I LIVE WITH YOU
COPYRIGHT © 2005 BY CAROL EMSHWILLER
This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
COVER ILLUSTRATION © BY ED EMSHWILLER
COVER DESIGN © 2005 BY ANN Monn
WITH THANKS TO CONNOR COCHRAN & JOHN BERRY
BOOK DESIGN BY ANN MONN
TACHYON PUBLICATIONS
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EDITED BY JACOB WEISMAN
ISBN: 1-892391-25-2
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF America
by PHOENIX COLOR CORPORATION
FIRST EDITION: 2005
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
INTRODUCTION © 2005 by Eileen Gunn.
THE LIBRARY © 2004 by Carol Emshwiller. First appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (August 2004).
I LIVE WITH YOU AND YOU DON’T KNOW IT © 2004 by Carol Emshwiller. First appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (March 2005).
THE PRINCE OF MULES © 2002 by Carol Emshwiller. First appeared in Leviathan, Vol. 3 (Tallahassee, FL: The Ministry of Whimsy).
BOYS © 2003 by Carol Emshwiller. First appeared in Sci Fiction (www.SciFi.com, January 2003).
THE DOCTOR © 2002 by Carol Emshwiller. First appeared in Polyphony, Volume 1 (Wilsonville, OR: Wheatland Press).
BOUNTIFUL CITY © 2005 by Carol Emshwiller. First appearance in print.
COO PEOPLE © 2002 by Carol Emshwiller. First appeared in Polyphony, Vol. 2 (Wilsonville, OR: Wheatland Press).
THE ASSASSIN OR BEING THE LOVED ONE © 2004 by Carol Emshwiller. First appeared in Ninth Letter, Vol. 1, No. 2 (University of Illinois).
SEE NO EVIL, FEEL NO JOY © 2005 by Carol Emshwiller. First appearance in print.
GLIDERS THOUGH THEY BE © 2004 by Carol Emshwiller. First appeared in Sci Fiction (www.SciFi.com, May 2004).
MY GENERAL © 2004 by Carol Emshwiller. First appeared in Argosy (Volume 1, No. 2).
JOSEPHINE © 2002 by Carol Emshwiller. First appeared in Sci Fiction (www.SciFi.com, November 2002).
WISCON SPEECH © 2005 by Carol Emshwiller. First appearance in print.
To ADA, AMIRA, BARBARA, FLORENCE, IRENE, MARGARET, MARIA, MARION, AND PATSY.
WITH SPECIAL THANKS to Pat Murphy and Eileen Gunn, who braved dust and dirt and mold and mice and LOTS of spiders, while looking through Ed Emsh’s art for the sake of the cover of this book, and to Avon Swofford, who kept our spirits up even higher than they already were.
INTRODUCTION
EILEEN GUNN
(Excerpted from the full trade edition introduction)
CAROL EMSHWILLER’S STORIES should come with warning labels: Do not operate heavy machinery while reading these stories. Avoid psychedelics when reading an Emshwiller story. Do not stay up all night, reading story after story by flashlight, under the covers.
Because you could find yourself with an inexplicable desire to drive your heavy machine off-road into the mountains, flashing all your turn signals, defying gravity, and violating the social contract. You could permanently alter your brain chemistry, so that you are incapable of ignoring your perfectly reasonable impulse to move into a stranger’s house and break him or her to your will. Deprived of sleep, myopic, and running on two D batteries, you could become convinced that subverting the natural order is not only an option, but a mandate.
The men and women in these stories are stubborn, crafty, and courageous. They are tenacious. Sometimes they are delusional, but aren’t we all, sometimes?
