"Isaac,” he said, “I'm right here."
And meant it, in a way he had never meant it before, or could have meant it before, or could have said it even if he had meant it.
"Arturo,” Isaac said. “The degree to which you are full of shit astonishes even me, who prides himself on being shit-full."
But Arthur wasn't listening to him, because there on the periphery of vision was a vine-hung roof, and windows long since broken, and the mossy walls of one of the mansions of the blood.
* * * *
Inside, Arthur went alone. He was wet. He had not slept in thirty hours. His home was destroyed not by an earthquake, but by the puny hiccup of an aftershock. He was newly awakened into a consciousness of heartbreak and yearning. There was nothing left of him. The mansions of the blood held no fear. Inside lived the unborn scions of the generalissimo, the gunslinger successors of the bandit princeling. One and all, they took their shots at Arthur, they did their best, peeling back the scabs on the emotional wounds that had driven him to this Caracol of the mind. He in turn rose to the occasion believing he inevitably must fail. To the woman of his future, whom he believed to be Maria Rios, he said: This is what I have been saying to you, the unattainable idol of the woman I want to love. Before I came to you, I suffered this; and before you came to me I suffered that. Whose suffering is greater does not matter, and cannot matter. We are here now, bringing only what we can be. It must be enough.
Faced with a man so indomitably committed to the future, the spirits scattered. Arthur Lindsay believed that he had won. He returned to the boat demanding the rest of the mansions of the blood. “You knew where they were all along,” he said. “I'm sick of the runaround. Show me."
"Okay,” Isaac said. “But it doesn't matter what I show you until you figure out that you already know what you're going to find. And today we're going home."
Isaac knew that after Arthur's first experience with the mansions of the blood, it was inevitable that he would find the rest. And he knew that it was best not to interfere with a driven man's impulse to master time. He set Arthur on the course, allowed him to see the mansion...not allowed. The mansions allowed themselves. What was to be gained by someone else permitting this vision? The one thing Isaac could not do was turn the key for Arthur in the front door of the remotest mansion of the blood. It took Isaac's death, and the death of Maria Rios, to tumble those tumblers and shift those gears.
* * * *
There were seven mansions of the blood, or maybe eight, each one farther out in the antediluvian idscape of the jungle. One by one, Arthur Lindsay found them, or maybe Isaac led him to each in turn, or maybe Isaac allowed Arthur's singularity of purpose to guide each stroke of his oars. Up the river, back in time, Isaac thought, and waited for Arthur to figure it out too, but Arthur didn't until they approached the last mansion of the blood. “I'm out here too, somewhere,” he said, as much to himself as to Isaac. The green oppressed him.
"You figured it out, huh?” Isaac said. Then he vomited over the side of the boat. “Home,” he said. “Can't be in a boat when I'm this drunk."
They got back to Caracol late that night and were greeted with the news that Maria Rios was dead. Isaac stumbled off home. Arthur refused to get out of the boat. He sat up all night, listening to the gentle slap and wash of the water and trying to fit this new fact into what he had learned. By morning he allowed himself to be sad, and the fishermen who left before sunrise heard him weeping and assumed that there would be no fish in their nets that day. They were wrong, and by the time they returned later that afternoon Arthur had left the boat and gone to see the lawyer Batista. “Where is she?” he asked.
"Dead,” Batista said. “That's where she is."
Arthur wanted to hit him. “You know what I mean. I want to see her."
"That's what I'm trying to tell you,” Batista said. “Dead is where she is."
There were husks of flies on the windowsill, swirls of cigar smoke crouching in the corners. With the devastating clarity of these details came another kind of clarity. Arthur closed his eyes. “Because I turned back,” he said.
Batista shrugged. “Maybe."
