Haider entered Firooz’s chamber as he finished reading the letter and set it aside, his eyes wet. “You are once again not to be an uncle,” Firooz said.
“I know. My wife, also, wrote to me.” Haider poured cool water for his brother, offered a scented kerchief to wipe his eyes. “I grieve with you.”
Firooz drank. “Nevertheless,” he said, “I meant what I said, the day you found Iman.” (Hearing her name, the dog yapped, before curling up for a nap.) “I should like a child, for my poor wife’s sake, but I have no need of one.” He held out a hand for his brother to grip.
Though Haider’s well-known, well-loved face did not change, it was a woman’s hand Firooz grasped, small boned and soft, and a woman’s full, quickening belly to which his palm was pressed. “You are to be a father, brother,” Haider said in his deep, full voice, “and I a mother.” He held Firooz’s hand to his belly a moment longer, exerting a man’s strength to prevent his recoiling. “Although I should prefer your wife raise the child, as I have other responsibilities.”
“How is this possible?”
“Do you question the will of merciful and compassionate God?”
“Are you a jinni? An ifrit?”
“I am a creature of earth even as yourself, not a being of fire. I am a man: your brother. And a woman—not your sister nor your wife, but the mother of your unborn child. Firooz, my dear, there is no more I can tell you. I mean you only good.”
Firooz recoiled when Haider approached again.
“I came,” Haider said with a gentle smile, “to take you away from your new sorrow and your weary business. Tomorrow we go to the Friday Mosque to say our prayers among the ummah. This evening I intend to dedicate to your comfort and ease. Come, brother. This other matter need not concern you for some months yet. Come.”
Still troubled, Firooz gave in. Leaving the disappointed Iman behind, Haider led Firooz out into the streets of the city, first to a hammam as splendid as the finest mosque. Here they bathed—Firooz felt immeasurable relief when he saw that Haider, wearing no more than a cloth around his hips, appeared no less masculine than he ought, his belly flat and firm, his chest and shoulders broad. Attendants massaged them in turn; others shaved the hair from their scalps and bodies, as was meet, oiled and perfumed their beards; still others brought coffee when at length they reclined on soft couches and did not speak.
From the hammam, they went on to the house of a gentleman of their acquaintance, an elderly merchant who left the traveling to his sons and nephews, where they were fed dishes from distant lands and offered conversation of the kind to be encountered only in great cities.
Finally, pleasantly weary and replete, they returned to Firooz’s rooms at the caravansary. Iman greeted them with great joy, not lessened by the little bowl of tidbits Haider had smuggled under his robes from their dinner. Firooz seated himself again before his accounts and inventories.
“No,” said Haider, firm. Drawing his brother to his feet, he undressed Firooz and laid him down on the couch, removed his own clothing, blew out the lamp.
Making love, Firooz was uncertain from moment to moment whether the person in his arms was a strong, slender, forceful man or a soft, yielding, fecund woman. For one night, it seemed, it didn’t matter.
A month later, they departed Baghdad at the head of a caravan laden with the goods of all western Islam as well as infidel Europe and savage Africa. Some months into the journey, they came again to the cairn of stones by the road and here again they halted. As camp was set up, the black dog Iman became agitated. She circled the grave of her predecessor several times, then, barking and whining, made Haider accompany her in investigating it again. She led him to the edge of the encampment and gazed long across the plain where, beyond the horizon, lay the place she had been found. At last, Haider went to his brother, the dog whining and yapping at his heels, and said, “I must go. Will you come with me?”
The place, when they came to it, had not changed, but Haider had. Dismounting from his horse, he was no longer a sturdy young merchant but a frail, weary woman whose inappropriate, ill-fitting garments did nothing to disguise the belly round and full as a melon, the brimming breasts like ripe pears. Frightened as much for as of her, Firooz ran to take her arm. “It is early, I would have thought,” she said. “I should have known God would lead me here, again, to bear my child.”
