Hath No Fury

by Melanie R. Meadors

  Now that purpose had been fulfilled, and there was nothing to take its place.

  Her status as one of the most sought-after courtesans in the court had its perquisites. This apartment, paid for by her patrons, easily supplied the comforts due a lesser noble. Her wardrobe, food, and jewelry, all came from the largesse of her patrons past and present. Kestel knew that few courtesans retained their charms and patrons for long. She made provisions for the time she’d leave the business, by choice or not. Yet she never expected this emptiness. No thrill of victory, no satisfaction of completion. Just a dark void that sapped her energy and turned her thoughts in circles.

  A soft rap at the door startled Kestel from her thoughts. She tensed, drawing her knife and keeping the blade behind her back as she moved. She didn’t expect any visitors, and could think of no one who would be welcome just then.

  A lone woman in a cloak stood in the doorway. “Please, let me in. I mean you no harm.”

  Wary, Kestel took a few steps back to allow the newcomer to enter. If I have to kill her, fewer people will see if I do it inside.

  “I know what you did at the Rooster and Pig,” the woman said quietly.

  Kestel kept her face unreadable. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The stranger lowered the cowl that had kept her features in shadow. Kestel now recognized her from court, the wife of a minor lord, or perhaps a duke. Someone of enough importance to be in the outer circles of prominence, yet not sufficiently influential to bother remembering. “I know you killed Damian Hastings.”

  “If you believe that, and you came here to tell me, you’re not very smart.” Kestel kept her voice low and quiet. She had already considered half a dozen ways the woman could die without anyone being the wiser.

  “I’m not going to turn you in.”

  “You’re going to try to blackmail me?” Kestel’s smile was cold. “I don’t play that game.” She made sure her blade glinted in the candlelight, a warning.

  “I want to hire you.”

  That brought Kestel up short. “Hire me? Look, you’re very pretty, and I won’t say that I’ve never taken a woman patron, but it’s not really my…”

  “I want to hire you to kill someone, like you killed Hastings.”

  Kestel stared at the woman. “I’m not an assassin.”

  “You could be.”

  Kestel gave an incredulous chuckle. “You’re crazy.”

  “Hear me out.” The stranger looked serious. “I went to the Rooster and Pig tonight to beg Hastings for his help. One of his guards took advantage of my daughter. Because of him, she hanged herself. I meant to offer Hastings any payment he wanted to punish the man who hurt my baby. I didn’t care what it cost me.” She paused and took a breath to steady herself.

  “Then I saw you go in, and I waited. I thought—well, that doesn’t matter now,” she said, ducking her head. Kestel knew exactly what her unexpected guest thought, that Kestel and Hastings were meeting for a tryst.

  “When you came out, I went in and found him. And then I knew what happened, what you did, and I realized you could help me.”

  “I’m really not—”

  “Please,” the woman cut her off. “Do you know how many wronged women would pay handsomely for you to kill the men who hurt them? How many went to the beds of men they didn’t love because of arranged marriages, sold off like trollops by their fathers or older brothers? Men who beat them, raped them, abused their children, threatened their sons and daughters if they dared complain?” Tears pooled in the stranger’s eyes.

  “You are privy to secrets. You have access to the wealthiest and most powerful men in the kingdom. These women would pay you well, and you’d have no fear of them revealing your secret. Exposing you would expose them. They would lose everything.”

  Kestel opened her mouth to say, I’m not an assassin, and then shut it again. I sleep with men for money. I betray secrets for money. I’ve spent a lifetime plotting to murder someone. I’ve got precious little virtue left to squander, and at least this way, I could do some good for women like mama. Women who might not have to die.

  Purpose. The realization hit Kestel hard enough to make her take a sharp breath. This stranger offered her something more than money, more than vengeance. A chance to do something that mattered, to redeem herself. A reason to live.

  Kestel lowered her knife. “Your proposal intrigues me,” she said, and gave a genuine smile. “Come in. Let’s talk.”

  AN ESSAY BY

  MONICA VALENTINELLI

  THIS IS NOT ANOTHER “WHY REPRESENTATION IS IMPORTANT” ESSAY

  AFTER READING THE STORIES AND other essays in Hath No Fury, chances are you already know why representation in fiction is important. Maybe you’ve been part of the discussion for decades, or maybe you’ve recently joined the growing chorus of writers and readers shouting “We need diverse books!” online through the hashtag #weneeddiversebooks or #ownvoices. You might even possess a deeply personal story why representation matters to you, or you are beginning to understand how poorly written characters hurt the people they represent by reinforcing stereotypes that dehumanize them. Whatever the reason, however you have arrived at the conclusion that representation is important, this is not that kind of essay—because I agree with you.