Isaac died later that evening, on the porch at Bananana. The cause was said to be either alcohol poisoning or bowel cancer or resignation to the fact that he had done all he could do. When he heard the news, Arthur thought that it really couldn't have happened any other way. The quest had always been his. In the morning, he went to Isaac's boat, pushed it away from the dock, and rowed into the jungle for the last time. Caracol had been getting less and less real to him. He had the feeling that if he looked over his shoulder it would be gone: the wreckage of his house, Batista's smug cigars, the creaking floorboards of Bananana, the purple dye crushed from the bodies of snails. The only thing that had ever been real about it was Maria.
* * * *
He found the place and left the boat to drift. The last mansion of the blood appeared, grandly decayed and foreboding. The front door opened without a sound. In the foyer, Arthur knew with prophetic clarity what awaited him. She is here, Arthur thought. And so am I. The worst of the mansions of the blood. He walked into the next room. In the house was a demon, predatory and leering, created from the pathological corners of Arthur's mind. It was part and parcel of Caracol, and always had been. Perhaps he had been drawn to this place only to destroy it. It would be taller than he was, bloated, its mouth too big and its arms too long. It would have fangs, and from their points would tremble droplets of what could only be venom.
It would propose conundrums, and Arthur would know that there was no answer. Would Arthur face them down, solely for the love of a dead woman who had never done more than speak to him? In Arthur Lindsay, naivete was perhaps exactly that powerful. He would. He named the demon Otro Gringo, and called the name out.
You must either fail a woman by leaving, or fail a woman by staying.
You must either break the heart of a child, or....
"None of it matters,” Arthur said in the stillness of a supernaturally preserved music room. He stood in the doorway, and could see Maria Rios sitting at a parlor grand piano. Her fingers moved over the keys but made no sound. It would not matter to her whether he wanted to play catch with his son; it would not matter to her whether he would choke for the rest of his life on regret that his daughter would lose her first tooth a thousand miles away from where he stood deep into the swamps of his Latin America of the mind. The room was quiet again. All of the house's spirits were elsewhere. Maria, he thought. Can I still come back to you and explain? Can explaining ever be enough?
She vanished. In her place sat Otro Gringo, playing a song Arthur remembered singing for his children when they were toddlers.
He would make it enough. Resolve was foreign to Arthur, but when he felt it, he could feel nothing else. He realized that he was never going to get into the last mansion of the blood while Maria was alive, because the only shining goal that could have given him the strength to enter was bringing her back. Not just from the death that had been slowly claiming her since she had pledged herself to the dead men who never spoke to her in life, but from the paralyzing embrace of his desperate infatuation. This was Otro Gringo, the demon grown fat on Arthur Lindsay's refusal to live with himself and his insistence on recreating Maria Rios in the image of his own self-loathing.
Now was the time to be heroic. Arthur walked up to Otro Gringo, his feet silent on the carpet made by the fingers of children who had never existed. He took hold of the fleshy part of Otro Gringo's right triceps, and pulled. Otro Gringo kept playing. Arthur put the piece of the demon in his mouth and ate it. He tore another loose, and another, looking for Maria, who he knew was inside. Arthur ate and ate, leaving the hands for last because he did not want the song to end, but when it was time he ate them too, first the left and then the right. He swallowed the last bite and sat in the silence of the remotest mansion of the blood.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Short Stor
y: SEVEN SINS FOR SEVEN DWARVES by Hilary Goldstein
Hilary Goldstein is the Editor-in-Chief of IGN.Com, which is an online media & services company focused primarily on gaming. His biography on the site says that he was born in the wilds of California in 1975 and raised in captivity. His F&SF debut is best avoided by septaphobes.
She appeared in the forest as a character appears in a dream—without any proper measure of how she got there or when she arrived, just the knowledge that she was a part of the tapestry. Autumn had overtaken the forest and the trees were alight with bright orange leaves. The wild white roses, which grew some ten feet by end of summer, stretched to catch the sun that managed to slip through the trees; they strained for any remaining drops of dew.