“There is no midwife,” Firooz protested, “no shelter.”
“We shall manage.”
Her labor was short, though she bit her lips to bleeding from the pain and clenched her fists so tight as to leave bruises on Firooz’s hand and cause the dog that lay on her other side, shoulders under her hand, to yelp. When his son came, Firooz was ready to catch him, marveling, weeping, to lift him, all bloody and damp, to his cheek. He severed the cord with the blade that had killed Iman’s predecessor. The mother pushed out the afterbirth onto the rug stained by much older blood and lay back, resting her aching legs. “Is he beautiful?” she asked.
“He is beautiful,” the father said, tender, cleaning the baby with fresh water from the spring.
“Give him my breast,” she said, “for I think I shall not keep it long.”
While the baby suckled, the man washed the woman, prepared a clean place for her to lie and coffee to soothe and revive her. When the baby slept, tiny hand curled around a lock of Iman’s fur, the woman rose slowly to her feet. “Bring me my clothing, please, Firooz,” she said.
As she dressed, the transformation occurred, so subtly Firooz could not determine the instant he saw no longer the mother of his son but his brother Haider. The young man knelt by his nephew but did not touch. “What will you call your son?”
“Khayrat.”
Haider smiled. The old word meant good deed. “A fine name.” He stood again. “We should return to camp. It will be dark soon.”
“Will you carry him?”
“No, brother. I meant him for you.”
There was no other man in the caravan who remembered Firooz’s finding Haider twenty-two years before, none to call his finding Khayrat other than good fortune for fatherless babe and childless father alike. When, months later in Samarkand, Firooz’s wife took Khayrat from her husband’s arms, she was nearly reconciled to her own barrenness.
Haider never again, to his brother’s knowledge, became a woman; never, in word or action, admitted to being more than Khayrat’s fond uncle. The dog Iman was spoiled and petted by children and adults alike, though she never forgot where her love and loyalty lay, never slept where she could not hear Haider’s breath. She bore litters to passing dogs, and every puppy resembled her, and when after a long life at last she died, there was another fleecy black bitch to be his companion.
The years passed, between Samarkand and Baghdad, bringing the family instants of joy and good fortune, sorrow and bad luck, as God had written in their fates. Haider’s wife died of a fever, her children still young. The family mourned but went on, as it must. Haider did not marry again. When they were old enough, his sons—and later Khayrat—journeyed with the caravan to and from Baghdad. Grown to manhood, they led it, and their fathers remained at home.
They sat in their garden by a singing fountain, Firooz and his brother.
Haider stroked the flank of his dog and said, “Long ago, Firooz, I told you I was no jinni or ifrit, but a creature of earth like yourself. But unlike, as well. Beneficent and compassionate God made many worlds, interleaved like the pages of a great book. Some lie as close to another as any two surahs of the Holy Qur’an, others as distant as the beginning from the end. In some, things that are impossible here are commonplace; in others, everything we take for granted is entirely unknown. There are worlds that contain no miracles at all, worlds where a new miracle is born every morning. The earth from which God molded my ancestors, brother, lies in another world. It is time, I think, for my dog and me to go home.”
“Haider?” Firooz gripped his brother’s hand to prevent him from rising.
“I believe there is only one Paradise, Firooz. We shall meet again in not too long. Let me go, brother.” Tender, he kissed the back of Firooz’s hand and raised it to touch his own forehead. “I cannot love you less, here or elsewhere.”
“I should die before you!” Firooz closed his eyes, desolate.
“It is not to death I am going. Give my blessing and my love to my sons.” Gentle, he removed his fingers from Firooz’s hand, kissed his brow. When his brother opened his eyes again, dog and man were gone as if they had never set foot on the earth of Firooz’s world. The elder brother wept, and then, as he must, went on living until he died.
