When we pitch the tent, I use all my knowledge of camping—from books not experience. I make sure we don't put it up under a big tree in case of lightning. I make sure the lay of the land isn't slanted so water might rush down on us. I even make a little trench around the tent for water to run off. Lena is impressed. I tell her the truth, that I've been reading camping books. She's impressed even more by my being so interested.
* * * *
The moon does come out. As I hoped. There are clouds—fast, witch-like oblong clouds. It's both dark and dazzling. We sit on a ridge above our tent and watch.
Then we hear screaming. For sure it's a woman in trouble. I jump up, take my arm from Lena's shoulders, but she pulls me back down. “Owls,” she says. “Baby owls screeching to be fed."
It sounds so human. I'm not convinced. I jump up again. It's a woman in terror.
“Shouldn't we go help?"
But no, I've heard that sound before. Often. It's my sister. That's exactly the sound she made when she would screech into my ear to scare me.
“It's all right.” Lena pulls me down yet again. “It sounds like a woman, but it's not. It's really not.” Now it's her arm across my shoulders. “It's all right."
Her touch is calming. Loving. I turn and kiss her. Our first kiss. It would have been a longer kiss ... I wanted it to be longer ... I'd meant it to be ... but the scream comes again right in the middle of it. I'm almost engrossed enough to ignore the racket, but not quite.
“Will that go on all night?"
“Not all. Just off and on."
A creature flies over us, close. White underbelly. Utterly silent.
“There,” she says. “There's an owl right there. Probably the mother bringing the babies food."
The moon has gone behind one of those mysterious dark clouds, the sky around it still shines, but my romantic mood is gone. I'm taken over by the shrieks. It still sounds like my sister. It's so familiar. Close in, right by my ear. It seems it's been ringing in my ears all my life.
I don't want to kiss again. It'll be right then that the screeching will come. I could test it that way. If owls, it'll be random, if my sister, then at the crucial moment. That's the way it always was.
I turn to kiss her just as a test. The moon is out again. She wants to. She puts her hand on my cheek. I put my hand over her hand, then I bring her hand down and kiss her palm. There's silence. I pull her close, lean and kiss her neck. Her cheek. Then her lips.
And there it goes. Talk about waking the dead! She tries to hold me close but I tear myself from her arms.
She tries to pull me back ... to bring my lips to hers. “It's the baby owls. That's all."
But I can't. I get up. I start down towards our tent. “I'm going back. To town."
“Now? In the middle of the night? Just because of owls? I love you."
I hear and don't hear. My ears are so full of screeches
The bank is steep and in the shadows. As I run I get more and more frightened. I can't see anything but the shine of the tent below in the moonlight.
Of course I fall—fall and slide and roll. There are rocks. I don't know if I'm hurt or not, but it shocks the panic out of me.
She's right behind. She sits beside me with her hand on my shoulder.
It takes a few minutes, but finally I sit up.
I lean on her and we hobble to the tent. We sit in front of it.
“You're crazy. Are you crazy?"
I can't tell her about my sister. Instead I say, “I'm too old for you.” Even as she holds my hand. Raises it to her lips.
“I'm older than I look. I'm thirty-three."
“I'm still old enough to be your father."
“It's getting cold. Come to bed."
She makes me crawl into the tent in front of her. Inside she sits with my head in her lap. This is all new to me. No one has ever stroked my face like this. I was always the one ... the seducer. I knew how. She knows, too ... knows out of kindness and motherliness and love. Like a mother, but my mother was never like this. Lena really is in love with me. Of course she is. She really is. That's why my sister is after me.
“You're still shaky."
“It's because of you, so close and loving.” I pull her down on top of me and kiss her on the lips. She unbuttons my shirt and I, hers. We're chest to chest. Then my sister screams again.
I roll away. “I can't."
“It's all right."
But this time the screaming goes on and on. I don't even bother to button my shirt back up, I tear at the zipper of the tent door. I can't pull it. I break through. It's easy to hear where the sound is coming from. I follow.
The moon is bright, but will set soon. I run. The screams stop, but I know which direction to go. I know how far.
And there she stands, on a rock above the trail. Luminous. Hair a messy halo. Dress a rag blowing behind her. Glasses, where the moon is reflected as if two moons.
I kneel. Relieved that now it's done. Over. Or begun at last.
It's utterly quiet. All the little night sounds gone. There's only my breathing and heartbeat.
And then a raspy voice. “You've always been mine."
“I know it."
But there is another sound. Somebody has followed me. Far behind but getting closer. Crashing though the brush.
And then a cloud comes over the moon. My sister ... all white and ragged, flashing moon eyes.... I can't see her anymore. I rush to the rock where she stood. Strike out, grab at air, grab bushes, twigs.... That brittle dead feel might be her. She could be anything. It all breaks under my fist.
I lie prone, where she was. My cheek on rock.
But someone is calling me. My sister—she's luring me farther into the woods. She wants me lost. But I'm lost already.
Then I see the beam of a flashlight. Wobbling. Coming closer.
“Lena!"
She shines the flashlight in my face. Puts it down. She's on her knees. Now she's kissing the back of my neck, my ear, my cheek.
