She knew. All along, she must have known …
Lyn gently pushed me back onto the bed, just as I became aware of a pleasant tickle on my legs; I looked down to see Davy, his hands stroking the knotted muscles of my calves, his lips moving slowly up my legs, covering them with tiny kisses.
Lyn took my face in her hands, put her mouth to mine, and our tongues met and danced round one another in greeting …
And then I felt something I had never felt before—a mounting pressure, a thrilling tension, as though every nerve ending in my body were about to burst, but didn’t, just kept building and building in intensity—a pleasure I had never known, never imagined I could know. And it was then that I realized: the doctors had been wrong; all of them. Very wrong. I wasn’t lacking in erogenous tissue. My whole body was erogenous tissue.
All it needed was the proper stimulation.
* * *
I finally worked up the nerve to see my parents; when Mother opened the door there was a moment’s shock at my appearance—so different from the flirty blonde teenager who’d run away years before—but then she reached out and embraced me, holding me as though I might blow away on the wind. Then Daddy stepped up out of the shadows of the living room and did something odd and touching: he reached out and shook my hand, the way he might greet a son coming home from college; and then kissed me on the cheek, as he might a daughter. It was his way, I think, of acknowledging I was both, and neither; his way of telling me that they didn’t love a daughter, they didn’t love a son … they loved a child.
Funny; for years I thought of myself as a freak, a useless throwback to another time—but despite all the psych courses I’d taken, all the books I’d read, I never really thought about that time, eons before recorded history, when my kind shared the earth with men and women. Why we vanished, or died out, may never be known; but the real question is, why were we there in the first place? It wasn’t until Lyn, and Davy, that I began wondering … thinking about how, in the millennia since, men and women had had such difficulty understanding one another, seeing the other’s side … as though something were—missing, somehow. A balance; a harmonizing element; the third side of a triangle. Maybe that was the natural order of things, and what’s come since is the deviation. All along I’d been thinking of my kind as throwbacks, when perhaps we’re just the opposite; perhaps we’re more like … precursors.
The basement’s been converted, not into a recreation room as once planned, but into extra living quarters; I have a bedroom, for when Davy and Lyn want to be alone, and a small library/den where I can study. So far, no one’s been scandalized by the arrangement; lots of people room together to save rent or mortgage payments, after all. I’ve enrolled at the University of Washington, aiming first for my Master’s, then my Ph.D., in psychology … because now, finally, I think I know what that purpose is I was seeking for so many years. If the statistics are right, our numbers will be doubling every ten months; thousands more like me, going through the same identity crises, the same doubt and fear and loneliness … and who better to help them than a psychologist who truly understands their problems?
Lyn’s quit smoking again, but this time, happily, the pregnancy isn’t a—what did she call it?—’stress-induced symptomatic replication.’ And I can’t help but feel that after so many false starts, maybe, somehow, it was me who tipped the scales—gave them that extra little push they needed. After all, who’s to say life can’t be transmitted just as easily in saliva or sweat as it is in semen or ova? We only have one problem now: the nagging suspicion that when it comes time to buy baby clothes, neither pink nor blue may be appropriate. Green? Yellow? Violet? Take my word for it: there’s big money to be made here for some enterprising manufacturer, one ready to tap an expanding market. Wait and see; wait and see.
NEAL BARRETT, JR.
Winter on the Belle Fourche
Born in San Antonio, Texas, Neal Barrett, Jr. grew up in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, spent several years in Austin, hobnobbing with the likes of Lewis Shiner and Howard Waldrop, and now makes his home with his family in Fort Worth, Texas. His short fiction has appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Galaxy, Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Amazing, OMNI, Fantastic, If, and elsewhere. He made his first sale in 1959, and has been full-time freelancer for the past twelve years. His books include Stress Pattern, Karma Corps, and the four-volume Aldair series. His story “Sallie C” was in our Fourth Annual Collection, and his very funny “Perpetuity Blues” was in our Fifth Annual Collection. His most recent books are the critically acclaimed novel Through Darkest America and its sequel Dawn’s Uncertain Light; coming up is The Hereafter Gang, and a short story collection.
