Elli had always been alone apart from a few of the other mausoleums’ residual intelligences. But it wasn't until one warm summer's morning when the light seemed to hang especially pure that she looked down across at the other great islands, and saw something moving in a clearing with jagged yet elegant unpredictability, and realized she felt lonely. So she found a way down through the twisty forests that lay below the catacombs, and came at last to a space of open grass, and watched admiringly until she was finally noticed, and the monstrous thing came over to her in blurring flashes, and turned out to be not quite so monstrous at all.
But that locket. Which had once been Dallah's. Even as the Bess-thing held it out, Elli had understood that there was only one way that Bess could own it as well. That time, like the locket's chain, had looped around itself and joined them together in a terrible bond. And Elli then knew that only one of them could survive, because she was the monstrosity that this creature had been sent to kill.
The killing moment, when grace, power, and relentlessness are everything. But in the memory Bess now had of holding Elli's lightgun, the warrior-thing had hesitated, and her own laser had fired a jagged spray. Even as Bess gazed down at the remains of Elli's butchered body lain amid the bloodflowers, the memory of the burning stench of her own wrecked chitin and armor came back to her. She had died not once this dawn, but twice. And yet she was still living.
It was fully day now. The clearing dazzled with dew. Looking back toward her caleche, Bess saw that its door had opened, and that, even in this morning blaze, the light of her altar shone out. More questing, perhaps. More things to kill. Or an instruction for her to return and recuperate within her church's iron walls.
The intelligences of the Warrior Church were harsh and brutal, but they also welcomed the sorts of creature that no other church would ever think to accept. And now they had given Bess back her memory, and made her whole. She realized now why her earlier quests had seemed so pointless, and why she hadn't yet felt like a warrior at all. But she was truly a warrior, for she had taken that final step into the cold beyond, and been found not to be wanting.
Bess gazed at the open door of her caleche, and its eerie, beckoning glow. She had climbed in there once clutching that locket, been borne away in a long moment of forgetting to begin the life that had eventually brought her back here. But now her gaze turned toward the encircling forest, and she remembered that sense she had had of different dangers and mysteries lurking there. Wonders, perhaps, too.
The caleche awaited.
The light from its doorway blared.
Its engine began to hum.
Bess of the Warrior Church stood bloodied and head-bowed in a clearing in a nameless forest, wondering which way she should turn.
Copyright © 2011 Ian R. MacLeod
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* * *
Poetry: ANCIENT CATCH
by Bruce Boston
* * * *
* * * *
The fisher casts his lines
when morning is only
an attenuation
in the wet smoke
that wreathes the water
thick as tule fog.
* * * *
On steppes above the sea
where shadows run,
and even shadows
fall thinner
than shadows once fell,
deserted cities are
baked in red clay.
* * * *
Cities sway perceptibly
in the rush of centuries.
The fisher's catch lies
writhing at his feet:
sleek and monstrous,
goggle-eyed,
more atavistic than the
broken skulls at Olduvai.
* * * *
Hunkered and shadowless
in his bank of fog,
the fisher tends his lines,
nurses a bruised hand,
from the crease of a
knuckle licks the patterning
blood: warm and saline,
on this lip of land,
above a shallow sea.
—Bruce Boston
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* * *
Short Story: ALL THE NEWS THAT'S FIT
by Carol Emshwiller
Carol Emshwiller has several collections on the horizon. PS Publishing is bringing out a collection of her newest stories, and the first volume of a two-book collection from Nonstop Press will consist of her early stories. Since Carol's been writing short fiction for over fifty-five years, there's more than enough excellent material for these publishers to share. Her latest little gem takes a look at what sort of society might develop when you're only exposed to . . .
The man who brings the news sometimes stays away a long time even when there must be plenty of news to tell. Or so it seems to us. He usually comes about every twelve or fourteen days, but we've been waiting for well over a month now. That's never happened before.
Considering the journey, everybody's nervous for fear something has happened to him on the way. Or we wonder if the news is so bad he doesn't dare bring it. Or it might be so embarrassing, so sexual maybe, that he doesn't want to talk about it.
But surely there's some interesting news to tell after four or five weeks have gone by: A wedding where the bride ran off with another man, or the death of a boy who thought he could fly, a six-toed baby, a horse who can count. . . . If he doesn't come to tell us we won't know anything about any of these.
Our newsman seems nice enough, but we don't trust him. He's from down there. I like him, though, and for the exact reason everybody else is wary of him—because he's not from here. Not that I trust him any more than the rest of us do.
We always keep a watch down the switchbacks to see if he's on his way up. When he comes, he plays a fancy tune on his flute to call us to the center of town. Sometimes he picks flowers along the way and gives them to us women. Once in a while he brings us things we never see around here: a harmonica, an orange, balloons . . . once, a half dozen flutes just like his. The things can't be heavy; he has a long, hard way to go. Now we wonder if he's quit this job and didn't even come to tell us the news of his quitting.
