Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 33

by Kelly Link

  “What that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that we don’t know why we’re here, and we don’t know where we’re going, so we should enjoy ourselves while we’re here. Friends, family, football. The important things in life.” Simon thought about his son, Sam. Coach had said that he’d be ready for trials for Ipswich’s youth squad, next year. His son: a Tractor Boy! “Everything will work itself out.”

  The game played on. They were evenly matched.

  The old man shook his head. “There are none so blind as those who will not see. The mass extinctions of the past have been caused by an accumulation of life. That’s what we’re experiencing.”

  “Like the dinosaurs?”

  “No. Not the dinosaurs. That extinction was triggered by a meteor, an outside event. What I’m talking about are extinctions triggered by internal forces. Snowball earth, triggered by the proliferation of plants. The extinctions caused by the development of the oxygen producers, and earlier still, the methane producers. And now we’re in the state of the great dying, just as we were two hundred and fifty million years ago during the Permian-Triassic event when 96% of all marine species, 70% of terrestrial vertebrates died. And even the insects suffered mass extinction. Climate change has led to shifts in ocean circulation, the seas have become anoxic. Lack of oxygen has triggered the proliferation of sulphite-reducing bacteria, who are poisoning our air with hydrogen sulphide, weakening the ozone layer, exposing us to UV radiation. Doesn’t any of this concern you? Everything points to the malevolence of Medea.”

  The players took a break. Only extra time left. If Norwich pushed they could win. Simon wouldn’t allow himself to believe that could happen. He turned to the old man. “If you’re saying that the Earth is malevolent, I’m going to have to disagree with you. Personally I think that the government will step in. And there’s plenty about, of the religious type . . . .”

  “The cults of salvation? They’re just fairy tales.”

  “You believe in this imaginary woman who’s going to kill us all, this Medea, but you don’t believe in God?” Who did this old guy think he was, coming into the bar and saying things. “I’m just trying to get things straight in my head.”

  The old man sighed.

  “And what do you suggest I do about it?”

  On the screen the game resumed, into extra time. Come on, thought Simon. Come on you Blues. Come on you Tractor Boys. It’s true the game wasn’t what it used to be. He remembered at time when they could play forty-five minutes without the frequent oxygen breaks. It broke up the flow, so it did. Simon saw that the old boy was leaving. “Are you sure you don’t want a little puff, before you go? The air’s bad today.”

  Without replying, the old boy left the bar, slamming the door behind him.

  What did I say? wondered Simon. “C’mon my son!” he shouted at the screen where a young man ran towards the goal, the extra time moments closing in around him. “Come on, Ipswich. Come on you Blues. Come on! It’s not over, ’til it’s over.”

  Child Without Summer

  Kelda Crich

  I cannot give you the sun or the moon

  only grey overcast, blossoming sky’s ash.

  All civilizations fade,

  but we were the only ones to take the sun with us.

  It is an unkind inheritance.

  I never knew strength.

  I was soft with warmth, comfort

  indulged and indifferent.

  Now I am Jötnar.

  Frost Giant.

  Clear, cold purposed, hard and pure as ice.

  Striding ice shelves.

  Footsteps streaking colours in the snow’s

  red and blue and green algae bloom.

  Tending shrubbery, white winter wheat,

  and heavy-hooded soy moss bent with rime.

  Gene by gene I build your future

  As the blind worm swims through fissures

  in the glacial mountain bones.

  Child without summer.

  Bright bide of the cold.

  Three winters without sun are not enough.

  I sing this ice cradle song.

  This is no herald, no Fimbulvinter.

  I will stave off Ragnarök.

  I will keep you warm.

  Jellyfish Dreaming

  D. K. McCutchen

  “This is the way the world ends . . . .”

  T.S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

  Jack in the Marketplace

  I wait (like always) scuffing along the boardwalk, spitting in the surf, watching plastic bags swirl like a memory of octopus’ tentacles in the surge. I’ve heard rumors and I have questions. So I wait until the thin man shows up at the Trash Café with his larger, squarer companion. Then I wait for them to leave again. It’s dull.

