Songs for Dark Seasons

by Lisa Hannett

  Lisa L. Hannett

  SONGS FOR DARK SEASONS

  Published by Ticonderoga Publications

  Copyright (c) 2020 Lisa L. Hannett

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise) without the express prior written permission of the copyright holder concerned. The Acknowledgements constitute an extension of this copyright page.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of our authors and editors.

  Introduction copyright (c) 2020 Helen Marshall

  Cover by Vince Haig

  Designed and edited by Russell B. Farr

  A Cataloging-in-Publications entry for this title is available from The National Library of Australia.

  ISBN 978-1-925212-00-6 (limited hardcover)

  978-1-925212-01-3 (trade hardcover)

  978-1-925212-02-0 (trade paperback)

  978-1-925212-07-5 (ebook)

  Ticonderoga Publications

  PO Box 29 Greenwood

  Western Australia 6924

  http://www.ticonderogapublications.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  #62

  for

  Chad

  Many thanks to the editors who first published several stories from this collection: John Klima selected ‘The Coronation Bout’ for Electric Velocipede (2013); Michael Kelly chose ‘Snowglobes’ for Chilling Tales II (2013); Mark Morris picked ‘Sugared Heat’ for the Spectral Book of Horror Stories 2 (2015); Mark Beech included ‘Something Close to Grace’ in Murder Ballads (2017); Nick Gevers chose ‘Surfacing’ for Postscripts 36/37 (2016); Sean Wallace and Siliva Moreno-Garcia kindly took ‘The Canary’ for The Dark (2015) and also ‘Little Digs’ (2017).

  Thanks also to Flinders University for granting me a short but crucial period of study leave, which allowed me to complete the new material included here.

  My deepest thanks to Helen Marshall for her incredible introduction to Songs for Dark Seasons; I count myself so lucky to have such a brilliant, inspirational, and wonderful friend, and the perfect travel companion. I’m hugely grateful to Angela Slatter, Kirstyn McDermott, Kim Wilkins, and Ellen Datlow for their insights and feedback on early drafts of these stories. As always, none of my work would ever have been written without Chad Habel’s love, patience, and delicious cooking.

  Contents

  Introduction, by Helen Marshall

  Soft Sister Sixty-Six

  The Coronation Bout

  A Grand Old Life

  Four Facts About the Ursines

  Something Close to Grace

  The Canary

  Little Digs

  Surfacing

  Snowglobes

  Blues Eater

  Sugared Heat

  The Wail in Them Woods

  By Touch and By Glance

  About the author

  INTRODUCTION

  By Helen Marshall

  Often the lonely one longs for honors,

  The grace of God, though, grieved in his soul,

  Over the waste of the waters far and wide he shall

  Row with his hands through the rime-cold sea,

  Travel the exile tracks: full determined is fate!

  “The Wanderer,” translated from the Exeter Book dated to the late 10th century

  Lisa L. Hannett is something of a wanderer.

  I first met her in 2012 in Toronto where she was celebrating a World Fantasy Award nomination for her debut collection of short stories, Bluegrass Symphony. Already I knew it was a find, one of those collections I’d return to, just so I could turn the words over again, harrow them like a plough sifting soil. Rare are those stories that cut keenly and deeply. Rarer still is the storyteller who hones that sharpness.

  She and I were kindred of a sort: both obligingly Canadian, both tenderfoot medievalists. Back then I was in love with the refuse of the fourteenth century--doggerel saint’s lives and romances, scrappy bits of penitential verse--but you could see right away she was made for fiercer stuff. She had an otherworldly presence, half scholar, half-Valkyrie: with sea-green eyes, hair like wound copper and a smile that invited you to listen. I was more than a little in awe.

  The next place we met was foreign turf: the Norwegian fjords. By then I had finished my thesis and was living in Oxford on a fellowship, wading my way through the salt marsh of my first novel. She was teaching creative writing at Flinders University in Adelaide, publishing blood-red stories that glittered like garnet. She had snagged some funding for a research trip. Aimless and in want of inspiration I agreed to come along.

  The landscape was magnificent, carved up by the slow retreat of glaciers. Lisa--of course--was in her element. She knew that country from the words of its poets. As we travelled, she told me tales of feuds and feasting; of shield-maidens who became queens; of the great wolf Fenris, born of the giantess Angrboda, whose children were destined to devour the sun and moon; of the draugar who guard burial mounds, dying a second death when some vagabond hacks their body to bits. Despite the dark cast of those stories, in all that tale-telling I could sense something vibrant, something desperately urgent and alive.

  Canadian by birth, Australian by choice, Lisa has since become one of the vanguards of the Antipodean weird, a radical border-crosser, zigzagging across genre boundaries. Yet for all that, she might better be praised as a wyrd writer for what binds her work together is an interest in the winding and unwinding of fate, of the natural--sometimes terrible--consequences of one’s own actions.