  Unfortunately, while many people agree that representation is important, they don’t believe it is necessary. The distinction is this: if you think it’s important, you support the people advocating and actively vying for change, but you personally don’t feel obligated or committed to be a part of the movement. For those people, certain adages might even sound perfectly logical. They don’t have time or money to get involved. A person of color needs to simply work hard enough and they’ll make it on their own. They don’t have any power to effect change. A woman author doesn’t get the PR she needs because she hasn’t written a quality book. We shouldn’t concern ourselves with the portrayal of characters in fiction because it’s all made up—so what’s the harm? Despite the fact that my simplistic view relates to a complex problem that involves hundreds, if not thousands, of people who edit, write, read, buy, review, sell, and publish books, I can deconstruct this even further to tell you the real reason why it hasn’t happened yet. What’s more, I can sum it up in a single word: racism.

  The call for better representation has yielded frightened, negative reactions that are rooted in deep, cultural biases supported by outmoded methods of decision-making that stretch back decades, if not centuries. Thus, for whatever reason, many people consider the accurate portrayal of various cultures and identities to be risky, progressive, and socially liberal simply because they do not recognize that the default, or most commonly portrayed, identity is that of a white, cisgendered male. These people do not see the harm of their views, because they’ve internalized that there has been none caused or intended. What’s more, when the word “racism” is accurately used to describe actions that support the status quo, they become defensive because they understand intellectually that racism is bad, but can’t admit to having acted or spoken in a racist manner.

  Racism has existed in the past, does exist now, and, if history holds true, will exist in the future. Though some might believe this either isn’t or will not be the case, our remembrance of historic milestones like the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s doesn’t neatly fit the reality. Social progress has never been achieved linearly nor uniformly and, as human rights are not static, representation isn’t either. Thus, black characters won’t suddenly be well-represented and then Poof! the struggle is over. It may be uncomfortable or even frustrating to acknowledge this is the case, but I’m of the mind that not facing hard truths like this prevents real growth.

  Unfortunately, there are a couple of myths that must be overcome in order to embrace change. The first is the myth of personal responsibility that boasts: “You can make it on your own if you just try hard enough.” This is so ingrained into the American psyche that many turn a blind eye to th
e systemic issues underrepresented and marginalized people face on top of the harsh realities of being in the publishing industry. The myth of personal responsibility also lends itself to the idea that every individual author’s perspective is legitimized by their uniqueness. Unfortunately, internalized biases emerge in the work itself and, if left uncorrected, can hurt readers and perpetuate racist stereotypes that eventually form an industry standard. When that happens, established poor representations prevent better characters from being written, published, and read, because suddenly the truth for some editors becomes unfathomable to read. If, for example, the majority of young adult books portray the majority of Latina teen characters as living in the inner city, then future characters are deemed to be unbelievable if their home is placed in a wealthy suburb. Also, if marketing personnel believe that white characters on the cover of a book sell better than black, the cover art is then whitewashed despite the fact that the protagonist’s race is black. Whitewashing is commonplace.

  Another myth that negatively impacts representation is rooted in the idea that, because fiction is the product of an author’s imagination, it’s okay if the details aren’t accurate. Or, to put it more bluntly: harm can’t possibly be caused by a story because it’s all made up—especially with respect to genre fiction. Intellectually, it’s true that people understand the difference between fiction and nonfiction but, to riff off of an old adage, any statement that’s wrapped in a pretty lie through the art of storytelling becomes a fact that’s easier to stomach. Stories have been used to justify genocide and the removal of basic, human rights for indigenous peoples, immigrants, women, the poor, LGBTQA+ citizens, and so many others. The ideas generated that being poor is virtuous, that racist portrayals such as red face and yellow peril are a thing of the past, that old women are crones to be feared, that being queer is unnatural or can be “fixed” with electroshock therapy, etc. originate from stories. These stories are engineered on a conscious or subconscious level and are used as propaganda to justify harm. Poor representations, then, hurt marginalized people either directly through physical attacks or indirectly through political policies designed to limit, erase, or subjugate their power.

  Though opinions and biases are not static, the struggle for better representation is real. Those affected cannot wait decades for a solution to systemic problems, in part because the same issues that fiction publishers face are shared by other media-generating businesses. After all, even well-written indigenous characters who ring true in a novel could be whitewashed or erased completely when the medium shifts to a TV show, film, or comic because some executive decides that the lead has to be white to boost ticket sales. Data, however, also tells a story, and often which story an analyst wants to tell will depend upon their biases. No matter what historic data might be used to support an analyst’s conclusion, however, the public’s consciousness, trends, and tastes are not guaranteed, nor can they be predicted with any kind of accuracy. If that was the case, then “instant best-sellers” would happen more often than they do. Stories, despite the business mechanisms that produce them, will resonate differently with different people at different times.

  Add back in the aforementioned fear of change, fear of being wrong, fear of being hurt, fear of the unknown on top of a pile of reasons and, in many cases, excuses, and it becomes clearer why better, more representative characters of the people who occupy our world today have yet to be the norm. On a fundamental human level, human beings are afraid of change, so representation demands it. It demands that we examine our own biases, that we read more broadly, that we better utilize our roles in publishing, that we listen to underrepresented voices when mistakes are made, that we examine hiring practices and the books we buy, that we work more closely with teachers, librarians, and educators, etc.