INFESTATION
GARTH NIX
They were the usual motley collection of freelance vampire hunters. Two men, wearing combinations of jungle camouflage and leather. Two women, one almost indistinguishable from the men though with a little more style in her leather armour accessories, and the other looking like she was about to assault the south face of a serious mountain. Only her mouth was visible, a small oval of flesh not covered by balaclava, mirror shades, climbing helmet and hood.
They had the usual weapons: four or five short wooden stakes in belt loops; snap-holstered handguns of various calibers, all doubtless chambered with Wood-N-Death® low-velocity timber-tipped rounds; big silver-edged bowie or other hunting knife, worn on the hip or strapped to a boot; and crystal vials of holy water hung like small grenades on pocket loops.
Protection, likewise, tick the usual boxes. Leather neck and wrist guards; leather and woven-wire reinforced chaps and shoulder pauldrons over the camo; leather gloves with metal knuckle plates; Army or climbing helmets.
And lots of crosses, oh yeah, particularly on the two men. Big silver crosses, little wooden crosses, medium-sized turned ivory crosses, hanging off of everything they could hang off.
In other words, all four of them were lumbering, bumbling mountains of stuff that meant that they would be easy meat for all but the newest and dumbest vampires.
They all looked at me as I walked up. I guess their first thought was to wonder what the hell I was doing there, in the advertised meeting place, outside a church at 4.30pm on a winter’s day while the last rays of the sun were supposedly making this consecrated ground a double no-go zone for vampires.
“You’re in the wrong place, surfer boy,” growled one of the men.
I was used to this reaction. I guess I don’t look like a vampire hunter much anyway, and I particularly didn’t look like one that afternoon. I’d been on the beach that morning, not knowing where I might head to later, so I was still wearing a yellow Quiksilver T-shirt and what might be loosely described as old and faded blue board shorts, but ‘ragged’ might be more accurate. I hadn’t had shoes on, but I’d picked up a pair of sandals on the way. Tan Birkenstocks, very comfortable. I always prefer sandals to shoes. Old habits, I guess.
I don’t look my age, either. I always looked young, and nothing’s changed, though ‘boy’ was a bit rough coming from anyone under forty-five, and the guy who’d spoken was probably closer to thirty. People older than that usually leave the vampire hunting to the government, or paid professionals.
“I’m in the right place,” I said, matter-of-fact, not getting into any aggression or anything. I lifted my 1968-vintage vinyl Pan-Am airline bag. “Got my stuff here. This is the meeting place for the vampire hunt?”
“Yes,” said the mountain-climbing woman.
“Are you crazy?” asked the man who’d spoken to me first. “This isn’t some kind of doper excursion. We’re going up against a nest of vampires!”
I nodded and gave him a kind smile.
“I know. At least ten of them, I would say. I swung past and had a look around on the way here. At least, I did if you’re talking about that condemned factory up on the river heights.”
“What! But it’s cordoned off—and the vamps’ll be dug in till nightfall.”
“I counted the patches of disturbed earth,” I explained. “The cordon was off. I guess they don’t bring it up to full power till the sun goes down. So, who are you guys?”
“Ten!” exclaimed the second man, not answering my question. “You’re sure?”
“At least ten,” I replied. “But only one Ancient. The others are all pretty new, judging from the spoil.”
“You’re making this up,” said the first man. “There’s maybe five, tops. They were seen together and tracked back. That’s when the cordon was established this morning.”
I shrugged and half-unzipped my bag.
“I’m Jenny,” said the mountain-climber, belatedly answering my question. “The . . . the vampires got my sister, three years ago. When I heard about this infestation I claimed the Relative’s Right.”
“I’ve got a twelve month permit,” said the second man. “Plan to turn professional. Oh yeah, my name’s Karl.”
“I’m Susan,” said the second woman. “This is our third vampire hunt. Mike’s and mine, I mean.”
“She’s my wife,” said the belligerent Mike. “We’ve both got twelve month permits. You’d better be legal too, if you want to join us.”
