by Various
Gale tipped a glance at her first mate: Follow me. They picked their way down to the stream. The senior pulver had calmed Bendi and was trotting him around the plains, burning off the maddenflur dose. Wolfets were tearing at the dead stag, making good use of the unexpected feast.
Parrish spoke first. “If Een didn’t hate you before—“
“He knows it’s nothing personal. Next round, maybe he’ll win.”
“You shouldn’t insist you’re the same.”
“This is what we have, Parrish, instead of war. Maneuvering and games. Een and I play for different teams.”
“And for people’s lives.”
“High stakes,” she agreed.
“You are the good one, Gale.”
“He was right about your moral certainty. Comes of being a failed monk, I suppose?”
“I grew up on Issle Morta, but I’m no monk.”
“It wasn’t you in the story?”
He shook his head. “My father.”
“What made you think telling Bendi an instructive fairy tale when he was out of his head—“
“That you can blame on the monks. They favor parable over argument.”
“I don’t have much patience for fables,” she said, and then drew a long breath. “When Sloot does retire…”
“It won’t be right away.”
“I won’t be preached at.”
“Understood,” he said, and then: “She didn’t say happy.”
“Pardon?”
“The priestess at your birth. She said a useful life. Not a happy one—“
“You see those stags, Parrish?”
“I—“
“What do you think of ‘em?”
“They’re…they’re astounding.”
“It’s a privilege to see them.”
A flare—understanding, agreement? Connection. “Yes.”
Damn, Sloot. She did like him.
“I’ve seen a thousand wonders, cub. And I’m well past dying young. I never thought to survive this long.”
Which was the problem, maybe.
She would let Sloot go. Her place in his memories would recede. A mercy for him, one she should have offered long ago. I’ll take them to Erinth, she thought. One last vacation, and we’ll work out how to change the guard.
She looked at her friend’s chosen replacement, ran through her objections to him, and discarded them one by one.
Parrish steeled himself, as if for a blow. “About my time in the Fleet—“
“Plenty of time for that story.” She would hear it all one day: his alleged disgrace, his monkish upbringing, everything that lurked beneath those chocolate eyes. Sea voyages and their unavoidable stretches of tedium drew out all your tales.
At her feet was a clutch of gold and violet crocuses. On impulse she plucked one, holding it out.
“Another flower,” he said, with a glimmer of amusement.
“Don’t get ideas: just making sure you remember me.”
“I prefer this strategy to having my teeth busted in.”
“I’ll do that tomorrow,” she said, and his laugh was the unaffected chortle of a boy.
They turned toward camp, making for the fire as more snow broke free from the riverbed, vanishing into the night-darkened waters of the mountain.
END
Copyright (C) 2011 by A.M. Dellamonica
Art copyright (C) 2011 by Richard Anderson
Other Works by A.M. Dellamonica
“The Cage,” TOR.COM, July 2009
“The Sorrow Fair,” Helix Speculative Fiction, NY, U.S.A., 2008
“Five Good Things About Meghan Sheedy,” Strange Horizons, Madison, U.S.A., in March, 2008
“What Song the Sirens Sang,” Xtra West, Vancouver, BC, March, 2007 (Commission)
“Time of the Snake,” FAST FORWARD, edited by Lou Anders, Pyr Books, U.S.A. February 2007
“The Town on Blighted Sea,” STRANGE HORIZONS, August 2006, Year’s Best Science Fiction pick (Gardner Dozois)
“A Key to the Illuminated Heretic,” ALTERNATE GENERALS III, edited by Harry Turtledove (April, 2005) Nebula Award preliminary ballot / Nominated for the Sidewise Award
“The Spear Carrier,” www.scifi.com, NY, U.S.A., March 2005, 42 pages.
“Ruby, in the Storm,” www.scifi.com, NY, U.S.A., October 2004, 47 pages.
“The Dream Eaters,” THE FAERY REEL, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, Viking Books, NY, U.S.A., August 2004, 30 pages.
“Origin of Species,” THE MANY FACES OF VAN HELSING, edited by Jeanne Cavelos, Ace Books, NY, U.S.A., May 2004, 17 pages.
“Faces of Gemini,” GIRLS WHO BITE BACK: MUTANTS, SLAYERS, WITCHES AND FREAKS, edited by Emily Pohl-Weary, Sumach Press, Toronto, ON, May 2004, 20 pages.