Of course he could be drowned in the rushing rivers, or lying in some gully with a broken leg. They say there's a wobbly hanging bridge. They say there's two mountain passes. Our newsman says it takes him a week to get here. He says there's many dangers along the way and that the hanging bridge is ready to collapse.
I'll go and look for him. After all, I'm dispensable. I have no children and no family left. I'm not good for much else than running off on what may be a useless journey. I'll gather up the news myself. And I have one of those flutes, though I can't play it. I'll bring it and learn to play it on the way. I'll surprise everybody when I get back.
They'll say, “What do you know about helping a wounded person? Or about camping out on the trail? And you don't know good news from bad.” They'll say, “You're too old” or, “You're too young. And do we need the news? Look how we're getting along without it.” But after all those they'll say, “Take along bandages and something to use as a splint.”
I not only pack up bandages and a splint, but special herbs in case he's lying along the trail in pain. I start down the switchbacks, everybody waving until I round the corner of the cliff. They call out, “Bring us some surprises,” and, “Bring us good news.” I've never been especially good news before, but maybe I can be now.
No matter what they say, I do know something about news. I know the price of eggs down there isn't important to us up here. I know scandals are interesting even when we don't know the people involved. Murders are always good. And news is important. You can't be an educated person without knowing who died.
I bring a big notebook. I don't trust myself to remember things as our newsman did. Besides, I like to draw.
As I go, I keep looking around for him. I look over cliffs. Behind boulders
. Even when the streams are far below, I study them. It makes for slow going.
The first evening I get out my flute. I don't make much progress. I learn one simple little tune. Sort of. My fingers don't stay on the little holes. Our newsman could do trills and rills and flourishes and he doesn't have a flute any fancier than this one.
Next day I find a landslide has blocked the trail. Big landslide! So . . . No wonder. It takes me half the afternoon to climb around it. A dangerous climb, too, but I keep reminding myself there's a whole new life out there. And maybe other news to hear that we don't know anything about. The big notebook I brought is heavy and I think about leaving it. Though maybe not yet. This may be the hardest climb and I've already done it.
To be a news-gathering person you have to be spry. Our newsperson was . . . is spry. And he's all muscle. For sure he could climb above and around the landslide better than I did. I hope he isn't at the bottom of this pile of fallen rocks. I begin to feel even more worried than I already was.
I've always liked him more than I should, but I'm pretty sure he wouldn't care for any of us from up here even though he brings us sewing needles sometimes and always flirts. (Once he leaned so close . . . his black eyes. . . . And I knew mine were only a pale greenish-tan.) But we're too countrified. All we know is what he tells us.
I keep on, slowly, looking for signs of him. Every now and then I think I see him partly behind a boulder. I climb down to it, but, so far, it's never him. I pass the hanging bridge. It hasn't collapsed. As I cross it, I study the river and rocks below for a body.
Another two days and I begin to see terraces and goats and goat herders. I'm getting closer to where the news begins. Even with all that looking behind every other rock, it hasn't taken me a week.
At the last high hill, I stop and look over at the town below before going in. It's so big it's scary. Where I live everybody knows everybody else, but I don't think that can be true here. I stand there a long time trying to make sense of the place. Streets curve and curve . . . more and more of them . . . around a large central square. Even this early in the morning, I can see there's already a lot of action down there. The news that's told in that square must be great and grand. I study the streets so I can find my way to it. I see odd places where houses have all fallen down in a row.
I didn't find any sign of our newsman along the way so I'm worried. Should I look for his mother and tell her something might have happened to her son? His name is Flimm but I don't even know if that's his first name or his last.
It's all downhill now. I trot along. I'm scared but excited about my future life . . . I know for sure it will never be the same.
It's a nice smooth road except for a couple of spots nearer the town, where there are such big holes they cut it right in two. Why didn't our newsman tell us about this road? Also about how big the town is? My people would love to hear about it.
As I come into town I can see right away how countrified I am. My pants are too wide and loose. We always have big bright sashes but nobody here does, not a one. And I don't see anybody with their hair tied back and up in a knot on the top of their head.
I find my way to the main square. It's early and they're setting up a market just like we have only this one is much bigger. Right in the middle, there's a fountain with a naked lady. Or there used to be. Thank goodness her top half is mostly broken off. I'd be embarrassed if it wasn't. The bottom part of her arm is still there, against her hip, and still holds a vase out of which a trickle of water is dribbling into the small pond below, but the pond is cracked and there's only a little puddle in the bottom of it. A woman is sitting on the edge and holding up a teapot to catch the trickle.
People are putting up stalls and tables. At one stall they're already selling a sort of pancake with fruit in it. Next to that there's someone cooking sausages. Suddenly I'm hungry for food that's not dried. I never thought about needing money. None of us did. I have all these useless bandages and herbs and a splint, but not a single cent. We should have realized it would be much more civilized down here and everybody would need money. I wonder if the news is also more civilized here than our countrified news up there. No wonder our newsman never mentioned smooth roads. They're used to that. It's probably the winding trails that are news to them.