“I have a special licence,” I replied. The sun had disappeared behind the church tower, and the street lights were flicking on. With the bag unzipped, I was ready for a surprise. Not that I thought one was about to happen. At least, not immediately. Unless I chose to spring one.
“You can call me J.”
“Jay?” asked Susan.
“Close enough,” I replied. “Does someone have a plan?”
“Yeah,” said Mike. “We stick together. No hot-dogging off, or chasing down wounded vamps or anything like that. We go in as a team, and we come out as a team.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Is there . . . more to it?”
Mike paused to fix me with what he obviously thought was his steely gaze. I met it and after a few seconds he looked away. Maybe it’s the combination of very pale blue eyes and dark skin, but not many people look at me directly for too long. It might just be the eyes. There’ve been quite a few cultures who think of very light blue eyes as the colour of death. Perhaps that lingers, resonating in the subconscious even of modern folk.
“We go through the front door,” he said. “We throw flares ahead of us. The vamps should all be digging out on the old factory floor, it’s the only place where the earth is accessible. So we go down the fire stairs, throw a few more flares out the door then go through and back up against the wall. We’ll have a clear field of fire to take them down. They’ll be groggy for a couple of hours yet, slow to move. But if one or two manage to close, we stake them.”
“The young ones will be slow and dazed,” I said. “But the Ancient will be active soon after sundown, even if it stays where it is—and it’s not dug in on the factory floor. It’s in a humungous clay pot outside an office on the fourth floor.”
“We take it first, then,” said Mike. “Not that I’m sure I believe you.”
“It’s up to you,” I said. I had my own ideas about dealing with the Ancient, but they would wait. No point upsetting Mike too early. “There’s one more thing.”
“What?” asked Karl.
“There’s a fresh-made vampire around, from last night. It will still be able to pass as human for a few more days. It won’t be dug-in, and it may not even know it’s infected.”
“So?” asked Mike. “We kill everything in the infested area. That’s all legal.”
“How do you know this stuff?” asked Jenny.
“You’re a professional, aren’t you,” said Karl. “How long you been pro?”
“I’m not exactly a professional,” I said. “But I’ve been hunting vampires for quite a while.”
“Can’t have been that long,” said Mike. “Or you’d know better than to go after them in just a T-shirt. What’ve you got in that bag? Sawn-off shotgun?”
“Just a stake and a knife,” I replied. “I’m a traditionalist. Shouldn’t we be going?”
The sun w
as fully down, and I knew the Ancient, at least, would already be reaching up through the soil, its mildewed, mottled hands gripping the rim of the earthenware pot that had once held a palm or something equally impressive outside the factory manager’s office.
“Truck’s over there,” said Mike, pointing to a flashy new silver pick-up. “You can ride in the back, surfer boy.”
“Fresh air’s a wonderful thing.”
As it turned out, Karl and Jenny wanted to sit in the back too. I sat on a tool box that still had shrink-wrap around it, Jenny sat on a spare tire and Karl stood looking over the cab, scanning the road, as if a vampire might suddenly jump out when we were stopped at the lights.
“Do you want a cross?” Jenny asked me after we’d gone a mile or so in silence. Unlike Mike and Karl she wasn’t festooned with them, but she had a couple around her neck. She started to take a small wooden one off, lifting it by the chain.
I shook my head, and raised my T-shirt up under my arms, to show the scars. Jenny recoiled in horror and gasped, and Karl looked around, hand going for his .41 Glock. I couldn’t tell whether that was jumpiness or good training. He didn’t draw and shoot, which I guess meant good training.
I let the T-shirt fall, but it was up long enough for both of them to see the hackwork tracery of scars that made up a kind of ‘T’ shape on my chest and stomach. But it wasn’t a ‘T’. It was a Tau Cross, one of the oldest Christian symbols and still the one that vampires feared the most, though none but the most ancient knew why they fled from it.
“Is that . . . a cross?” asked Karl.
I nodded.
The Years Best Science Fiction & Fantasy: 2009 Page 42