“The Children of Port Allain,” On Spec Magazine, Edmonton, AB, Summer 2003, 23 pages.
“Cooking Creole,” MOJO: CONJURE STORIES, edited by Nalo Hopkinson, Warner Aspect, NY, U.S.A., April 2003, 12 pages.
“The Riverboy,” LAND/SPACE, edited by Candas Jane Dorsey, Tesseract Books, Edmonton, AB, Spring 2003, Gaylactic Spectrum Award Short List, 2004, 10 pages.
“Living the Quiet Life,” Oceans of the Mind Magazine, Delray Beach, FL, U.S.A., January, 2001, 44 pages.
“A Slow Day at the Gallery,” Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Dell Magazines, NY, U.S.A., September, 2002, 11 pages.
“Three Times over the Falls,” www.scifi.com, NY, U.S.A., February, 2002, 59 pages.
“The Girl Who Ate Garbage” (with Jessica Reisman) www.scifi.com, NY, U.S.A., October, 2001, 37 pages.
“Nevada,” www.scifi.com, NY, U.S.A., October, 2000, 28 pages.
“The Dark Hour,” Tesseracts 8, edited by Candas Jane Dorsey and John Clute, Tesseract Books, Edmonton Alberta, 1999, 21 pages.
“Novice,” 365 SCARY STORIES, Barnes and Noble Books, NY, U.S.A., September, 1998, 3 pages.
“The One Act,” Realms of Fantasy Magazine, Rumson, NJ, U.S.A., December, 1997, 8 pages.
“The Man with No Motive,” Writer’s Block Magazine, Edmonton, AB, August 1997, 5 pages.
“Prodigal,” Audio Versions, Hawthorne, NJ, U.S.A. March, 1997, 15 pages.
“Furlough,” Pirate Writings Magazine, Brightwaters, NY, U.S.A. November, 1996, 1 page.
“Love Equals Four, Plus Six,” Realms of Fantasy Magazine, Rumson, NJ, U.S.A., October, 1996, 6 pages.
“Crusader,” Tomorrow Speculative Fiction, Evanston, IL, October, 1996, 7 pages.
“Homage,” Crank! Magazine, Cambridge, MA, U.S.A., August, 1996, 21 pages.
“Jailbreak,” Terminal Fright Magazine, Black River, NY, U.S.A., February, 1996, 3 pages.
“Lucre’s Egg,” Crank! Magazine, Cambridge, MA, U.S.A., December, 1994, 9 pages.
“Balm in Gilead,” Other Voices Magazine, Edmonton, AB, January, 1991, 10 pages.
A.M. DELLAMONICA
Wild Things
illustration by
ALLEN WILLIAMS
Contents
Begin Reading
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My swamp man wasn’t what you’d call a sexy beast, though I found his skin strangely beautiful. It was birch bark: tender, onion-thin, chalk white in color, with hints of almond and apricot. He was easily bruised, attracted lichens, and when he got too dry, he peeled.
Instead of hair, he grew whisper-thin stems. Every morning we made a ritual of shaving his scalp, breaking those new-grown shoots. O
nce when time got away from us and they were left to grow a couple days, he broke out in catkins, a crown of fuzzy, pollen-laden locks of gold.
He was always cold. I had to keep him out of the rain so he wouldn’t dissolve into the ecosystem, rooting in whatever soil was closest, erupting in clumps of moss while salmonberry runners snagged him, tearing him with their thorns. The bog (and Vancouver is surprisingly boggy, though you might not think it) wanted him back.
But when it was dry and summer-hot, Aidan stood with a man’s firmness and spoke with a voice deep as a drum, and he could almost pass for normal.
I first saw him standing in a streamer of dawn mist rising off the surface of Burnaby Lake.
I was running a loop around the park, fighting to pass the fitness exam for a job I wasn’t sure I wanted anymore, one my lungs had about given up on. I was gasping for wind on a narrow stub of beach when I spotted him, still as a stump in the slate water, thigh deep and surrounded by paddling mallards and their ducklings. The sun had only just crested the treetops behind him and he was just a well-formed shadow.
Wheezing, I raised my phone, taking a snap for Cutemeat. The blog was my friend June’s idea: join an online community, she’d said, show that department-appointed therapist you’re still interested in boys. Sign of mental health, right?