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE LIBRARY
I LIVE WITH YOU AND YOU DON’T KNOW IT
THE PRINCE OF MULES
BOYS
THE DOCTOR
BOUNTIFUL CITY
COO PEOPLE
THE ASSASSIN OR BEING THE LOVED ONE
SEE NO EVIL, FEEL NO JOY
GLIDERS THOUGH THEY BE
MY GENERAL
JOSEPHINE
WISCON SPEECH
THE LIBRARY
WE’RE HEADED AWAY FROM war, past it, around and beyond the enemy lines. We’re circling behind where the battle rages. Mostly we’ve hiked at night and hidden during the day. We no longer hear or even see the lights of explosions. We’re glad we were given this duty. It’s been a restful week. Kind of like a camping trip.
We each have a bomb and there are ten of us. We have several fire starters. That should be more than enough. What we do is for the good of all mankind.
Theirs is the largest library in the world, but it’s not our books. They’re not even in our language.
Even if we knew the language they’re in a kind of writing we can’t read. It’s full of squares and Os and curlicues. We’ve been told many of the books are about the art of war and that the poetry is bawdy. There’s pictures of nudes and of lovers in all possible positions.
I’m not to let any of us look at the books. Nor am I to let one single book survive. There can be no peace and no morality as long as these books exist.
There are statues at each corner of the building. Caryatids along the porches. They say that, in the center of the library, there’s a reading room—a garden—open to the sky. It’s full of flowers. Birds. Even trees.
They say we’ll recognize the library. It’s larger than any other buildings. Our side thinks that when it’s destroyed, their side will lose all momentum.
By now we have come to the beach. We’re from the south. We’ve never seen the sea. We walk with our feet in the shallow water so our tracks will be washed away. When we camp for the day, we don’t sleep much even though the sound of the water is soothing. We’re distracted by all these new things. We watch the waves. We keep tasting the water—we can’t believe it’s salty. Some of us want to fish. Some of us want to taste the things on the shore but I don’t trust them not to be poison.
Around midnight we hear singing, but it has no triads, no fifths. An accompanying instrument thunks and buzzes. I tell my group, “There. Listen. You can see what kind of people these are by this racket.”
My group laughs. They’re nervous and this odd music doesn’t reassure them.
The library is across from an artificial pool so as to show it off with its reflection.
This has all been explained to us, and yet when we come upon the reflecting pool and the sparkling whiteness of the library, its painted frieze, the golden roof… we’re silent. We’ve never seen such a building. It’s evening and the sun makes everything pinkish-orange.
Seagulls wheel over our heads as if they are the avant-gardes of the books, their shrieks as alien as the language of the enemy.
We don’t move. We just watch. The sun goes down. Stars come out. Nobody says anything. The moon rises and reflects in the pool. We should move back and find a place to camp but we can’t tear ourselves away. We sit where we are, fall asleep towards morning, then wake to watch the sunrise. I don’t ask the group what they think about burning it down. I don’t want to know. Besides, it doesn’t matter what they think.
After the sunrise we load up our weapons and cross to the edge of the pool, march right into it, two by two, and splash across to the library. We don’t care if they hear us or not.
Close up, the eyes of the caryatids stare at us, seem to warn us that the library is not for the likes of us. Each of them has one bare breast. I tell my men not to look.
We head to the main doors. They’re of carved wood. Easy to burn down with our fire starters. (We don’t look at them. Who knows what
might be carved there.) We would have bashed through them, but they’re open. We walk right in.
We’re as awed by the inside as we were with the outside. We become aware of how dirty and smelly we are, how we’re dripping on their mosaic floor. The sun, shining through the stained glass of the clerestory windows, leaves odd colors on the walls, tables—on the people. The librarians look up, but they stay calm. Behind them there are shelves and shelves of books. The books are dark and dusty, and look old, as do the librarians. And—we can’t believe it’s true—all the librarians have one bare breast, sometimes the right and sometimes the left. Now, in front of us men, they don’t even try to hide themselves.
We point our guns, but I’m the only one that shoots. I shoot out one of the stained glass windows. I surprise my own group even more than I surprise the librarians. My group all jump while the librarians just look though some hold their books closer like shields.
