Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 90

by Seth Dickinson

  “Stop that,” says Den.

  “Don’t you appreciate it?”

  “It’s not for me. And with what you’re doing, we want as little attention as possible.”

  That sounds bad. “Den, what am I doing?”

  Den’s yellow light winks at me. “If you want to cross over to our world, you’ll need to eat the offerings.”

  My stomach squirms. The New Year’s offerings of mochi and oranges will still be arrayed before the altars. To eat them—the awful thought makes my hair stand on end. A sudden pain bites the back of my head, so sharp I clasp my hands over it.

  “I can’t. Den, I can’t do this.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. Of course you can. You’re just hungry enough, and soon your new spirit will do it for you.” Both his lights are glowing now, as if in satisfaction. “I told that teapot you were mine. Now he’s just garbage. I matter.”

  “What are you saying? Kyusu matters.” The back of my head hurts so much it feels like it’s going to split open. I should never have come here. I should have realized, when Kyusu tried to stop us. I should never have let him stay behind . . .

  I turn away and run back across the broad courtyard. At the gate, I call out.

  “Kyusu? Are you still here?”

  The dawn stillness is broken only by the trickle of water in the purifying basin.

  Then comes a soft whistle. “Naoko-san?”

  Yokatta! Relieved, I follow his voice to a spot behind the basin. He cringes when he sees me.

  “Naoko-san, are you all right?”

  “My head is hurting. I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you. Den talks like he never cared about me at all, only about himself.”

  “I know,” Kyusu sighs. He bows his teapot head so deeply he has to hold his lid on with both hands. “Neither of us did, at first. We only wanted to change you, to prove we still mattered, that we couldn’t just be thrown away. I’m afraid I have no excuse.”

  My stomach cramps again. “That was what you both wanted, from the very beginning? To turn me yokai?”

  He shakes one small hand before his face. “No, no, that was never my thought. Den had that plan, I suppose, but I only learned it today. Since you hadn’t been eating, there was only one obvious possibility.”

  “What?”

  “This.” He reaches up for a dipper of water from the purifying basin and pours it into his spout. Then, bowing his head toward me, he removes his lid.

  The tea gives off a musty scent, like rain on old leaves. I’m embarrassed to look at something so private, but once I do I can’t stop staring. The purifying water glows with its own light, and the floating leaves flicker and change into the vision of a woman. She is deathly thin, with a starved expression, and two tentacular braids that undulate all on their own, revealing a gaping horror at the back of her head: a mouth full of sharp teeth.

  Futakuchi onna.

  “No. No. That’s not me!” But there’s still the pain at the back of my head—and I had that feeling that my hair was standing up . . . Iya! I hold my head tightly with both hands.

  Kyusu claps his lid back on. “You’re still in danger. You have to eat something normal, quickly.”

  I search my pockets. Nothing. “I could buy something at the station—”

  Then I hear Den’s voice calling. If he’s come looking for me, that can’t be good.

  “Naoko-san, are you hungry? I’ve brought you an orange . . . ”

  Agony bites my head again. I scoop up Kyusu, and run. Den isn’t a fast mover, but it’s a long way back along the pathway through the trees, and I’m dizzy with pain and hunger.

  “Just don’t stop,” whistles Kyusu.

  At last we pass under the great torii gate and cross the street onto the bridge. There are people here, real people. I stumble through them to the station, and buy myself a train ticket. Once inside, I hurry to the vending machine and buy myself a hot milk-tea.

  I have never tasted anything so delicious. As I cradle its warmth in my free hand against my face, the pain in my head slowly subsides. Kyusu stays tucked tightly under my arm, making no complaint as we board the train.

  We reach our station with no sign of Den. It seems almost normal to walk down the station steps, around the guard rail and across the tracks. I duck in behind the ivied wall and sidestep to my back porch. Once there, I set Kyusu down.

  “Kyusu, are you all right?”

  He’s silent for a long moment. At last, he ruffles hesitantly. “Yes?”