In the bittersweet and darkly lyrical tale that follows, Barrett shows us a strange and momentous meeting, among the silent snows of deep winter, between two of the most oddly mismatched characters ever to share the pages of the same story …
Winter on the Belle Fourche
NEAL BARRETT, JR.
He had come down in the cold from the Big Horn Mountains and crossed the Powder River moving east toward the Belle Fourche, all this time without finding any sign and leaving little of his own. There were wolf tracks next to the river and he saw where they had gone across the ice, which told him they were desperate and hungry, that they would turn on each other before long. An hour before dark he pulled the mount up sharp and let his senses search the land, knowing clearly something had been there before. Finally he eased to the ground and took the Hawken rifle with him, stood still in the naked grove of trees, stopped and listened to the quiet in the death-cold air, heard the frozen river crack, heard the wind bite the world. He looked south and saw the Black Hills veiled in every fold, followed them with his eyes until the land disappeared in the same soot color as the sky. He stood a long time and sniffed the air and the water moving slow beneath the ice. He let it all come together then and simmer in his head, and when it worked itself out he walked down in the draw and started scooping off the snow.
A few inches down he found the ashes from the fire. They had camped right here the night before, made a small supper fire and another in the morning. He ran the ashes through his fingers then brought them to his nose. They were real smart Injuns. They hadn’t broken dead sticks off the trees but had walked downstream to get their wood. Cupping more snow aside, he bent to smell the earth. Six, he decided. If he dug a little more he’d find they all had mounts, but he didn’t need to bother doing that. They wouldn’t be on foot out here.
This close to the Powder and the Belle Fourche they could be any kind of red nigger and not any of them friends. He knew, though, this bunch wasn’t Sioux or Cheyenne, but Absaroka. He’d smelled them right off. Crow warriors certain, and likely from Big Robert’s camp.
He straightened and looked east, absently touching the bowie at his belt, the scalp ring next to that. That’s where they’d gone, east and a little north, the way he was headed too. They weren’t after him, didn’t know that he was there. And that was something to chew on for a while.
* * *
The snow came heavy in the night, slacking off around the dawn. He was up before light and keeping to the river. Soon he’d have to figure what to do. It was two hundred miles to Fort Pierre on the Missouri, a lot more than that if he kept to every bend in the river. Del Gue would be waiting at the fort; he didn’t need to be chasing after Crow, there were plenty out sniffing after him. Still, it wouldn’t take much time to see what kind of mischief they were up to over here. The Absaroka were a little far east from where they rightly ought to be. He didn’t think they’d want to keep on riding and maybe tangle with the Sioux, who would go without breakfast any day to skin a Crow.
At noon he found the answer. The snow had lightened up enough for tracks and he saw where the Crow had taken off, digging up dirt in the snow and hightailing it across the frozen river, heading back northwest into Absaroka country. Now he went slowly, keeping his eyes open for whatever had spook
ed the Crow. Sioux, most likely, though the Cheyenne could be around too. Hard winter and empty bellies made everybody brave, and a man might go where he hadn’t ought to be.
* * *
He smelled the death before it saw it. The cold tried to hide it but it came through clear and he was off his horse fast, leading it down to cover in the draw. The dead were in the trees just ahead and though he knew there was no one there alive he circled wide to make sure, then walking into the clearing, the Hawken crooked loose against his chest.
Three men, mostly covered by the snow. He brushed them off enough to see they were soldiers, a white lieutenant and two buffalo troopers. Each had been shot and soundly scalped, then cut up some in the playful manner of the Sioux. The soldier’s clothes and boots were gone; the Sioux had taken everything but long-handle underwear and socks.