One librarian comes up to us, (bare-breasted, brazen as could be) holds her book, a large heavy one, but she doesn’t try to cover herself with it. She looks like the enemy—they all have colorless hair and colorless eyes. She addresses us in what seems like two or three different languages, one after the other. Finally in ours. She whispers. She tells us to keep quiet. She points to a sign that says SILENCE even in our language. Then she says, “We have nothing to do with wars in here.”
“You lie.”
I whisper, too, though I didn’t mean to.
She says, “This is a place of truths.”
“Your books are full of lies. You, yourself, are a lie.”
“Look around you. Does this look like lies?”
I look at the sun pouring down from the window I shot out. The real color of the sun comes in whereas the other windows show false colors. My shot is the only truth here. I point to the square of sunlight under the broken window. “There is the truth,” I say.
Her face is narrow and fierce. She wears a robe down to her ankles. Surely it would tangle in bushes if she tries to walk where there are no paths. These people are, clearly, just as we’ve been told, overly civilized. A civilization at its final gasp. You can always tell by the clothes.
I imagine what the book she hugs so tightly must have in it. Secrets of sex, and perhaps of battles won.
We weren’t told what to do with the librarians. I suppose it’s up to my discretion.
She says, “There are all sorts of truths.”
“You wouldn’t know a truth if it was written in stone.”
One of my group says, “If it were in stone, it would be true.”
I don’t answer such a platitude. I tell my group, to get out their fire starters. I say it for all to hear. If the librarians want to escape, it’s up to them.
My group hesitates. They don’t want to do their job. They take off their packs to get their fire starters, but more slowly than they should. Grandeur and beauty have confused them. They have lost sight of their principles. I’m tempted to shoot out another window to remind them which side they’re on.
The librarians hold their books as though they’re weapons. Some have thick covers and metal corners and look heavy.
I shoot again, but this time I don’t know what I hit. That fierce librarian attacks me with her book before I can see if I hit out another window or not. Next thing I know my nose is pressed into a mosaic of a triton with an octopus hooked in it. I almost think I’m back at the seashore. Art lies. It always lies. These are—I see clearly—groups of small stones, white and black over blue waves. A shot at the floor would have scattered them back into their reality.
I get up on my knees and point my gun down at the false octopus, but one of my own men turns on me and hits me with the butt of his gun.
I come-to bound to a homemade chair. I’m in a simple room no better than our barracks. They say the librarians do live simply. They say the library is their only luxury. There are shelves along the walls as if for books, but with potted plants on them. Some of the pots would make good weapons.
I don’t need my group. I can destroy the library by myself. And if I don’t have bombs, I can make new ones. They didn’t send out a munitions expert for nothing.
I begin to work on the knots that tie me to the chair. They’ve been tied by women. I easily loosen them. My jaw hurts where my comrade hit me. Have they all mutinied? Do I have a single friend? Is it because the library is too beautiful? But they told us it would be.
First thing I grab the largest pot to use as a weapon. I pick one with a strong looking plant and hold it by the woody stalk. Then I look out the window to see where I am.
And there’s another lie—right on the wall of the hut next door. A painting of trees and flowers, a stream even. As if trying to make this desert place like my land down south, and not succeeding. They may have the library, but we have the forest and the mountains. The painting makes me homesick. But then I realize I’m falling into their trap: taking a painting as the truth. I don’t let myself think of home.
I open the door as quietly as possible. There’s another room. A writing room. Desk and paper, ink…. Also an easel with the start of a painting. It’s the portrait of a child. One of their kind—almost white hair and light eyes. I hate that pale, insipid look. I splash the ink on it. I wish for more ink and then I see there’s paint I can smear.
I feel good afterwards. I’ve struck a blow for truth. I pick up my plant-weapon and go in search of chemicals for a bomb, and maybe food, too.