  The docks are more interesting. I check out the catch as it comes in; buckets and crates full of jellyfish, nets ripped from flotsam, decks scattered with interesting debris. The ocean coughs up jellyfish and plastic rubbish these days. The Fisher folk are hard men and women from a dozen different races and places, tough survivors of every catastrophe the world has thrown at them. They ignore me or stare hard until I wander on. They’re busy enough shifting the catch without getting stung by the odd boxjelly, they don’t need a Warehouse tramp distracting them, maybe nicking something. But now and again they’ll give me or the other Warehouse kids a small square of tatty tarpaulin wiggling with seaworms or nematodes, or sometimes a basket of the odder-looking jellies to eat, in exchange for mending nets. They supply improvised gloves of layered plastic and cloth—whatever washes up—to protect from unfired nematocysts tangling in long skeins, clinging like nerves to the weave of the nets. But they watch carefully so’s we don’t run off with the gloves.

  The two University men drink in the shade of the café while I dry up in the sun and wind. Finally they finish their business, which seems to have been just chatting with Tao Ownerson and sipping hot algae tea made with water boiled and condensed in a solar still. Nothing could survive in that. Safe water. Tao’s the one told me about their research on the immaturity (immortality?) epidemic. I traded a fistful of—mostly—live crickets for the info. I didn’t get any tea.

  When the University Doctors leave the Café, I follow, drifting from stall to stall behind them as they wind through the jumble of overflowing crates and makeshift shacks that make up the market. Once it becomes clear they intend to leave the waterfront and climb the hill back toward the University, I stop trying to blend. It’s pointless. No one but Uni folk, or Townies with Uni concerns, use that narrow path up the cliffs. I’m almost on their heels when the big, hairy-faced man turns and asks my business with them. My apologetic “sumimasen” clearly irritates that one. But the slender, fair-haired man looks excited when I whisper my reason for intruding. I want information. I know there’ll be a price.

  They also want something from me. The blond hesitates between taking me immediately up to the University lab for testing or clinching the deal in the marketplace (where one does deals, after all). I’ll squeeze this for what I can get. I tell them I’m hungry; that I need new clothes. The big man looks disgusted but the blond pinches his arm before turning to me with a surprisingly kind smile. He introduces them both (which I ignore) and waves his arm back toward the market as if offering me the world.

  •••

  Time skips forward and slingshots back

  Around the planet—why do some memories repeat?

  My mind walks through one door,

  just to end up where I began.

  No exit.

  The Trash Cafe

  The market is a new and exciting place when one has credit. The Uni Docs buy me things. Recycled plasti-weave jeans—remember when jeans didn’t crackle and pinch?—a softer, hand-woven flax T-shirt and sarong. Someone salvaged a container full of antique coats made of real milled cotton and is flogging them in the market. I wear my new/old coat with tails sharp as a tern’s wing—extinct seabirds skimming l
ong-ago waves. The coat overhangs crackly jeans and remaindered combat boots; in the gritty wind they make me sweat. But I don’t care. I’m making memories. I imagine swooping out over the surf. In my fancy clothes, I feel like the Luck-in-the-Leftovers. The two well-dressed men who are paying for it all stop to help admire me in every surface that reflects.

  The Trash Café is the only place left on the protected side of the boardwalk where folks with credits can sit out of the wind and watch rubbish swirling in the surf. This time I get to be a customer.

  “Charlie.” The biggest man talks while waving us to a table, continuing a conversation I’ve been ignoring for a while. “You didn’t give your full proposal. The University could withhold research approval—but you’ve definitely piqued their interest.” He chuckles, a deep note that can be felt through the bones.

  “What proposal?” I ask. A hot current of air sneaks through the open door and sucks the words away, leaving me breathless.

  “We’re running out of time,” the big man mutters. He seems to understand I won’t have remembered his name. The thin man, Charlie, will have the answers I want. No one else matters (not yet). He re-introduces himself as Leopold Vassily, “Call me Leo,” professor of something unpronounceable.

  “We have questions.” Leo seats himself at the rickety table. I sit opposite, gingerly. Tao raises an eyebrow and greets me with the name I gave him earlier, along with the crickets.