A quick look around showed the Sioux hadn’t taken them by surprise. They’d stood their ground and gotten off a few shots, and that was of some interest in itself. North, he found high ground and lighter snow and saw where the Sioux had walked Army-shod mounts northwest among their own. Ten or twelve riders. They’d gone back to the river with their trophies; the Crow had seen them then and turned for home. About this time the day before, the massacre a little before that.
He stopped and tried to work the thing out. What had the three troopers been doing up here? And why only three? It was maybe a hundred and fifty miles to Fort Laramie, a powerful lot to go in heavy snow and the cold maybe thirty-five below. Troopers didn’t have a lot of smarts, but anyone’d know more than that.
He mounted up and crossed the river, circled and crossed again. Two miles down he found the trail. Something about the tracks caught his eye and he eased out of the saddle and squatted down. Now there was puzzle for sure. One of the horses had ridden double—before those boys had been hit by the Sioux. But there were only three bodies in the snow. Which meant the red coons had likely taken one alive, carried him back home for Injun fun. Nothing you could do for that chile, except hope he got to die, which wasn’t real likely for a while. Del Gue had been taken by the Sioux the year before, and barely got out with his topknot intact. A trooper would get an extra measure sure, a skinning and worse than that.
He had the whole story now. There was no use following tracks back to the clearing but he did. He’d kept his scalp for twelve years in the wilds, and part of that from being thorough, taking two stitches in a moccasin when one might do as well, winding up a story like this to see how it came about.
He came upon the cabin without knowing it at all, reined the horse in and just sat there a minute and let the sign all around him sink in. The cabin was built low against the side of a ravine, nearly covered by a drift, and he’d damn near ridden up on the roof. He cursed himself for that. It was the kind of aggravation he didn’t like, coming on something like this after he’d gotten the whole story put away. He could see it clear now, like he’d been right there when it happened. The troopers had ridden past this place into the trees, sensed trouble up ahead and the man riding double had ridden back, stopped at the cabin then turned and joined his comrades again. Which meant he’d left someone behind. There were no more tracks in the snow, so whoever that’d be was still there, unless they’d sprouted wings and flown to Independence like a bird.
Snow was nearly three feet high against the door and he carefully dug it clear. Jamming the stock of his Hawken in the snow, he pulled the Colt Walker and the bowie from his belt and stepped back.
“You inside there,” he called out. “I’m white an’ I don’t mean ye any harm, so don’t go a-shootin’ whatever it is you got.”
There was nothing but silence from inside. Edging up close, he bent his head to listen. There was someone in there, all right. He couldn’t hear them but he knew.
“Mister,” he said, “this chile’s no Injun, you oughter have the sense to know that.” He waited, cussed again, then raised his foot and kicked solidly at the door. It was old and split and snapped like a bone. Before it hit the floor he was in, moving fast and low, sideways like a bear, coming in with the Colt and the knife and sweeping every corner of the room. Kindling and dead leaves. The musty smell of mice. A fireplace nearly caved-in. Half a chair and a broken whiskey crock. An Army blanket in the corner, and something under that. He walked over and pulled the blanket aside with his foot.
“Great Jehoshaphat,” he said aloud, and went quickly to the still and fragile form, touched the cold throat and felt for signs of life he was sure he wouldn’t find.
* * *
She woke to the memory of cold, the ghost of this sensation close to death, a specter that consumed her, left her hollow, left her numb with the certainty there was no heat great enough to drive the terrible emptiness away. She woke and saw the fire and tried to draw its warmth to her with her eyes. The walls and the ceiling danced with shadow. The shadows made odd and fearsome shapes. She tried to pull her eyes away but could find neither the strength nor the will for such an effort. The shadows made awful, deathly sounds, sounds she could scarcely imagine. And then with a start that clutched her heart she remembered the sounds were real; she had heard them all too clearly through the walls from the trees across the snow.
“Oh Lord Jesus they are dying,” she cried aloud, “they are murdered every one!”
