I’ve done enough for one morning. As I run through the rituals to disconnect from the viaculum, Phil looks up, offers me a crumpled, grimy piece of cookie. I refuse and he stuffs it in his mouth.
When I was brought here, I was basically under arrest. The two Fey who brought me, Kailen and Evalyn, were all flickering Glamour and polished gold. But they were tough and one or both of them always had their minds trained on me.
The idea I got was if I didn’t shape up I’d get abandoned and end up about like the eight-eyed giant. The Fey had discovered me, crazed and killing anything that moved, holding onto a few ruined blocks of New York. My crew, even Dare my girlfriend, were scared of me. But the Fey decided I’d make a useful ally in some war they’ve had forever with the Elves if they could fix me up.
So they took me to the Forest of Avalon and the Oak of Ware and introduced me to the Witch. Her specialty is patching up damaged warriors for the Fey.
She’s tall, seems far away even standing next to me. She welcomed us, smiled a smile I found scary. All of a sudden, behind her in the bushes around the Oak of Ware I saw some kind of animal and then saw it was a naked kid. He grabbed hold of the Witch’s dress, hid behind her staring at me. I tried to go into his mind and found the image of the Witch with her grey wand blocking me.
The Fey chuckled, the witch was almost amused; patted his head which was human except for a couple of little horns. I saw furry legs, hooves and eyes and ears like an animal’s but the rest is maybe a six year old boy. “Philippe’s a Faun,” the Witch explained, “orphaned. He’s shy around strangers.”
The Witch dismissed the Fey. She and I sat on the porch one late spring evening and she served dinner, explained to me that as part of a treaty with the Fey King she sometimes teaches untrained or damaged telepaths, ones with the Soldier’s Malady. She brings us back, allows us to return to duty.
Birds sang in the trees. I was angry, lonely, and ready to kill. I looked up and the faun was staring at me wide-eyed. I unleashed every bit of hate in me, imagined a flaming face with eyes spouting fire and hurled it at him.
Phil ran away crying, hid in the bushes which was stupid because I knew just where he was. I started to go after him again then was aware of the Witch gazing at me, hard; felt her in my mind seeing any and everything there.
A couple of months later, on the same morning when Lady Enigma discovered the dragon eyes, I notice Phil is sucking his thumb and make him stop. I remember my mother doing that when I was little. She’d tell me it would spoil my smile when I grew up. I do it for Phil even though I’m not sure what difference it will make in a boy/goat.
We walk down a path to a lake. I hold out my hand and Phil comes skipping over and grabs it. With the sun starting to come through the leaves I take in the sounds, the breeze on my skin, the smell of leaves and some musky urine, a bite of ginger cookie. I scan in the way I’m learning to, not busting into minds, just touching them.
I close my eyes and look through the eyes around me, ones that just see black and grey, ones where light is like a knife blade. I see twigs that look like tree branches and leaves big as tents. I feel life under the dirt and in the air.
A weasel, startled by me, loses a rabbit she had in her sites; a jay spots me as an intruder and starts to scream. Phil puts his head down, rushes at the jay, chases it off and comes back looking happy and proud.
Then a tree seems to shift and turn and takes the shape of a woman in green and brown robes carrying a twisted grey stick. The Witch of Avalon smiles and looks as pleasant as she ever does.
Knowing one of our sessions is about to begin, I gird my senses for what’s to come. As we walk Phil trots in circles around us, stopping every once in a while to piss on a favorite tree.
Out of nowhere a huge red bat spouting flames suddenly rushes at my face. That was a nightmare I had as a little kid. When I first came here months ago with no control over my telepathy the Witch had free access to all my memories. She doesn’t hesitate to use what she found in these duels.
But I feel the path through the soles of my feet, concentrate on touch and summon the memory of a broken brick wall. This time there’s a poster on it with me looking tough and the words, “SHE FIGHTS FOR US!” I take the bat image and smash its head into the bricks.