  Coming to this gorgeous, unsettling new collection, I cannot help think of Norway’s remote hinterland and the hard-scrabble lives of the farmers who once dwelled there. How they must have struggled against deep snow and scouring rain for barely an inch of good soil. What links those hungry, unflinching northfolk with the denizens of her secret South is the sense of a culture balanced on a knife’s edge. A culture soaked in blood, where vengeance is needful, not borne from depravity. Where either you hold the line or else watch all you love swept away by the storm.

  There is an Anglo-Saxon word--ofermod--which these stories call to mind. Overconfidence, it means, arrogance, hubris, high courage, even greatness of spirit. Satan had it. So too did the tenth-century warrior Byrhtnoth. Facing a thunderous force of Viking raiders, he promised them spear tips and sword blades rather than the tribute they demanded. He gave up his advantage to fight them fairly but in the end his shield-wall broke. Headless, the raiders left him when the fighting was finally over. Was he a good man? Did he act wisely?

  So too is it with the inhabitants of Chippewa country. Morality for them is a moving target, salvation little more than a song snatched away by the wind.

  No one here rests easily. Not Tub the blues eater, taking into himself all the town’s unpleasantness. Not the Reaper’s star quarterback, willing to trade his trophies, his home game glory and all his dauntless brawn for a pert pair of breasts and a fish-girl tail.

  Miss Tina-Marie Dalton, haunted by her memories of past lives lived as the brawler Halvdan Daggson, as Hoelun, mother to Genghis Kahn, as Catherine the Great with all her riches, the splendour of her winter palace. Now her trailer park children and two-bit rodeo wrangler
of a husband seem dizzyingly small. Vicious fucks, you might call them but they are no more vicious than life itself; and at least they have their pride.

  See, if language were a blade, Lisa L. Hannett would be the queen of short swords and butterfly knives both; sincere as iron, coarse as rust. She has a poet’s ear for the perfect turn of phrase and a scrapper’s sense of timing. These are dirge songs of longing, heartthrob and violence. They slip inside you with a quiet, artful twist.

  To northerner and southerner alike, fate can be grievous. It can bleed you dry, scatter your kin, leave your homestead wrecked and ruined. But these stories, oh, these stories. They are true myth-stuff: like the gleam of silver in a hidden pocket, like a trashcan fire when the frost lays waste.

  Yes, these are tales to get you through the dark seasons, songs to help you find your way home.

  Soft Sister Sixty-Six

  We thought the rain was a blessing.

  For three seasons longer’n our Zeb had started as quarterback, our wheat had withered on the stalks. Our cornrows had grown further and further apart, their pointed leaves dry-curling, ears sprouting smaller than the field mice what chawed their hard little kernels. All the alfalfa grass we’d baled in our fields wouldn’t feed half a herd for the winter. Hides sagged on our beef cattle, while the dairy bessies’ udders hung like empty leather gloves. We got by, just, on coupons and canned-food drives--but our boy never wanted for nothing. Not pork ’n’ beans nor streaky bacon, not coin for the school canteen, not new shin pads nor cleats nor, God forbid, a decent cup and jockstrap to keep his family jewels intact. We’d ourselves go without for a year before it ever came to that.

  A blessing, we thought. This rain.

  Before the clouds rolled in, there’d been town hall meetings about the drought. Weekly prayer groups in St. Martin’s basement. New moon gatherings in the Lady’s grove. As a community, we drew up irrigation schedules. Padlocked our water towers. Debated over reservoirs and dams. Someone floated the idea of making a lake out of the Lower Horn catchment--but there weren’t a soul in Athabaska keen to turn on that particular faucet, so to speak, and soak so many dusty acres once and for all.

  Meantime, we lit candles. Recited catechisms. Poured ale on parched riverbanks. Painted birch and yew with yearling blood. Tossed silver dollars over our shoulders, whistling spirit-summons as the coins flew. Everyone had their theories, of course, about which of these measures finally greyed the blue torment above, finally drew down the water, finally healed the cracks in our soil. Reverend said it were the Lord Almighty’s mercy what saved us--no great surprise there--while Mayor Keesey claimed it were time and patience what wore the skies down ’til they broke. Most folk reckoned it were them other gods what heard our pleas. Them fickle, hidden, oft-cursed tricksters that laughed at and worsened our woes.

  Only they could of sent this deluge, we whispered behind our hands. Not to mention the son-stealing lasses what came swimming in with it.

  * * *

  Our homestead suffered them trickster floods worse than most. The nearest crick became a brook, a stream, a whitewater river. It boiled over the rough banks, churned across miles, devouring our pathetic alfalfa, our wheat, our corn. Currents gnawed at the church house’s foundations, swirled furious through the ancient mound-yards--churning up headstones, restless ghosts, old bones. At the far edge of our acreage, our dirt road plain disappeared under them brutal currents. Our yard became a swamp, then a full-blown lake. The stables creaked and moaned against buffeting waves. Bessies lowed, full-disgruntled. Chooks bocked in frightful screeches.

  Perched on a small hill, our house had a good vantage of the destruction.

