he brings us into contact with something numinous and strange—as good science fiction should do.
The Year's Best Science Fiction - Thirty-Third Annual Collection Page 32