The flavor of her tea’s still in my mouth. Before the Witch does anything, I concentrate on the taste; take the memory of a ’copter flying low, spitting bullets right above me and try to shove it into her head.
She shows me a dark passage, torch lights on the walls and a huge dog with five heads and each head has eyes big as plates. I know this is something she actually saw. The heads are at my throat, I feel their breath.
Then I catch a hint of smoke in the air from some chimney far away. I twist that into my memory of the Hudson River on fire, boats burning, people screaming. And I hurl the smoke and flames into the mouths of the dogs. Their saucer eyes go out like lights.
I take the murmur of the trees and the sun coming through the leaves. I want to lift the forest and everything in it, smash them down on the Witch and crush her. And I start to do that.
But I see a woman, half bald with cheeks sucked into her skull and her empty eyes staring through me. It’s an image of my mother dying in a plague started by some terrorist militia. It’s something I never want to remember and the Witch uses it to beat me.
She’s inside me. It’s like she gets her hand on my heart before I shake her off. And I’m down on my knees on the path, gasping out tears with Phil holding my arm and crying because I am.
So the Witch wins like she does every day. But this time she says, “You have learned” and sounds thoughtful. We both know only that memory of my mother stopped me. And the Witch is the only one besides me in this world or any other who’s seen it.
Third Month
The trees are like giants. My first days in Avalon, I felt them glaring down at me and blocking the sun and sky when I looked up. I told this to the Witch and she shook her head like she was sorry that I was so wrong.
Yesterday I heard the trees mutter a name they’ve given me. When I mentioned that to her, she nodded and looked pleased that I’d finally noticed.
Today I’m aware of flowers like a whisper in the background. The sound changes when a breeze passes through. The wind is like a living thing.
That’s still on my mind when I go into Lady Enigma.
Seeing the dragon’s eyes move was a key; and so was getting to know Lord Robin. Over the next few weeks we tracked the biggest and most beautiful of dragons.
This morning we see her in all her glory and I know we can’t beat her or outsmart her. Cassese’s tail is as long as railroad trains I’ve seen in pictures. When her wings flap the wind almost blows Robin and me off our horses. She breathes fire into the ground to spook our winged mounts so we rise into the air. Robin flies to the right I fly to the left and our minds go into Cassese’s. She spins her head like she’s shaking away flies and almost knocks us off our horses.
We can’t beat her but I think we can amuse her. When it becomes obvious she can’t get rid of us and we can’t harm her she sits down and we do the same. Cassese sends her greetings to our Queen; gives us a formula for turning turnips into gold, predicts the birth of a royal heir and promises to leave the local folk alone though I know she’s lying. Suddenly she rises, shimmers in our eyes like sunlight on a mirror and slips away.
Lord Robin and I mount our horses all ready for another quest. I’ve pretty much gotten this story down just like I did with the fairytales.
I’m even able to manipulate the system. Robin is meant to be some kind of romantic guy, young with long hair and a nice smile. He’s not my type being a guy and he’s an aristocrat, a Fey lord which doesn’t work for me.
Just after we met, I found myself looking at his hairless face, the long lashes on the eyes. Now, maybe because I’m so lonely, Lord Robin reminds me of Dare. They get tangled in my mind. I can’t look at him and not think of her.
It turns out he’s actually a woman in disguise. And Lady Robin and I share a bed and get it on and I’m pretty sure I’m bending the game and making up my own story. What worries me is whether this is what I’m supposed to be doing. Or is this and talking to the dragon instead of trying to kill her, a big mistake that means I’ll never get home again.
And that worry is with me deep in the night when the dragon Cassese returns and I’m trying to grab and twist her brain. And I can’t because it shimmers like glass and slips away from me. And instead of the dragon it’s Lady Robin I’m wrestling with.
Then instead of Robin it’s Dare and she’s screaming because she’s afraid I’m going to kill her. This is what happened with us before I ended up here.
But as I remember Dare and me, I know what I’m seeing is all in my mind. I’m awake in the Witch’s house. I feel the sheet, smell the night woods, scents so strong I can taste them; hear bugs bouncing off the shades. See the outlines of a quarter moon.