I sit down, my back against a ruined wall, and watch. I'm less conspicuous sitting down than walking along in my odd clothes. I nibble at my dried food and watch people drinking red and yellow drinks and a fizzy drink that's surely beer, and wish I had some money.
A giant horse walks right by me only a few yards away. He's led by an ordinary sized girl. We only have burros. I do know about horses, but I didn't know they could get this big. I'm sure that horse is here in the square to be put on display because it's the biggest horse in the world. That certainly is news my town would be interested in. Also all these different clothes.
I take out my notebook and begin to draw. I draw people in tight pants or short skirts with their lacy underwear hanging out below. I draw the big black horse towering over them. I even draw the broken statue of the fountain. I wonder why our newsman never thought this broken lady was news. And he never drew things. I think my people will like my news at least as much as his.
There are lots of fruits and vegetables here I never saw before. (Some have warts. Some have long curved necks. Some are purple.) And the vegetable we use the most up there isn't here at all. Not a single one. I draw the odd ones, though without color they won't show very well. I write “orange,” “red,” and “purple” under my drawings.
I draw the lady in the striped skirt across from where I sit. She's selling silvery jewelry and making new things as she sits there. Her crutches are beside her. She only has one leg. Next to her is a person selling fish. He only has one arm. They're sitting on chairs that fold up in a clever way. I draw a diagram of how the chairs work. Over on my side there's a man setting up an easel. He asks if I want my portrait drawn. “For only ten,” he says. I do, but I have to say no, because I don't have any money.
Then I realize I should write out the news of our newsman. How he's most likely crushed under that big landslide. I put in how hard it was to climb over and around the slide. I do such a good job about him being crushed and smothered I actually make myself cry.
I look up at the bustle of the square to calm myself. By now it's crowded and noisy. There are more different kinds of clothes here than up home, but even so not a single person is dressed at all like I am.
That big horse is standing there, at the back of a stall, not as if on display and nobody is paying any attention to it. It's as if all their horses are this big. Nobody is paying any attention to the fountain with the bottom half of a naked lady either. So this . . . all this, is what it's like to be civilized and citified.
* * * *
And then, across the square, there he is, Flimm himself. Looking perfectly all right—obviously not thinking about us and the news at all.
I feel all trembly. I always do whenever I see him . . . because of his black, black eyes . . . because of his black, black hair, his . . . yes, his ugly weathered face. . . . Only now I'm also all trembly with shock and anger. He's forgotten all about us. And he's with a woman. Much more beautiful than any of us. Her hair is not only as wonderfully dark as his, but long and wavy. We, up there, mostly have lank pale hair and it's hardly ever wavy.
How can he have forgotten us like this? Not even tried to send somebody else? Though maybe he did and that's the person who got crushed in the landslide. I shouldn't judge. Not yet.
He's not dressed at all like he is up there, where he's always wearing his mountain- climbing clothes. What he has on now fits better and is shiny and smooth. He looks wonderful. Still just as ugly but cleaner and freshly shaved and combed.
Here's lots of news my people would like to hear about, but I'd hardly know how to tell it. I need more facts and I know enough about news to know it shouldn't just be my angry opinion right now. News is supposed
to be done with both sides in mind and never in a temper. I need to keep my own opinion out of it. He's the one told us that. He never ever told us what he thought about the news he brought. When we asked how he felt about things, he'd look sly and make jokes.
I know all about everybody's life up there but I know nothing of his. In fact, now that I see this place, I know that I know even less about him than I thought. If he's married, we don't know about it, though he certainly flirts with all us women. And we all have hopes but we never talk about it. We all think: What if he took one of us down and up, and up and down, and all the way to town? What an adventure that would be! Except now I've gotten here all on my own.
I think to yell: Hey, it's Darta! I'm here! All this way by myself. For you. In case you were hurt along the way.
But I wonder if he'll remember me at all—though he'll recognize the way we dress. Then I think to hide and watch . . . see where he'll go, what he'll do. I sit still and carefully don't look straight at him. I'm thinking how I've come all this way to find him. I've looked over every cliff in case he's lying there dead or hurt. I've written his death down. I've cried for him, and here he moves along the stalls hanging on to a beautiful woman's elbow. . . . I have to hold myself back from attacking him. News people never do that.
When he and the woman start to leave the square, I get up and follow. I stay well back. I try to keep behind people and in the shadows.
Then I see the smallest dog in the world. No doubt headed toward the square to go on display next to the biggest horse. He's carried in a fancy little bag by a lady in the narrowest skirt I ever saw. It has a big slit in the side, but even so she has to take small steps. Also she's wearing the highest heeled shoes I ever saw. I suppose she's going to the square to show off her skirt and shoes. I stop to watch, just for a minute, to admire how she manages to walk as well as she does . . . and I lose Flimm.
Asimov's SF, June 2011 Page 5