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  Kyusu pats his porcelain face with his bamboo hands, sumi-e eyes blinking. “Just—I’m surprised. You carried me, and I’m still alive.”

  “By good fortune, we both are. It’s rude, but may I go inside and get something to eat?”

  “Please do, before Den finds you.”

  I brace for Obaa-chan, and dare a quiet, “Tadaima . . . ”

  The apartment is silent. Even the kitchen is empty. Where could she be? The rice cooker light is on, so I wash my hands and open it. The rush of delicious steam makes me want to swoon. I take up a ball of rice with the paddle and shape it into a triangle between my hands; it’s scalding hot, but I don’t care. My head is finally my own again.

  My mouth is full of hot rice when I hear Kyusu scream.

  I gulp down the mouthful and run for the back door, nearly falling when I try to get into my zori. Den stands over Kyusu, raining blows with the bike pedal that could easily shatter his head—if they haven’t already.

  I kick Den to pieces against the ivied wall, but all too soon, he pulls himself back together.

  I step between him and Kyusu. “Leave him alone.”

  Den’s trumpeting voice is wild and furious. “Go ahead, kick me. Kick me all you like, but you’ll never get rid of me. I’m not so easily thrown away.”

  Behind him, Kyusu gets up slowly. His head seems whole; he pats himself carefully with his small brown hands. I’ve seen him in pain, seen him broken, but he’s never seemed afraid of death—except when I’ve cared for him.

  I know what I have to do.

  I crack open the apartment door and grab a clean rag from the laundry basket. Then I go for Den. He’s expecting a kick, but I catch him by a loop of his chain and start rubbing.

  Now he’s the one who squirms and screams. Hits, too, but I won’t let go. Whoever abandoned him left him covered with old oil and dirt that stains the rag. His brake handle is far easier, just a thin film of dust, and easy to wipe away. When I reach his electric panel his screams turn to whimpers, and finally fade away. I give each of his gears a good scrubbing, just to be sure.

  Kyusu is watching me with both hands held over his mouth.

  I drop the rag in the dirt, and extend a hand toward him. “Kyusu. I’d never do such a thing to you, I promise. You matter to me.”

  He twists his umbrella-foot in the dirt almost shyly. “Perhaps, if we are careful, we could care for each other without crushing each other’s spirits?” Then he grimaces. “I’m still sorry I couldn’t help you pass your entrance exams.”

  The exams. For the first time, the thought fails to bring its usual panic.

  “Kyusu, excuse me a moment,” I say. “I need to find my grandmother.”

  I carry my shoes, thinking to go straight out through the front entryway and ask after her with the neighborhood police, but passing the kitchen door, I glimpse her in the corner of my eye.

  Obaa-chan, alone at the kitchen table. Not cooking. Not mending. Silent, lonely, her eyes downcast.

  I don’t know how to go in there. I leave my shoes and coat in the entryway and smooth my hair, so she won’t scold me for little nothings when I’ve barely escaped throwing away my human self. If I sit down, she’ll get up, and it will be too late. This time has to be different.

  I walk in, straight to the electric kettle.

  “Obaa-chan, can I get you some tea?”

  I hear her shaking gasp, but focus on taking down a pair of cups
and the small iron teapot—the replacement for our hand-painted porcelain one that cracked. The careful routine: shaking in tea, pouring in hot water, placing the cups and teapot on a laquered tray. At last she answers.

  “Nao-chan—yes, please.”

  My hands shake, setting the tray down in front of Oto-san’s place. I place one cup for her, one for me, and sit down.

  Obaa-chan doesn’t get up. The clock ticks on the wall, beside our kitchen shrine.

  I reach for my cup, trying to find something to say.

  “Obaa-chan, I’m sorry. I know I’m late for school.”

  After several silent seconds, she murmurs, “You’re safe . . . ”

  Did she know the danger I was in? How could she know? But somehow it makes words easier.

  “Obaa-chan, I’m sorry. I’m trying to study hard, but I’m not Oto-san. I think I’m going to fail, and the harder I try, the harder . . . it’s terrible, inside my head. I don’t know what to do.”