  Ours was the clearest view, we reckoned, of them algae-skinned gals what swum in with the wash.

  Closer to town, folk must’ve been too busy shoring up corner stores and sandbagging streets to notice all them slinky-strange silhouettes rippling under the surface. Down here in the basin, we seen things better’n most--but even so, these were no more’n glimpses. An eel-like flick of a tail. A slender arm knifing through the dark water. Firm rumps and broad shoulders emerging, slick and shiny, torsos twisting as the creatures frolicked, flashing pert breasts, before rolling, diving, silently slipping away. All while their eerie songs echoed long and low like muted trumpets, each note felt more than heard.

  Even now we can’t rightly say what clinched it--which ballads snared our boys, what promises lured the whole varsity team away from us--but God knows them mermaids must of been conniving. After all, come football season our Reapers was daily showered in rally-girl love. They was accustomed to being adored. Even the rookies. Even the ugly ones.

  Now, never let it be said our Zeb weren’t something to behold, on-field and off. If it were pure looks them sea-gals was hunting, well, small wonder our boy was one of the first they took. But damned if he weren’t born for better things than chasing tail and rutting. With that height of his, them powerful guns, he were built for throwing pigskin. By sophomore year he were varsity QB1, fiercely huge but still faster than most running backs. Quicker on his feet than in his noggin, true enough, but we’d always thought him sensible.

  Until them sea-lasses came. Stark naked, wriggling like they was already between the sheets, they was too blatant to be sexy. Too desperate to be seductive.

  Too easy, we said when Zeb set off across the paddocks with our prize ox that day, humming some lah-di-dah tune. Our boy ain’t one for plucking low-hanging fruit, we told ourselves. Wouldn’t of made QB1 if that were the case, wouldn’t wear that ‘C’ on his six-six jersey. Nope, we decided then and there, our boy ain’t weak. Our boy don’t take the easy grab. Our boy ain’t into no skinny-dipping whores. Our boy’s got hisself some pride.

  Oh, the lies we cling to when suddenly life is gone wrong.

  * * *

  We waited three days before rowing into town to report Zeb missing. It weren’t exactly fear, nor embarrassment, what kept us from talking that long--more a mulish certainty he’d of found his way back to us by then. Our Zeb had his wild side; he weren’t allergic to mischief. Most likely, we told ourselves, he’d whoop it up with them slutty lasses a whiles, dip his wick a few times, then spend the next week sleeping off the fun. We’d waited him out before, and so we would again. Even God gave His own Son sufficient time to come home after a long weekend, despite all the fuss His absence had caused. How could we presume to do any better?

  In the meantime, we prayed. We were patient. We left butter and beer on the stoop for whatever hidden folk might exchange it for news of our boy. We played hand after hand of gin rummy. We argued about football. We climbed the grain silo, took stock of our stores, tightened our ever-loosening belts. We spent far too long tending the cattle, swishing through the barn-tide, saying The place needed a good wash anyway while building risers in the stalls, coaxing bessies up onto mucky planks, out of the wet.

  Don’t give up, we told ourselves, filling the hours with busywork and hope.

  But when another grey dawn washed in without carrying our boy in its wake, we reckoned a recon mission was in order. Might be he’s at the stadium with the other lads, we thought, packing corn beef sandwiches for the trip, filling a couple thermoses with black coffee. Might be he’s playing pranks on the young bloods joining the team this season. Might be he’s camped out on the football field, basking in the memory of last year’s glory. We could still see it: the Reapers all lined up for a 4th and 26 play--only 72 seconds left on the clock--and our Zeb was hauled off the bench, our Zeb launched a 28-yard bullet over the middle to Kane Malicksen--Lord, that boy had a pair of hands on him!--our Zeb kept the team’s drive alive. Reapers went on to win 20-17 in overtime, defying all odds. Athabaska County Champions, now and always.

  Might be they’re playing for the home crowd as we speak, distracting folk from their worries with a good old-fashioned game of pick-up. Wouldn’t put it past ’em, we said, to think of others ahead of theirselves.

  Good lads, they was. Good m
en.

  For a spell, the thought cheered us.

  * * *

  When we got there the stadium was teeming, busier even than on homecoming weekend. Rain had swallowed the prime sideline seats, the waterline now risen to the bleachers’ third tier. Canoes was tethered to the goal posts alongside a handful of bright rubber dinghies, and a raft strung together from plastic kegs and grocery store pallets. Folk in yellow life jackets and gaiters carried clipboards up and down the stands, stopping every few steps to take down the names and numbers of all the boys what’d gone lost.

  Near the scoreboard, Reverend and Mayor Keesey stood under golf umbrellas, supervising as Coach and half the girls’ swim team slipped on flippers and goggles, plunging pale faces underwater to test their snorkels for holes. What’s going on, we asked, demonstrating why our Zeb was hisself so slow on the uptake. We gave our boy everything, no doubt about it. Clearly, the search had begun without us. Clearly we was late to the party. Any sign of the lads?