  “Jack.”

  Now the researchers know it too. Charlie fills our mugs and, ignoring the public cistern, heads for the solar still with the empty water pitcher.

  “How old are you, Jack.” Leo asks. “And where from?”

  “Seventeen. Born inland—in old Chicago.” I’m a good liar. Chicago was buried in the massive snows and winds that fragmented the Midwest. No records to prove or disprove. There are refugees from all over wandering through, looking for a place to be—like this semi-arid northeast coast (wasn’t this temperate rainforest once?). It’s nothing new.

  All things repeat.

  I pick up my cup to avoid Leo’s gaze.

  “You sexually active, Jack?” The man asks abruptly.

  A jolt of adrenaline shakes my hand. I fiddle with the clay cup; there’s no maker’s mark. I’m not used to hearing that name anymore.

  “Why? You interested?” Jack. The name is comfortable as an old hat, but suddenly feels too intimate for strangers to use. I’ve had lots of names, but Jack is the one I use when change is coming—or I need a bit of luck. Jack jumps over the candlestick. I manage a stiff smile. Leo is hard to read; brown eyes camouflaged in bushy hair and whiskers. They seem like kind eyes, but Jack-the-survivor has learned to distrust even his own impressions.

  “I’m curious whether you are,” the man says. “How’s your libido?”

  “Don’t have much to compare to,” I mutter. I decide not to wait for the distilled water Charlie’s paying for and tilt my cup (Jack’s cup) to taste the silty-gray cistern water. “Don’t feel up to populating the world if that’s what you mean.” Tao told me earlier that Charlie’s research has to do with why so many humans and animals can no longer breed. But he’s also some big brain in genetics. That’s what interests me. What makes us what we are? (What am I?)

  Leo chuckles deeply, the light table vibrating with the sound. “Where do you live, Jack?” My hand quivers along with the table.

  “Oi,” I say. “Why don’t you tell me where you live—Leo?”

  “With him.” Leo says calmly, pointing to the blond lecturer who’s gusting back toward us on the gritty wind. “Dr. McCauley—Charlie. I know his work intimately.”

  Charlie thumps down the newly filled jug with a “Hmph.” Our poor table may not survive this meal.

  “You should pay him properly, Charlie.” Leo says. “Food and clothes are fine, but the lad doesn’t have a place to be.”

  I stare. Why would he know that?

  “What say, Jack? Want to room with us while Charlie tests his pet theory?”

  “Don’t decide on your own!” Charlie’s eyes are pale blue with white lashes and brows, his chin hairless. He looks like he’d disappear if he stepped into a sunbeam. The bright ponytail whips around angrily.

  I half-listen to the men argue. The food arrives. With a muttered “Itadakimasu,” I eat pickled jellyfish with my fingers from the common bowl while they talk. As usual, it’s the only thing on the menu. Jellyfish is what the Fisher folk catch, and for so long now no one seems to remember when it was different. But I know—as much as I know anything, my memories a mix of half-forgotten stories, bought information, flashes of insight and great yawning gaps; especially when the memory pertains to me—I think I remember how Japanese became part of the lingua franca. Maybe even how I got here—sometimes. But what feels like my memory is also told on the docks as an old Fisher’s tale (and there are even older tales layered over them).

  It’s the story of the 7000 islands of the legendary Nihon-koku archipelago sinking beneath The Great Wave. Back in a time so long ago the snows hadn’t yet made the middle-country impassable, humans still had it in them to feel generous to hungry strangers who washed ashore; especially strangers with survival skills to share. The Jellyfish Masters came, by land and sea, along with the first wave of hungry immigrants, and taught the people how to catch and prepare Jellies. The Fisher folk even made a harvest festival of it, though no one celebrates it anymore. Thanksgiving, it was called, Kinro kansha no hi, though it used to be Niname-sai, the celebration of rice, the origins of which not even I recall (though, gods, how I do miss rice).

  So here we are eating pickled jellyfish today, dried-shredded jellyfish tomorrow and, on good days, jellyfish stir-fried with kelp, jellyfish sashimi with vinegar, jellyfish burgers, jellyfish satay, jellyfish tempura, candied jellyfish. When was the last meal I’ve had sans jellyfish? If it really has anti-aging proteins—I may live forever.