  She nods. Picks up her teacup in both hands, and sips. “You’re just like me.”

  Like her? I blink at my tea, and take a sip to cover my confusion.

  “Life is long,” she says. “Even if you fail, even if you become ronin, you can try again.”

  “Oto-san—”

  “He will return one day. He will want you to be here.”

  I sneak a glance at her face. Deep behind her sad eyes, I can hear words she doesn’t say. Life is long, if you don’t throw it away. What happened to her? Maybe one day she will trust me enough to tell me.

  “I understand.” I take a sip of tea, and swallow. “I should probably get ready for school.”

  She nods. “I’ll drive you today.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’m here waiting whenever you are ready.”

  “Hai.”

  I run back to my room, but before I pick up my backpack, I open the sliding door of the futon closet. I open my bag and spread my costume out on the floor, feeling the tickle of crinoline on my palms.

  I’m not going to throw it away—and now I know what it’s missing.

  I can wrap the bicycle chain around the waistline, and sew the gears into the skirt. The electric panel lights would look good if I stitched them to one shoulder. And the exams will end before winter does, so I’ll need a better umbrella.

  I’ll ask Kyusu if he’d like to come with me.

  About the Author

  Juliette Wade has lived in Japan three times, and has turned her studies in linguistics, anthropology and Japanese language and culture into tools for writing fantasy and science fiction. She lives the Bay Area of Northern California with her husband and two children, who support and inspire her. She blogs about language and culture in SF/F at TalkToYoUniverse and runs the “Dive into Worldbuilding!” hangout series on Google+. Her fiction has appeared several times in Analog Science Fiction and Fact, and in various anthologies.

  The Egg Man

  Mary Rosenblum

  Zipakna halted at midday to let the Dragon power up the batteries. He checked on the chickens clucking contentedly in their travel crates, then went outside to squat in the shade of one fully-deployed solar wing in the forty-three centigrade heat. Ilena, his sometimes-lover and poker partner, accused him of reverse snobbery, priding himself on being able to survive in the Sonoran heat without air conditioning. Zipakna smiled and tilted his water bottle, savoring the cool, sweet trickle of water across his tongue.

  Not true, of course. He held still as the first wild bees found him, buzzed past his face to settle and sip from the sweat-drops beading on his skin. Killers. He held very still, but the caution wasn’t really necessary. Thirst was the great gentler here. Every other drive was laid aside in the pursuit of water.

  Even love?

  He laughed a short note as the killers buzzed and sipped. So Ilena claimed, but she just missed him when she played the tourists without him. It had been mostly tourists from China lately, filling the underwater resorts in the Sea of Cortez. Chinese were rich and tough players and Ilena had been angry at him for leaving. But he always left in spring. She knew that. In front of him, the scarp he had been traversing ended in a bluff, eroded by water that had fallen here eons ago. The plain below spread out in tones of ochre and russet, dotted with dusty clumps of sage and the stark upward thrust of saguaro, lonely sentinels contemplating the desiccated plain of the Sonoran and, in the distance, the ruins of a town. Paloma? Zipakna tilted his wrist, called up his position on his link. Yes, that was it. He had wandered a bit farther eastward than he’d thought and had cut through the edge of the Pima preserve. Sure enough, a fine had been levied against his account. He sighed. He serviced the Pima settlement out here and they didn’t mind if he trespassed. It merely became a bargaining chip when it came time to talk price. The Pima loved to bargain.

  He really should let the nav-link plot his course, but Ilena was right about that, at least. He prided himself on finding his way through the Sonora without it. Zipakna squinted as a flicker of movement caught his eye. A lizard? Maybe. Or one of the tough desert rodents. They didn’t need to drink, got their water from seeds and cactus fruit. More adaptable than Homo sapiens, he thought, and smiled grimly.