I know the nightmare stayed inside me and I disarmed it myself. The Witch won’t even know this happened. The Soldier’s Malady is still there but I recognize it faster now. I’ve worked out a kind of treaty with it. At times I want to yell and scream at the top of my lungs but I know that won’t get me back home.
When I go downstairs the tea and bread are there. Out on the porch, though, the viaculum is gone. I hope what I did with Lady Enigma makes the Witch happy. A three-month stay was what was talked about when I arrived here. I’m down to my last couple of days.
Later Phil and I walk on a forest path. A bunch of kids from the nearest town are heading the other way with baskets to gather berries. Phil doesn’t like it when there are lots of people around, and wants to take my hand. When I let him he looks up like I’m the greatest thing in the world. I wonder if they’ll let me take him with me if I go.
Around here kids my age are all woodcutters’ daughters and millers’ sons like in the fairytales. A lot of them are barefoot and they’re all dressed simple like me. Everyone knows I’m staying with the Witch who is a much respected figure and that I have some kind of magic. They step aside for Phil and me and kind of bow which I don’t like.
Instead of just busting into their heads like I’d have done when I got here, I do a gentle scan which I’ve been taught. Through their eyes I see myself walking around with this magic creature holding onto me.
First in one then in half a dozen minds I find their memories of ones who stayed here before me. One is a big bruiser with a beard and a missing arm, another is a Sprite with blank eyes and wings, and there’s a woman with a sad face and an Amazon’s body. Each has Phil. The woman leads him on a leash, the bruiser carries him over his shoulder like a small sack. Phil trails behind the Sprite who doesn’t seem to notice him, hurries to keep up. Phil is never any bigger or smaller, older or younger than he is now.
He continues to hold my hand and to look up and I scratch his head. I managed never to think about why he was around. But this is school and he was a test.
When a tree turns into the Witch I’m in no way surprised. Over my time here she sent images of knives slashing my eyes, made me feel like the ground crumbled under me. I showed her the Oak of Ware burned to the ground and made her see her stomach blown open with a grenade.
The Witch holds out her hand and Phil immediately runs over and takes it. “I watched you with him very carefully, saw you change,” she tells me, nods and gives an actual smile. “It tipped the balance.”
She shows me her regrets about taking young warriors, smashed and maddened by what’s happened to them and what they’ve done, piecing them together and sending them back to maybe get smashed again. But it’s doing this that makes the Fey protect these woods and her people from their enemies.
I understand that I’ll be going back to a place where even the ones who knew me before I developed my powers came to be afraid of me. Like The Witch I’ll serve the Fey to keep my people alive. She takes my hand for a moment.
It’s late summer now, almost fall and clouds form as we walk toward the Oak of Ware. After hating this place and this woman I don’t want to leave.
Hearing Dare scream; being shown her cut in two doesn’t stop me now. But as we approach the Oak, a figure, tall, thin with curly hair stands and all I can think is that this image is one more of the Witch’s tests. Dare was afraid to be near me; everyone was. Now she’s running towards me with her arms out smiling and crying. And the Oak and the Witch, the satyr and the forest slip behind me like a dream.
Introduction to “Dog Boy Remembers”
Newsweek calls Jane Yolen “the Hans Christian Andersen of America.” She is that and more. Her 300 books range from picture books to novels for adults. She has won two Nebulas, a World Fantasy Award, the Golden Kite Award, three Mythopoeic Awards, two Christopher Medals, and has had many more nominations, including one for the National Book Award.
“Dog Boy Remembers,” she writes, “explores the birth/creation of one of the characters in Except the Queen, a novel that Midori Snyder and I wrote together. As Dog Boy was my creation, Midori gave me permission to write more about him.”
Good thing she did; what follows is one of the most powerful original stories we’ve ever read.
Dog Boy Remembers
Jane Yolen
The Dog Boy was just a year old and newly walking when his father returned to take him into Central Park. It was summer and the moon was full over green trees.