I creep outside carefully, and there is the back of the library—as impressive as the front. If I had even a little of the gold of the roof I’d be a wealthy man. I think to climb a pillar, grab some golden tiles and go home. Bypass the war altogether. But then I think, after I bomb it the gold will be even easier to pick up.
I go into a different hut. Looking for a kitchen, or a shed with fertilizer. I find another writing room. There’s no painting so I spill the ink all over the writing.
In the kitchen, I find a paste with what looks like scallions mixed in it. God knows what they eat or if this is for the cat. Or, for all I know, their pet rat. I eat it anyway.
Then I look for chemicals. But, of course, the labels on things are different. I have to try everything by smell—even by taste. I make a concoction, but I’m not sure about it. I hope it really is a bomb.
I grab my (maybe) bomb and my plant weapon and start out again when I hear the door open and there’s a librarian, a young one.
How can such a pale creature look so beautiful?
Thank goodness her breast is covered—or she’d be in more trouble than she knows.
I can see on her face she has passed through the room where I damaged the writing. She’s half my size, but she comes after me with her fists. I swing the plant. The pot flies off and dirt flies all over. She gets a face full. Dirt in her eyes and nose and mouth. Next thing, here I am, trying to clean her up. And saying I’m sorry—in my own language.
She can’t answer in any. Her mouth is too full of dirt.
I find the water jar. I lean her over a basin. I use a clean cloth to get things out of her eyes. They’re not colorless as we keep saying. They’re tan with little greenish radiating lines. Actually they’re almost exactly the same color as her hair. Her skin is tan also. She’s all of a piece. You could say the same about me, black hair and black eyes, dark skin.
It takes a long time to clean her up. After, we sit on cushions across from each other, both of us exhausted. She’s a mess. Her hair is wet and hanging down, her shirt front is sopping. I’m a mess, too.
Now she says, Thank you—in my language. And I say again, I’m sorry.
She looks to be as taken with me as I am with her. Both of us dazzled with the odd, the unknown—I with my shaved head and top knot and my damaged hands, and she with her almost white hair flying out around her shoulders and her hands soft as a baby’s. She must do nothing but read and paint.
Both of us hardly dare to glance at each other—especially after
being so close, eye to eye, my arms holding her. I have looked in her ears, in her nose, I’ve helped her rinse her mouth.
We sit silent. Finally she says, “I’ll make tea. I’ll get you something to eat.”
(I don’t care what it is, I’ll eat it.)
“Are you going to tell them I’m here?”
“I don’t know.”
“I would have hit you with the heavy pot if it hadn’t fallen off.”
“Yes, but you helped me after.”
“I don’t know books. I prefer reality.”
“I only know books.”
“Do you want to see the rest of the world? I’ll take you. Help me destroy the library and I’ll take you with me.”
“Why? Why destroy it?”
“It’s all lies. Your life is a lie. I’ll bet you do nothing but sit all the time. Did you ever play?”
“Of course I did.”
“What did you play?”
“We drew and painted. Sewed. Cooked. Made things. I had a doll.”
“That’s not play. Play is top-o-the-roost, knick-knack, capture flags … I don’t think you had any fun at all.”
“But I did.”
“You don’t even know you weren’t happy.”
“But I was.”
I feel sorry for all the librarians.
“Come with me. I’ll show you happiness. I’ll teach you to play. And you know bombing the library will be useful to everybody. The pieces of marble can go to make many smaller houses. The roof can make everybody rich. The painted birds and butterflies pressed into the walls…. There must be a hundred. A hundred people could each have one. You could have one yourself. You could wear it in your hair.”
I see I’ve given her something to think about.
“Give the little people marble and gold. Spread the beauty around so there’s some for everybody—and keep some for yourself.”
Every time she looks at me I can see her fascination in her eyes. I wonder if she’s ever seen a shaved head and topknot before. She keeps looking at my hands. I always did like my hands. I’m proud of my scars. All have been achieved honorably.
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