All I want is a life with her.
I sit up. We put our arms around each other.
“What is it? What's wrong?"
She's so real. So right here right now. How can she understand my sister? “You never hide. You don't scream. You don't jump out at me."
She has no idea what I'm talking about.
“My dear, it was owls.” (Who has ever called me dear?) “Come. Come back to the tent."
We're not lost. All I did was follow the ridge. Going back, it seems a long way, but I was running, leaping. The moon has set and clouds have come completely over but now we have the flashlight. I'm breathing hard. I'm dizzy.
“I love you even though you're crazy."
* * * *
We crawl back in the tent, through the torn doorway. Thank goodness no mosquitoes with this breeze. She lies half over me, she strokes my forehead, but it doesn't stop my trembling. I wonder if I'll ever sleep again. That sound is in my ears—so loud I won't know if it comes again or not. But Lena talks. She says I don't have to tell her a thing. She doesn't need to know about my life from before.
“I can't let you love me."
“Don't take yourself so seriously. You think I'm not crazy, too? After all, I'm in love with a man old enough to be my father ... ugly, too ... a strong-as-an-ox man. A somber man, but he laughs at my jokes."
“I hear it still, you know."
“Hush. Sh. Sh. I'll sing. Listen. I sing. I can."
It's true, she can. I had not thought she was so musical. Her voice is trained. An alto. Nothing harsh in it. Why hadn't I taken her to something musical? She sings some old French lullabies—in French. I have misjudged her. She's so much more than I suspected.
I want to stay awake and listen but I can't help it, I sleep.
* * * *
We wake early to the squawks of birds again, but quail and jays, this time. A bright optimistic day. My ears still ring with that screetching, but I'm not going to mention it.
I
can see that without her.... “Without you I'd be completely crazy."
“Not to me. Well, maybe. A little bit."
“I can't let you care for a crazy person."
When have I ever been worth anything to anybody but myself ? I've lived my life for me. For pleasure. When I first stepped down our steps with a brand new fancy leather suitcase (monogrammed) I wasn't looking for love, I was looking for conquests and sex and good food and travel.
“I've been crazy all this time and didn't know it."
But I saw my sister. Did I see her? I have to get to her before she spoils my life.
Lena says, “Let's not go home yet. Let's climb the mountain. I want to show you the view. That's why I wanted you to come here in the first place."
* * * *
And it is worth it. Mountains rolling on as far as we can see. We sit at the top and eat lunch, and then lie looking at the clouds. Thunderheads are building. Neither of us want to mention that the weather looks threatening.
Lena sits up and looks down at me. She smoothes my bushy eyebrows out of my eyes. She asks about my scars, one over my eyebrow, a wedge shape, another on my cheek. That one looks as though I was a German fencer. They're from my sister, but I just say, “Childhood accidents.” That's true.
“I've never met a man like you. But then I never went to places where a man like you would be."
“Where would I be?"
“Fancy hotels, spas.... I see you in formal gardens with your silver-headed cane, and strolling beaches, fully dressed, never going near the water. It's true, isn't it?"
“I'm not proud of it. But I've changed. You've changed me."
I pull her down on me again. Just as the first sprinkles come. Light at first. I roll over so I'm on top and she'll not get wet. We forget about the rain even as it comes down harder. I forget that I have to get through another night with screaming owls. It won't bother me, anyway. Not after this.
Thunder roars. Lightning strikes not far from us. We have to get off the top of the mountain in a hurry. As we climb down the trail, I turn back and grab her hand.
“Marry me."
“Of course."
Dripping, we climb down and across the ridge to the tent, strip out of our wet clothes, make love again, and sleep.
I make love as I never have before. Thinking of myself as well as her. Usually I only think of my partner—of techniques that please the other, and hope to get some pleasure for myself. This time I have a need to please myself.
* * * *
The screaming comes. Two thirty AM. How can Lena sleep with that racket? To her it's as though it wasn't there. I pull myself from her arms. I slip out our torn doorway. The sky is clear and the moon almost as bright as last night. I head towards the sound. I startle a deer from her hiding place. Mostly she startles me. It reminds me of how my sister jumped out at me. How I had to keep watching my back.
I'm starting to shake. In spite of this night and Lena ... my Lena, my future—so many good things to look forward to.... She'll spoil it.
* * * *
Naked. Barefoot. I head towards the screaming. Same direction as before, following the ridge. This time I go silently, to creep up on her. I'll scare her for a change. Pounce on her. I'll yell in her ear as she did in mine. Why hadn't I ever thought of that before?
But I no sooner get closer to the sound that lures me, than I wonder: What if my sister heads for Lena? What if she counts on the baby owls to keep me away? I turn and rush back, this time crashing through the brush, stumbling, falling....
And she is there, in the moonlight, grinning—her teeth stick out in front like mine do, too, glistening. Her glasses catch the light again ... a gibbous moon in each lens.
She says again, hoarse and husky as if one branch against another, “You've always been mine."
And I say again, “I know it."
The wind is blowing. As before, the rags she wears—white and loose—fly out around her. Her tangled hair forms a halo.