  He pulled his binocs from his belt pouch and focused on the movement. The digital lenses seemed to suck him through the air like a thrown spear, gray-ochre blur resolving into stone, mica flash, and yes, the brown and gray shape of a lizard. The creature’s head swiveled, throat pulsing, so that it seemed to stare straight into his eyes. Then, in an eyeblink, it vanished. The Dragon chimed its full battery load. Time to go. He stood carefully, a cloud of thirsty killer bees and native wasps buzzing about him, shook free of them and slipped into the coolness of the Dragon’s interior. The hens clucked in the rear and the Dragon furled its solar wings and lurched forward, crawling down over the edge of the scarp, down to the plain below and its saguaro sentinels.

  His sat-link chimed and his console screen brightened to life. You are entering unserviced United States territory. The voice was female and severe. No support services will be provided from this point on. Your entry visa does not assure assistance in unserviced regions. Please file all complaints with the US Bureau of Land Management. Please consult with your insurance provider before continuing. Did he detect a note of disapproval in the sat-link voice? Zipakna grinned without humor and guided the Dragon down the steep slope, its belted treads barely marring the dry surface as he navigated around rock and thorny clumps of mesquite. He was a citizen of the Republic of Mexico and the US’s sat eyes would certainly track his chip. They just wouldn’t send a rescue if he got into trouble.

  Such is life, he thought, and swatted an annoyed killer as it struggled against the windshield.

  He passed the first of Paloma’s plantings an hour later. The glassy black disks of the solar collectors glinted in the sun, powering the drip system that fed the scattered clumps of greenery. Short, thick-stalked sunflowers turned their dark faces to the sun, fringed with orange and scarlet petals. Zipakna frowned thoughtfully and videoed one of the wide blooms as the Dragon crawled past. Sure enough, his screen lit up with a similar blossom crossed with a circle-slash of warning.

  An illegal pharm crop. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. This was new. He almost turned around, but he liked the folk in Paloma. Good people, misfits not sociopaths. It was an old settlement and one of his favorites. He sighed, because three diabetics lived here and a new bird flu had come over from Asia. It would find its way here eventually, riding the migration routes. He said a prayer to the old gods and his mother’s Santa Maria for good measure and crawled on into town.

  Nobody was out this time of day. Heat waves shimmered above the black solar panels and a lizard whip-flicked beneath the sagging Country Market’s porch. He parked the Dragon in the dusty lot at the end of Main Street where a couple of buildings had burned long ago and unfurled the solar wings again. It took a lot of power to keep them from baking here. In the back Ezzie
was clucking imperatively. The oldest of the chickens, she always seemed to know when they were stopping at a settlement. That meant fresh greens. “You’re a pig,” he said, but he chuckled as he made his way to the back to check on his flock.

  The twenty hens clucked and scratched in their individual cubicles, excited at the halt. “I’ll let you out, soon,” he promised and measured laying ration into their feeders. Bella had already laid an egg. He reached into her cubicle and cupped it in his hand, pale pink and smooth, still warm and faintly moist from its passage out of her body. Insulin nano-bodies, designed to block the auto-immune response that destroyed the insulin producing Beta cells in diabetics. He labeled Bella’s egg and put it into the egg fridge. She was his highest producer. He scooped extra ration into her feeder.

  Intruder his alarm system announced. The heads-up display above the front console lit up. Zipakna glanced at it, brows furrowed, then smiled. He slipped to the door, touched it open. “You could just knock,” he said.

  The skinny boy hanging from the front of the Dragon by his fingers as he tried to peer through the windscreen let go, missed his footing and landed on his butt in the dust.

  “It’s too hot out here,” Zipakna said. “Come inside. You can see better.”

  The boy looked up, his face tawny with Sonoran dust, hazel eyes wide with fear.

  Zipakna’s heart froze and time seemed to stand still. She must have looked like this as a kid, he thought. Probably just like this, considering how skinny and androgynous she had been in her twenties. He shook himself. “It’s all right,” he said and his voice only quivered a little. “You can come in.”

  “Ella said you have chickens. She said they lay magic eggs. I’ve never seen a magic egg. But Pierre says there’s no magic.” The fear had vanished from his eyes, replaced now by bright curiosity.

  That, too, was like her. Fear had never had a real hold on her.