Darkness rose from the floor and blocked the fire. It seemed to flow and expand to fill the room, take form as a broad-shouldered demon cloaked in fur; it grew arms and a dark and grizzled beard, a wicked eye.
She screamed and tried to push herself away.
“Ain’t any need for that,” the demon said. “Don’t mean ye any harm.”
She stared in alarm. His words brought her no relief at all. “Who—who are you?” she managed to say. “What do you want with me?”
“My name’s John Johnston,” the figure said. “Folks has mostly took out the t but that ain’t no fault of mine. Just lie right still. You oughter take in some soup if ye can.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but moved across the room. Her heart pounded rapidly against her breast. She watched him carefully, followed his every move. He would likely attack her quite soon. This business of the soup was just a ruse. Well, he would not catch her totally unaware. She searched for some weapon of defense, pulled herself up on one arm, the effort draining all her strength. She was under some heavy animal skin. It held her to the floor like lead. She saw a broken chair, just beyond her reach. With the help of Lord Jesus it would serve her quite well. David had very little more and brought another fearsome giant to his knees.
As she reached for the chair, stretched her arm as far as it would go, the heavy skin slipped past her shoulders to her waist. She felt the sudden cold, stopped, and caught sight of herself. For an instant, she was too paralyzed to move. Frozen with terror and disbelief. She was unclothed, bare beneath the cover! Her head began to swim. She fought against the dizziness and shame. Oh Lord don’t let me faint, she prayed. Let me die, but don’t let me faint in the presence of the beast!
Using every ounce of will she could find, she lay back and pulled the cover to her chin. With one hand, she searched herself for signs of violation, careful not to touch any place where carnal sin resides. Surely he had done it in her sleep. Whatever it was they did. Would you know, could you tell? Defilement came with marriage, and she had no experience in that.
The man returned from the fire. She mustered all her courage.
“Stay away from me,” she warned. “Don’t take another step.”
He seemed puzzled. “You don’t want no soup?”
“You—you had no right,” she said. “You have invaded my privacy. You have looked upon me. You have sinned in God’s eyes and broken several commandments. I demand the return of my clothing.”
He squatted down and set the soup on the floor. “Ma’am, I didn’t do no sinnin’ I recall. You was near froze stiff in them clothes.”
“Oh, of course. That is just what you would say to excuse
your lust. I would expect no less than that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I cannot find it in my heart to forgive you. That is my failing. I will pray that our Blessed Savior will give me the strength to see you as His child.”
“You feel a need fer this soup,” Johnston said, “it’s on the fire.” With that he rose and left her, moved across the room and curled up in a buffalo robe.
* * *
He woke at once and grabbed his heavy coat and picked up the Hawken rifle, all this in a single motion out of sleep. The woman hadn’t moved. He had propped the broken door back up as best he could, and now he moved it carefully aside and slipped out into the night. The world seemed frozen in sleep, silent and hard as iron, yet brittle enough to shatter into powder at a touch. He couldn’t put his finger on the sound that had broken through his sleep. The horse was all right, safely out of the wind by the cabin’s far wall. The ground was undisturbed. He circled around and watched, stopped to sniff the air. Nothing was there now, but something had left its ghost behind.
Inside he warmed his hands by the fire. The woman was still asleep. It wasn’t fair to say that she hadn’t roused him some, that the touch of her flesh as he rubbed life back into her limbs hadn’t started up some fires. Not like an Injun girl now, but some. He’d seen maybe two white women stark naked in his life. They seemed to lack definition. Like a broad field of snow without a track or a rock to give it tone. An Injun girl went from one shade to another, depending where you looked. John Hatcher had kept two fat Cheyenne squaws all the time. He kept them in his cabin in the Little Snake Valley and offered Johnston the use of one or both. He had politely declined, preferring to find his own. Hatcher’s squaws giggled all the time. An Injun woman tended to act white after a spell and start to giggle and talk back. His wife hadn’t done that at all. She’d been pure Injun to the end but there weren’t very many like that.
The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Seventh Annual Collection Page 60