The only scents he’d loved till then were the sweet milk smells his mother made, the fust of the sofa cushions, the prickly up-your-nose of the feathers in his pillow, the pure spume of water from the tap, and the primal stink of his own shit before it was washed down into the white bowl.
When his father came to fetch him that first time, his mother wept. Still in her teens, she’d not had a lot of knowledge of the world before Red Cap had taken her up. But the baby, he was all hers. The only thing, she often thought, that truly was.
“Don’t take him,” she cried, “I’ve done everything you asked. I promise to be even more careful of him.” Her tears slipped silently down her cheeks, small globules, smelling slightly salty, like soup.
His father hit her with his fist for crying, and red blood gushed from her nose. He hated crying, something Dog Boy was soon to find out.
But Dog Boy had never smelled blood like that before, only his mother’s monthly flow which had a nasty pong to it. His head jerked up at the sharpness, a scent he would later know as iron. He practically wet himself with delight.
His father watched him and smiled. It was a slow smile and not at all comforting, but it was all Dog Boy would ever get from him.
“Come Boy,” his father said, adjusting the red cap he always wore, a cap that was the first thing Dog Boy recognized about his father, even before his smell, that odd compound of old blood and something meaty, something nasty, that both repelled and excited him. Without more of an invitation, his father reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather leash, winding it expertly about the Dog Boy’s chest and shoulders, tugging him toward the door. And not knowing why, only that it would surely be something new and interesting, Dog Boy toddled after him, never looking back at his mother who still simpered behind them.
***
Off they went into the city, that big, noisy, sprawling place so full of sound and movement and smells, Dog Boy always shuddered when the door opened.
Oh, he’d been out with his mother before, but always held in her arms, smothered by the milk-mother smell. This time he was walking out on his own. Well, walking might be a slight exaggeration. It was more like falling forward, only to be caught up again and again by the leather leash.
Their first stop was at a spindly ginko right outside the door of the house, the tree just leafing out. Dog Boy stood by it and inhaled the green, soft and sharp at the same time. He reached over and touched the bark. That was the soft smell, and it was not—he realized in surprise—the bark itself
but the mallow he could sense inside, though of course then he hadn’t the words mallow or bark. The leaves were what smelled sharp and new and somewhat peppery. The other smell was clearly much older. Old and new had different scents. It was a revelation.
Next, he and his father walked along a stone walk that was filled with other interesting scents. People smells, lingering leather smells, the sweat of feet, plus the sweet cloy of dropped paper wrappers, and some smallish tangs of tobacco in a white cover. Then Dog Boy found three overflowing garbage cans, overflowing with smells.
Suddenly, there were far too many odors, most of them much too strong for his childish senses, and Dog Boy ended up swooning onto the pavement, his legs and arms making quick running motions, like a dog does when it dreams.
With great disgust, Red Cap slung him over his shoulder like some dead thing, and took him right back home.
Once upstairs, he flung Dog Boy onto the sofa, saying in his growl of a voice, “I have kept you in comfort all this time and you raise up this. . .this wimpish thing. I need a sniffer-out, an offspring who can track and trail. Not this puling, fainting. . .”
“He’s only a baby,” his mother said quickly, picking Dog Boy up and unwrapping the leather leash from his body which—strangely—burned her hands. Dog Boy smelled the burning right before she cradled him against her milk-full breasts, before that familiar scent comforted him and made him forget everything else. “And I have kept him in this room, as you demanded. . .” his mother murmured above him, neglecting to mention the bi-weekly runs to the bodega when she was so lonely for an adult to speak to, she couldn’t stay in and didn’t dare leave the child in the room alone.
For her outburst, she was hit again, this time on the cheek, which rocked her back and made Dog Boy whimper for her, though she made no sound at all. But her cheek came up quickly into a purplish bruise that his little, plump fingers explored gently, though by then Red Cap was already gone, the door slamming behind him. He didn’t return for a month, on the next moon.
Fiction River: Unnatural Worlds Page 20