Her hand raked against a nearby rose bush as she fell, its massive thorns slicing open her palm. She closed her eyes and gathered herself enough for one narrow scream. No prince came to her rescue. Instead, a jackrabbit stepped forward. Its tall ears stood straight and its nose twitched as it considered Snow. “Shoo,” she said with the last of her energy. The jackrabbit sprinted away.
Before sleep could take her, a noise like an angry wind bounced through the dark forest. Its tenor grew to a shrill howl. But it was more than just a guttural cry, there was a rhythm to it, a cadence. It was, as best she could tell, a beast screaming out in the pangs of hunger. Snow knew if she remained lying on her stomach in the forest, she'd be eaten by nightfall.
The sound inspired her arms with strength enough to push herself off the ground.
She made her way west, certain if she went in a straight path she'd find a break in the forest. She was correct, but by the time she found the clearing, night had fallen and so too had she. Cut and weak, she hugged the wet grass of the hillside and fell asleep, no longer caring if the monster consumed her.
Snow awoke to find a dwarf on his knees beside her. Fingers, tiny and swollen, had hold of her shoulder, no doubt to shock her to consciousness. Her hand rubbed at her eyes as if to wipe off the last of a dream. When the dwarf remained, she screamed.
"There's nothing to fear.” His hair was a lengthy mess and his nose so bulbous that she found it hard to focus on any other part of his face. “I'm September."
Snow didn't have the energy to run, much less hold to her scream. Instead she asked, “Who would name someone September?"
"Well, I'm the seventh of my brothers and I arrived seven weeks late in the seventh month of the year.” His speech was archaic, muddled by a thick accent and mixed with a few words Snow couldn't understand, but their languages were close enough that the two could communicate.
"I've never met a whatever-you-are before.” She put a hand to his face, which was as coarse as a gravel road. The strap of her dress had slipped off her shoulder and she returned it to its proper position. Her curves were subtle, trapped behind a white gown, now dirtied and bloodied by the trip through the forest. A tear along the seam revealed a thin, smooth calf. She'd lost her shoes somewhere in the forest, kicked off when she tripped over a tree stump. Her toes were amazingly small compared to a dwarf's, each toenail painted a rich red. “My father banished me."
"Banished. What sort of crime did you commit?"
Her cheeks turned pink, which proved a striking contrast to the paleness of her face. “Is beauty a crime?"
"I don't know, is it?” And truly, he looked as if he did not know.
"I was the fairest of all at home.” The pink in her cheeks deepened as her smile broadened. “Beauty is a matter of pride, where I come from. My mother was once the most beautiful woman our land had known. Her jealousy drove her a bit mad, I'd say. She ordered my father to deliver her my heart, torn from me while I was still living."
The dwarf looked at her chest. “But you kept your heart?"
She gave him a curious look. “Of course. My father couldn't bear to do as my mother asked. He sent me away to somewhere he said she'd never find me. And I suppose that is true. No one will ever find me, will they?"
"You've been found.” There was a sweetness and a sadness to him that she liked. Perhaps it was just his size that made her comfortable, but she felt no threat from the dwarf. Certainly his brothers must be of equal measure.
"We can't keep her here,” Unus said. He was the eldest by seven hours and by far the tallest (by a good two inches) and thickest of his brothers. “She could not be trusted with our charge."
"Oh, I am so sick of hearing about our charge.” Equattuo waved a hand and walked out of the room, as had two of his brothers previously.
"The Lord made us seven from the clay of the Earth,” Unus began. “He made our legs short so we may not run from our duty and our backs strong to carry the weight of its importance. He made our hearts large so they might keep us strong through long years of service, and he gave us the voices of angels to drown out the cries of our wretched seven charges."
"And now he has brought us a woman.” Duollo was second in all aspects—age, height, handsomeness (for a dwarf)—and always spoke after Unus. He addressed the brothers who remained in the dining room. “Do we know what gifts she possesses? Would we be so bold as to throw such gifts back in the face of our very maker?"