  The effort to support better representation may seem impossible, if not improbable, but I believe it can be done and will continue to happen if we work together. After all, if one oft-repeated story can harm an entire culture, then surely a new story can turn the tide in the other direction. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to know which story will be the one that resonates. The good news? They are already being told by many authors, editors, and publishers who are leading the discussion online. They include: Courtney Milan, Justina Ireland, Daniel José Older, Michi Trota, Rebecca Roanhorse, Alyssa Wong, K. Tempest Bradford, Debbie Reese, Dominick Evans, Foz Meadows, Victor Raymond, and many, many others on their own accounts and Twitter hashtags such as #ownvoices and #weneeddiversevoices.

  Obtaining and sustaining better representation in fiction is not an issue, but a movement that is gaining momentum. Like any movement, there will be setbacks directly tied to a rise in racism and xenophobia. Fighting the latter may seem impossible, but being involved in publishing to ensure that more stories that utilize better characters and plots are not. Now, more than ever, these stories must be written, published, shared, taught, and recommended to bring hope and understanding where none can be found. Without them, we only have our humanity to lose.

  TRENCH WITCH

  M.L. BRENNAN

  THE WOUND ON HIS THIGH was throbbing like the very devil, but John still had his leg, and better yet, he’d taken a quick check when the orderly had changed him, and his rod and tackle were safe and sound, so really, he had everything he needed. He was lying on clean sheets instead of the muddy dirt of the trenches. Instead of making do with his own pack, he had a pillow. Instead of the flea-infested clothing that he’d worn for two weeks, he was wearing freshly laundered cotton pajamas. He could still hear the occasional explosion of shells, but this hospital was five miles back from the front, and he’d been assured by the other men that there was nothing to fear—the shells very rarely came this far. Almost never, in fact. By all standards of measurement, John’s fortunes had improved remarkably since that morning.

  John Shearer should’ve been asleep. The sun was down, the canvas sides of the ward tent tied up to keep out any night winds, all around him he could hear snoring from the other men. There had been some screaming earlier, but that man had died just before dinner. He was warm. And clean. And safe.

  But the thing from the trenches had followed him there.

  He’d caught sight of it perhaps ten minutes before, just when he’d been about to doze off. He knew it was the same one that he’d seen in the trenches—he’d never seen a thing like this before in his whole life, but he knew it. It had been right after that shell exploded and he’d been rolling on the ground, screaming his head off because of the chunks of hot metal in his leg, then screaming even louder because that thing was there. As big as his hand, brown like the worst trench mud mixed with blood and rat corpses and rotted flesh, a dozen limbs that skittered like a spider’s legs but were arms as hairy as his grandfather’s, each ending with a hand. Its head was human but with a madman’s grin that flashed needle-sharp teeth. There were wings, too—lacy like a dragonfly’s and a strange beauty beside the terror of the rest of it—but it had dropped its head down to where he was bleeding, and even with the agony of the shrapnel, he’d felt those teeth rip in.

  Illustration by OKSANA DMITRIENKO

  Then Len Haddrill had proven himself to be not quite the ass that John had always thought him to be, and grabbed John by the collar of his jacket and hauled him back and over the lip of their own trench, and the thing had let go with a screech of fury that John had heard even though his ears were still ringing from the explosion of the shell that had nearly sent him to the devil. He’d half convinced himself that he’d imagined it by the time the stretcher bearers were carrying him away, and decided for sure that it was just some mirage dreamed up during the shock by the time he was being given a bed bath by a harried nurse who made him feel like a puppy under a pump.

  But now it was back, with each tooth as real as the black trench dirt still caught beneath John’s nails, and creeping up to him.

  He should scream. John tried, but all that could escape his throat was a strangled whimp
er. The thing grinned wider. It was over his toes, and he tried to scream again, without success. Past his shins. Onto his knee. This close, he could see it was covered in tiny brown scales, with little glints, like gold powder in mud. Over his knee, and he could feel each of those feet-hands touch down and move. It was heading for his wrapped wound, and John realized it wanted to finish its interrupted meal. He should push it away, but he couldn’t make his hands move at all. John had gone over the top a dozen times like the best of men, no fears of a coward’s execution for him, but now he lay utterly frozen, making nothing but those tiny, pitiful whimpers.

  It reached the wound and its lips stretched back even farther, showing a second row of those wicked teeth. Its man’s eyes narrowed as it drew back to strike, then—

  A spoon slammed down onto it, making a loud crunch like a beetle crushed beneath a boot on a cobblestone. It screamed as it rolled off, a hair-raising sound that seemed to scrape across John’s bones, and then a boot actually did stomp down, grinding it with a fury.

  John blinked up at his savior—the night-duty VAD, who he’d seen earlier that evening distributing bedpans. She was older than most of the VADs buzzing around the ward throughout the day, with a no-nonsense expression that made her seem more like the professional nurses. Now she stood above him, still holding that spoon in her hand and looking thoroughly satisfied.

  “And be that a lesson to you,” she said, her voice thick with a Cornish accent, stamping down a second time with her boot, to another high shriek of protest from the creature on the ground. “Now”—she fixed her eyes on John for the first time—“let’s check that bandage.”