On the Banks of the River of Heaven

by Richard Parks

  ON THE BANKS OF

  THE RIVER OF HEAVEN

  Richard Parks

  Copyright © 2010 by Richard Parks.

  Cover art by Spectral Designs / Fotolia.com.

  Cover design by Stephen H. Segal.

  Ebook design by Neil Clarke

  ISBN: 978-1-60701-324-2 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-60701-226-9 (hardcover)

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  Table of Contents

  Introduction by Charles de Lint

  On the Banks of the River of Heaven

  The Finer Points of Destruction

  A Pinch of Salt

  A Garden in Fell

  The TWA Corbies, Revisited

  Lord Goji’s Wedding

  The Feather Cloak

  Skin Deep

  Brillig

  On the Wheel

  Soft as Spider Silk

  Courting the Lady Scythe

  The Man Who Carved Skulls

  Moon Viewing at Shijo Bridge

  Publication History

  About the Author

  Introduction

  by Charles de Lint

  I had a bad moment when it seemed as though the magazine Realms of Fantasy was going to be cancelled.

  I like the magazine as a whole—it’s one of the few where I read pretty much all of the fiction; it always has a good feature on some artist; there’s the Folkroots column; and what’s not to like about the amusing ads for chain mail and wenches’ outfits? (At least I find them amusing.)

  But I would have missed it the most because, except for collections such as the one in hand, it’s my principal source for new short stories by Richard Parks.

  I first discovered Richard’s work in Realms of Fantasy except I didn’t realize it at the time. I have to admit that I don’t pay a whole lot of attention to by-lines in magazines and anthologies. I’m just looking for good stories. But when I was reviewing Richard’s first collection, The Ogre’s Wife (2002) for my column in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, I was surprised to find that I already knew a lot of the stories. A quick check of the copyright page told me why: I’d read them in Realms of Fantasy.

  Ever since then, whenever a new issue hits the stands, I always check to see if it has anything by Richard in it. If it does, the first thing I do when I get home is read his story. Sometimes twice.

  The reason for this is pretty simple. I could just say it’s because he’s such a wonderful short story writer, but that doesn’t tell you anything. There are lots of very fine short story writers around. Our field appears to be particularly blessed with them: writers like Richard who deliver well-written stories, peopled with characters we can relate to, and stories that not only have a beginning, middle, and end, but move us as well.

  Some of them also have Richard’s somewhat rarer gift of being able to mix humour and drama within the same story without diluting the impact of either. A great example of this is “The Finer Points of Destruction” in which an ordinary joe gets a series of visits from the Hindu goddess of destruction, each appearance destroying another of his possessions. The humour never undermines the more serious exploration of interpersonal relationships, both among humans and among the gods.

  A very few of writers understand as Richard does that the supernatural should create a sense of wonder, though he can also turn that around giving us gods and the figures of folklore in very human, down-to-earth terms. I also love the way that sometimes when I’m reading his work it feels as though he’s channelling some ancient bard—maybe a Celtic one, as when he writes about selchies in “Skin Deep,” or an Oriental one as he tells us the story of a monk meeting one of the Celestial Maidens of Heaven. You’d swear these stories were hundreds of years old, though like the best folklore, they still seem fresh and relevant in the present day.

  But the real reason Richard is one of my favourite writers is because, like Peter S. Beagle or Parke Godwin, he’s never disappointed me. Ever. That’s not so common in any field of writing. No matter how varied the setting or subject matter, no matter how much I think I don’t like a certain kind of story, Richard wins me over in just a few pages. Heck, usually in just a few paragraphs.

  Take “The Twa Corbies, Revisited” in this very collection. A story about a pair of ghouls? It’s not something that was high on my wish list. But by the time Prince Malthan, son of the ghoul king, is beginning his quest to understand what it means to be human, I was riveted. It might actually be one of my favourites in the book.

  There’s another quality to Richard’s work that bears mentioning—it’s why I find myself rereading his stories with the same enthusiasm that gripped me my first time through the narrative—and that’s the depth that underlies even the simplest of these stories. There’s the sense of a Zen koan about them. Underneath the more straightforward narrative of the plot lie other narratives that the reader appreciates through intuition rather than rational understanding. They put the reader in a certain state of mind, the way a koan has no correct answer, but rather directs us to a particular method of viewing the world.

  Maybe I’m reading more into it than Richard intended, but it doesn’t matter, because the resonance is still there for me.

  If you’re already familiar with Richard’s work you’ll have an idea of what to expect from these stories, and I can assure you, you won’t be disappointed.

  If you’re new to him, On the Banks of the River of Heaven is a perfect introduction to his work, and I envy you that buzz of delight that we all get when first encountering something this good.

  Charles de Lint

  Ottawa, Spring, 2009

  On the Banks of the River of Heaven

  The fish in the River of Heaven—known to mortals as the Milky Way—are both immortal and elusive. For many years they fell through Kaiboshi the Herdsman’s nets until the year his wife, Asago-hime the Divine Weaver, made him a gift of a special net, finer than gossamer and stronger than iron. With this he caught the Celestial Fish easily enough while the Celestial Ox that was his primary responsibility grazed peacefully nearby and the Celestial Otter watched from the river.