Qinn stroked the division between the two braided ends of his red beard. “Give me a few minutes alone with the girl,” he said, shifting his weight on the thick, wooden stool. “I can divine her gifts."
"I can cook and clean, make the beds each morning, wash those disgusting clothes of yours, and read you a bedtime story if it makes you happy.” Framed in the doorway, with the golden light of the candelabra shining in behind her, Snow stood strong with hands on hips. “I don't want to be here, you don't want me here. I get it. But we're stuck with each other, so let's make the best of it."
"But—” Unus began.
In the time she'd spent in the basement awaiting their decision, she'd fashioned a needle and thread and made some repairs to her dress so as to no longer be immodest. “I don't care about your charge. I just want room and board for a bit until we can figure out how to return me home."
Unus folded his arms over his chest, with some effort. Though his chest was broad and strong, his arms were short and so only the tips of his fingers could meet. “I'm sorry, but there is simply no room here for you."
"She can share my bed,” Qinn said. He narrowed his eyes at Snow and continued to stroke the space between his parted beard. “I will allow you to sleep on top of me."
Unus slammed his hand on the table, which gave the sigh of old wood. “Qinn, what sort of remark—"
"I'm glad this is settled,” Snow said, stretching her arms in an exaggerated yawn. “I'm awful tired and could use my beauty rest."
* * * *
She woke to the cry of the monster. After clearing some space by piling miscellany into the corner, they'd made a bed for her in the basement out of pillows and blankets. Though it was in no way comfortable, she'd found it easy to sleep before the noise woke her.
The echoing wail of the beast was close. It had to be. How else could she hear it through the door from down in the basement? The sound was the cry of a dragon, perhaps, maddened by the death of its hatchling.
Before going to bed, she'd found a pickaxe, its head broken, and slept beside it. She felt its weight and in the darkness gave a test swing to understand how soon she must act in order to defend herself.
Gingerly, she made her way through the dark of the basement, up the stairs, and into the foyer. This was the only part of the house that was warm—a nice yellow coat of paint, a hand-carved wood bench too low for her, but the perfect size for a dwarf, and an inscription, chiseled into a bronze plaque above the bench in a language she could not read. She imagined it said something like, “Welcome to our forest sanctuary” or “Be safe all who live under this roof."
She held the pickaxe at its end to ensure maximum force should she need to swing.
The beast made no noise.
Through the window, she saw the clearing illuminated by a nigh
t sky not so different from the one back home. The light could not penetrate the surrounding forest, which was edged by the spikes of tall, dark trees. If the monster was coming, it would surely appear from the tree line.
When she heard it next, it was close enough to be on top of her. The dragon howled a chant with devilish words she could not comprehend. She turned quickly, but the room was empty. And then she realized the noise was coming from the bedroom. The little men who took her in had failed in whatever duty they held so dearly, and soon enough the door would open and the monster would come and tear through her snow-white skin.
Something tugged at the back of her dress, and tiny words were lost under the shrill cries of the beast. She swung without looking, but swung high. The pickaxe missed its target and hit the doorframe, splintering the wood.
September fell backwards, then scurried toward the entryway of the kitchen.
She said nothing.
"Is it keeping you up?” Thick little fingers brushed back his unkempt hair.
"I thought you were—"
"We should have warned you."
"About the monster?"
He took two small steps forward. “The singing."
She turned then, toward the door. As she did, the dragon's melody trailed and the house fell quiet.
"Oh, I can't stand it either,” he said. “They really don't need me to keep it up, so I usually go into the kitchen for a bite."
She didn't resist as he took the pickaxe from her. Despite its weight and his size, he seemed to have no issues carrying it.
"Best not to let Unus see this. Misunderstanding, I'm sure. I know my Snow wouldn't want to hurt us."
She plucked a splinter from the doorframe. “Why do they sing like that?"
"To drown out the voices."
"What voices?"
The pickaxe dragged along the floor as he moved toward the basement entrance. “They won't bother us again tonight."
FSF, May-June 2010 Page 17