  We are what we eat.

  I push the bowl away and the men stop talking abruptly. I wipe my fingers politely on the table and stand. “I’ll have my credit voucher now, kudasaimasu.” I bow, hoping the blond will pay in advance. I want the information those credits can be traded for. The Doc has also promised answers after doing his lab tests. I’ll get what I need—but suddenly I’m almost afraid of knowing.

  “Where will you go?” Leo’s voice is gentle.

  I grab my cup of cloudy water, draining it quickly. Water is life.

  “Gotta go,” I plead. “Oitoma! I can . . . I’ll come tomorrow . . . .”

  Charlie reaches for his satchel, but Leo puts a restraining hand on his arm.

  “Jack.” Leo’s voice is so deep and resonant it hurts the heart. “We’ll pay you to help with Charlie’s research. Come with us. You’ll have a warm place to sleep, food, and no one will harass you. Promise.” There’s kindness in this voice.

  I can only turn away—just in time to spot Joon outside, making his way towards us up the littered boardwalk. My face flushes hot. Joon’s in his usual shabby black-on-black and looks thin and dangerous. Hazel eyes are narrowed under the thick coils of his dreads and his hands are hidden in deep pockets. I scan for a knife, but Joon isn’t stupid. He won’t show arms near the Market Guard. He stops at our table and nods to me alone.

  “Jae. Forget to check in?”

  “Couldn’t.” I say miserably, hiding my new boots under the wobbly table. “Been . . . busy. We was just. . . .” How do I explain my new finery and all this food?

  “You a friend of Jack’s?” Leo asks, deep voice rumbling. “Won’t you join us?”

  Joon ignores him. “Time to go, J-boy.” I look away. I don’t want to go anywhere with Joon in this mood.

  “Leo. . . .” Charlie has collar insignia identifying him as a Uni Doc. I see Joon calculating whether he’s the one in charge just as Charlie gives Leo a push and the bigger man stands, looming over Joon, dark eyes deep and impossible to read. I imagine Leo as a bear—but I have animal metaphors in my head that
no one else gets. I also know Joon will just get stubborn if challenged.

  “Jun, is it?” Leo’s deep voice is soothing, “We’d like to talk to you too—about a business transaction.”

  “Might have a minute for business.” Joon’s uncomfortable. He seems to be backing down. Wow. One up for the big guy. But I notice Joon watching Leo closely and feel the first cramp of what might be jealousy, might be my jellyfish refluxing. Joon slides gracefully into one of the rickety chairs.

  “And it’s Joo-oon,” he adds, nodding for Leo to slide over the food bowl. Like me, he doesn’t hold back when someone else buys. “Jae and Joon. We come as a set.” He smirks, but I know the anger is still there under the tight smile. It always is.

  Leo picks up the sweating clay pitcher Charlie brought and refills our mugs with real filtered water, the clearest I’ve seen. It tastes delicious. It tastes like clean dirt. Once Joon settles, Charlie starts. “We’re paying Jack—Jae?—to help with our research. Perhaps you could as well?” Big Leo clears his throat but Charlie ignores him. He’s in lecture mode. I watch Joon’s face, waiting for the storm.

  “Can I assume that you’re also . . . .” Charlie stops suddenly, wincing. “Ow. Ah. Perhaps I should just tell you about our project.” Charlie glares at Leo, who grins, showing big white bear teeth.

  Charlie talks about the rubbish in the water and food and how everyone’s bodies are messed up, so there aren’t many new births.

  “ . . . but recently, among the street kids, we’ve discovered true hermaphrodites, or intersex adolescents, able to choose their own gender—and other surprising adaptations.”

  I know! Ask me . . . . Hermaphroditus, son of Hermes and Aphrodite, so pretty some tramp water sprite got herself welded to him. But was it consensual? I mean, who invited her on board anyway?

  “This isn’t remarkable in an era of human-generated hormone mimics created, to put it bluntly, by our own garbage.”