  Kaiboshi did not eat the fish, of course. Fishing was just a way to pass the time until the seventh day of the seventh month should come again.

  Kaiboshi had just hauled in one more wriggling net of fish when the Celestial Otter, who until this point had done nothing but watch, stuck his head out of the water. “Herdsman, give me a fish, please,” he said.

  Kaiboshi frowned. “It is your role to chase the fish, not to catch them.”

  “And so I have done, for eternities past counting,” Otter said. “Is it strange that, after all this time, I might want to know how it feels to actually hold one?”

  Kaiboshi, who knew quite a bit himself about wanting what he could not have, carefully removed one of the Celestial Fish, its scales iridescent with stars, from the net and handed it to Otter, who carefully took the fish in his paws and examined it with what Kaiboshi could only interpret as awe and wonder. After a bit Otter put the fish in its jaws, though only tightly enough to hold it. With this he happily paraded for a time along the banks of the river, head held high.

  During all this handling the fish just gasped, as any other fish would do, though in the case of a Celestial Fish this was no more than a polite reprimand, as one might clear one’s throat to remind another that someone is waiting on them.

  “Hmmm? Oh, of course. Please excuse
me.” Otter placed the fish back in the water and released it just as Kaiboshi emptied his net. There was a swirl among the reeds near the shore, then calm again. Kaiboshi gathered up his net and took it to a nearby tree branch to dry. When he returned to the shore both the Ox and the Otter were waiting for him. Or rather Otter was waiting; the ox simply had not moved.

  “I wish to thank you,” Otter said.

  “No need,” Kaiboshi said. “It was little enough that I did.”

  “Perhaps to you,” said Otter. “But it meant a great deal to me, and so I must repay you. Is there anything you desire that is in my power to grant?”

  Kaiboshi thought about what he wanted. “Tomorrow is the seventh day of the seventh month. The Master of Heaven has decreed that on this one day of the year I may cross the Bridge of Birds to visit my lady Asago-hime, and thus I am soon to be reunited with my love. The rains have prevented us seeing each other for two years now, but surely we will not be denied a third time. I wish only to see my love; there is nothing anyone can grant that I desire more than this.”

  Otter sighed. “I understand. Yet I consider myself in your debt from this day forward, so if you ever do think of a way I might be of use to you, seek me here at the river.”

  With that the Otter slipped back into the water and disappeared with barely a ripple, off again to pursue the elusive fish. Kaiboshi the Divine Herdsman watched the ox graze until night fell, and then he slept and dreamed of his love.

  On the seventh day of the seventh month as it had for the previous two years, it rained. And it rained. The cranes still came at Kaiboshi’s bidding to stand by the shore and form the base of the bridge. Next came the geese and the ducks and other waterfowl, who fared well enough creating the platform and first few degrees of arc for the bridge. After that, however, came the hawks and crows and sparrows and smaller birds, and the rain beat down on them incessantly, and their wings became sodden and would no longer support them and a bridge, too. The cranes held on gamely as the river swelled into flood, but their skinny legs began to tremble. Kaiboshi reluctantly concluded that the enterprise was doomed, and he dismissed the birds with thanks rather than risk seeing them fall in the river after the inevitable collapse.

  Three years now the rains had come on the appointed day. For three years the Bridge of Birds that was his only way to cross the Celestial River had been unable to form. Kaiboshi began to wonder if he was cursed, but more he wondered if Asago-hime had started to forget him. He sat down on the banks of the river and let the rising waters chill his feet as he indulged in a bout of melancholy, since he knew of nothing else he could do.

  “Three years is a long time to be apart from the one you love,” he said aloud. “Even for an immortal.” He turned once more to the Celestial Ox, patiently grazing in the rain. “You could decide to graze on the other side of the river, you know. The Master of Heaven would have to allow me to follow you there.”

  The Ox merely turned its broad posterior in Kaiboshi’s general direction and munched on a patch of sweet grass. Not that Kaiboshi could find it in his heart to fault the creature for this; the other side of the river was largely built over by the Master of Heaven’s grand palace and those of many of the other major gods, and those who had gardens kept them behind high walls. The grazing there was, from an ox’s view, very poor. Thus they were segregated according to function: Asago-hime to the palace, where she wove night and day to make the clothing and tapestries of the gods. Kaiboshi to the lands opposite across the river, where the wild creatures ran free and the grazing was best. Kaiboshi understood and accepted this, except for his separation from Asago-hime. That separation he had never been able to accept, save for the fact of their yearly visits. Only lately even that comfort was denied him.

  Kaiboshi pulled a flute from his pack, the flute he had carefully carved and polished as a present to Asago-hime two years before and had yet to give to her. “She’ll forget me,” he said. “I know it. The curse will continue, the rain will come, and she will forget me.”

  “Unlikely,” said a voice that was not Kaiboshi.

  Otter stuck his head out of the swollen river near Kaiboshi’s feet. “Pardon the intrusion, but Asago-hime is quite unhappy, on account of the rain. She said so.”