I drop to my knees.
But then I get up. I say, “No! I'm not yours anymore."
I scream as she screams. I shriek. I show her who can be the loudest. I attack. I grab. As before, bushes, branches, saplings.... Nothing is real. While she trips me, pushes me down.... I reach for hair. Anything to have something actual, but nothing is. I even try to blow her away, as if I, along with the wind.... Of course it doesn't work. There's nothing to her. She's light as air. No substance. How could I have thought.... I'm whipped, lashed, pounded, stamped on. Then something comes down from behind, hard, on my head.
It doesn't knock me out, but it takes a while for me to come to myself.
And here's Lena, giving me a drink, wiping my face with cool water.
“I'm sorry I hit you so hard. I had to stop you."
“Did you see her?"
“Who?"
“My sister."
“You were as if fighting yourself."
“If you'll stay with me...."
“Of course I will."
But my sister is still here, watching us. “Don't you see her?"
Lena squints where I'm pointing.
“She's there."
I see that Lena sees ... something. She gets between me and my sister. But I can't let her.
“It's just mist from the valley below."
The shrieking comes again and this time there's no doubt it's coming from right here.
“Hear that? It's her."
But the owl flies over, hardly a yard above our heads, silent except for her screech. One screech.
My sister speaks but in such a hissing whisper. “Ssss see how she looks straight at me and doesn't see. Tell her it's between you and me. Tell her you've always been mine."
“Listen. Listen, Lena. It's my sister."
“It's only the wind. It's only branch against branch."
My sister says, “It's only blowing leaves. That's the cottonwoods, sounding like a river."
Lena: “It's in your head."
My sister: “You know you're crazy."
Lena: “You've always known it."
My sister: “Even as a child. Even as you listened from your secret spot. It wasn't a secret from me. I knew everything. When has it ever not been so?"
She's right. She's always been right.
Lena squints into the shadows. Says again, “It's the wind. It's branch against branch."
My sister comes close, leans, and looks into Lena's face. “Call this beauty? Call this brains?"
She shouldn't have done that. I grab at my sister's neck. She's so close. I have her by the throat. Finally something to hang on to.
She yells but I squeeze tight. I stop the sound right in the middle of it.
Lena, thank goodness, is stronger than I am. She pries me away.
Then cold water shocks me sane. She grabs the pail of water she'd used to revive me. Throws it over me.
“You nearly killed me."
Her voice is hoarse. She has bruises on her neck. Could I have done that? How could I?
“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
“What were you thinking? Who was your sister, anyway?"
She wipes my face with her bandana. Helps me drink.
“I should be doing this for you."
“You will. I know you."
We sit, then, her arm across my shoulders, head to head, and I tell her about my sister. Then I say, “But maybe it's over. I think it is. I hope it is. I'm so sorry."
“If she doesn't leave you alone, she'll have to deal with me."
“Stay with me."
“Of course. I said I would."
Copyright © 2006 Carol Emshwiller
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* * *
GREY NOVEMBER
by Holly Phillips
Shadows, tonight,
fall with the rain.
I open the door
and Grey November walks in,
fat as fog, ripe
as an autumn toad
stool.
He curls himself up on the floor,
here to stay a while.
—
We met when I was twenty
awake at last out of childhood
—out of leafcat goldfish dragonfly dreams—
my whole life laid out before me
free as a three a.m. parking lot
bright as a sky without birds.
—
Back then I was young, I
took him everywhere.
Grey November, at my shoulder,
holding the page wile my new pen wept
black ink by battery light.
—
From then to now, this
is what I have learned:
to let him lie and hold fast
to the serious business
of taping back on
my gorgeous wings.
—Holly Phillips
Copyright © 2006 Holly Phillips
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* * *
SAVING FOR A SUNNY DAY, OR, THE BENEFITS OF REINCARNATION
by Ian Watson
Ian Watson's newest story collection, his tenth, is The Butterflies of Memory (PS Publishing). He's just finishing a book of satiric postmodern tales in collaboration with the Italian surrealist SF author Roberto Quaglia, who runs Ian's website. The website, with funny photos, can be found at www.ianwatson.info. In his latest story for us, Ian takes an odd look at what it means to pay it forward (or backward), and gives us an unusual explanation for why we should be...
When Jimmy was six years old, and able to think about money, a charming lady representative from the Life-Time Bank visited him and his parents, the Robertsons, to explain that Jimmy owed nine million dollars from his previous incarnation.
Wow, what a big spender Jimmy had been in his past life! And now in this life he must pay the debt. In old dollars that would have been ... never mind.
After the lady had departed, Mike and Denise Robertson held a family council with Jimmy, who was, as it happened, their only child. No other child had preceded him, and it could have been insulting and undermining to confront Jimmy with a younger brother or sister who lacked Jimmy's ugliness and short stature and clubfoot, the fault most likely of DNA-benders in the environment, or so the Robertsons were advised. If a good-looking boy or girl followed Jimmy, later on he might sue his parents for causing him trauma—consequently Mike had himself snipped.
Asimov's SF, October-November 2006 Page 24