  Kaiboshi frowned. “How do you know this . . . oh. Of course. You can swim the Celestial River.”

  “Since the river is my home, it would be strange if I could not,” the Otter said. “And I have just come from a sheltered cove beneath the window to the room where your lady resides. If the thought gives you comfort, know that she is just as miserable as you are, if not more so.”

  “I do not wish for my lady to be unhappy, and yet I do want her to miss me when I am not there. Oh, if only we could be together always, things would be so much simpler.”

  “I doubt that,” Otter said. “It is my understanding that, when you lived with Asago-hime, both of you shamefully neglected your duties. The Celestial Ox wandered where it would, including the gardens of any god foolish enough to live on this side of the river. And your lady wife avoided her weaving to the point that the gods were becoming rather threadbare. Is this not why you were separated in the first place?”

  “We had each other,” Kaiboshi said, smiling faintly. “We had little need of anything or anyone else.”

  “And that’s the problem in a nutshell,” Otter said, “when so many other people need and depend on you.”

  Kaiboshi rested his head on his knees, looking glum. “You sound like the Lord of Heaven.”

  Otter shrugged. “One can understand his point of view without necessarily agreeing with everything he’s done. What’s that you’re holding?”

  “It was a present for Asago-hime, and I can’t give it to her. Unless . . . Otter, can you take this flute across the river to Asago-hime? Would you?”

  “Of course I can and would. I am in your debt, as I said. Yet the water would likely ruin it. Perhaps, if you were to find something dry to wrap it in?”

  Kaiboshi found and cut a length of sturdy bamboo, just longer and wider than the flute. From this he made a watertight case and placed the flute inside, then tied a loop of cord around it. This Otter allowed Kaiboshi to place around his neck and then Otter set out across the river. Kaiboshi watched him dwindle to a spec on the vast water and disappear. Kaiboshi sat back down on the banks of the river and watched the spot where Otter had vanished while the Celestial Ox, perhaps remembering a more succulent patch of grass elsewhere, wandered off.

  When Otter reached the other side of the river, he went straight to the little sheltered cove he had spoken of, where, indeed, the window to Asago-hime’s rooms opened over the water. Otter could hear the clack-clack of Asago-hime’s loom as she wove. The noise was rather loud, so Otter was forced to shout to be heard.

  “Asago-hime? May I speak with you?”

  The Divine Weaver appeared at the window. Otter did not consider himself any judge of what the human immortals called beautiful, but he was forced to admit that there was a pleasing esthetic quality to Asago-hime’s face, and her long black hair set it off marvelously. “Who calls? Is that you, Otter?” she asked. Her voice sounded somewhat husky, and, looking closer, Otter could tell that her eyes were reddened.

  “Yes, Lady. Have you been weeping?”

  “The rains kept my husband from me yet again. It is almost more than I can bear,” she said. “Yet the cloth must be woven, and I must get back to it.”

  She started to turn away, but Otter called out to her again. “Tarry a moment, Lady. I bring a gift from your husband, and I cannot enter the palace. Can you come down to the shore?”

  Asago-hime’s countenance brightened immediately. “Oh, certainly!”

  Her weaving apparently forgotten, Asago-hime disappeared from the window, and it was hardly a moment before a door near the base of the palace wall opened and she hurried out in layered blue kimono that rippled like water and glowed like the sky. For a moment all Otter could do was stare at her, impoli
te as that was.

  “A token from my husband?” Asago-hime prodded gently.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. It’s here . . . ” Otter took the loop from around his neck and pushed the bamboo case to the shore where Asago-hime could reach it. She pulled it open and took out the flute.

  “Oh, how lovely!” She immediately set the flute to her lips and proceeded to weave music as easily and surely as she did cloth. Otter could do little but stare and listen until the song was finished. “I’ve wanted to play more but lacked the means. It is good to know that my husband has not forgotten me.”

  “Forgotten? In truth he thinks of little else,” Otter said drily. He hesitated then. “This is not my place to say, but Kaiboshi was kind to me, and I would not see more misfortune come to him. His worry at being separated from you may cause him to neglect his duties.”

  She smiled a little sadly then. “Otter, I know full well what My Lord is feeling. It’s one thing to be attentive to one’s assigned purpose when there is always something to look forward to, but what does either of us have now? The rains haven fallen on our assigned day for three years now. They may fall for another three . . . or three hundred.”

  “That is unfortunate . . . and somewhat strange,” Otter said.

  “Strange or not, it is the way things are. I would not wish Kaiboshi to neglect his duties, but I also cannot wish that he forget me. You are a kind creature, Otter, but you play in the river and chase the Celestial Fish, and nothing else is required of you. How can you understand how I feel?”

  Otter thought of the one time in eternity he had held one of the Celestial Fish. “Perhaps at least a little,” Otter said. “As you say, my duty is to chase fish in the river, not to command the rain that flows into it or even the water that flows in it. Still, if I can be of help to either of you, I will.”

  Asago-hime bowed in polite thanks to Otter and returned to the palace to resume her weaving. Yet every now and then, if one listened carefully, one would hear the clack of the loom grow still and be replaced by the long, mournful notes of the flute.