“Adonis, fishing without a pole,” I captioned the shot, hitting SEND.
Then I thought: And without hip waders. Isn’t he cold?
I looked closely. No sign of rubber boots or any other water gear. I squirmed involuntarily, imagining cold water lapping at the join of his legs.
The sunlight brightened and I realized I was looking at his bare ass. The phone bleeped, loudly, to say it had sent the photo. Startled, I dropped it on the sand.
“Don’t be afraid.” Bass voice, fog-cool, lapped across the lake. “Please…ma’am…”
Just when did I become a ma’am? I scrabbled for a hefty branch, in case he came after me with a machete.
A machete hidden where? He’s got no pants!
But it had all been an illusion. As the mist gusted away I saw his limbs were wood, his nose a curl of bark. The ducks were gone.
“Who said that?” I shouted. The sound vanished into the brush.
I circled, club raised, then retrieved the phone, checking to see if someone had called, trying to explain the trick. But no. Apparently I was having a nervous breakdown.
Or was I? A year earlier, a couple witches in Oregon had spilled (or unveiled or unleashed, depending on whose spin you were buying) magic into the U.S. Actual friggin’ magic, as June puts it: flying carpets, people wielding lightning bolts, monster fish in Puget Sound, the whole nine yards. Mount St. Helens erupted and terrorist wizards sank a U.S. aircraft carrier. The forest north of Portland overgrew and jammed up with trees—weird, enchanted, supertall trees—and monsters too.
But Canada was supposed to be mostly clean: the government had gone to the expense of posting signs at Burnaby Lake, promising it was safe.
Would it be better if I was insane?
Maybe we were all a little crazy now. Last Christmas our biggest problems had been climate change, the recession, and war in the Middle East. Now it was glowing rabid raccoons sneaking around Seattle, magic-wielding cults fighting the FBI, refugees, missing persons by the thousands, tsunamis, hurricanes, volcanic eruptions, quakes in the news every week, and people turning into animals.
Plus climate change, war, and an even worse recession.
I ran on. By the time I’d got as far as Piper Spit, it was obvious something was wrong with my phone. Sap caked the memory card slot, and the whole thing was cold, cold enough that water beaded on it, running down the screen. I pulled it apart, extracting the card, disconnecting the battery, and giving all the pieces a fierce rub with toilet paper cadged from the bathroom at the nature center. The sap tore at the tissue while sticking the paper to the phone itself. All I achieved was getting goo and paper stuck in the burn scars on my palms.
Magic it is, I thought. I stuffed the bits of the phone in my day pack, then shared out my granola bar with the ducks, starlings, and Canada geese mooching after handouts on Piper Spit. There were a couple of birders out with big cameras, seated under little neoprene sheets of camouflage-patterned plastic, breath puffing as they waited, waited, for the perfect shot to come along.
I picked at the sap on my palms, in the scars.
“Okay, this is good. It’s better if it’s magic,” I told the birds. “I can still pass that physical, show the doctor I got mental health by the truckload and a strong libido too, and get back into the firehouse.”
They scrabbled at my feet, in single-minded pursuit of my crumbs.
“Sometimes I ask myself, why do I feel this way? Why does it feel like my heart’s beating for us both? What’s this tie between us I can’t imagine cutting?”
“I wonder why you feel this way too,” Aidan said, in his syrupy Georgia drawl. “Lovin’ someone with my limitations…”
“I hate it when you get all ‘I don’t deserve you.’”
“Just not sure I do,” he said.
“Everyone has limitations,” I said—that much, I knew for sure. “Everyone’s a lot of work.”
“One good pourdown and I may yet fall apart. I get chilled, I stiffen up—”
“I’ll try to keep you warm.”
“I’ve got no papers, Calla, I’m in the country illegally. I should be under magical quarantine.”
“Shut up,” I replied. I’d man-napped him away from the bog, to a rented trailer in the heart of wine country, in the desert town of Oliver, near Lake Okanagan. Fleeing east down the highway, a six-hour drive from Vancouver, to a climate where it was drier and hotter and hopefully safer, had seemed like a great idea at the time. “Anyway, I’m contaminated now too.”
“Because of me.”
I waved that off. “My point is: why you? Why you and me, why this thing? We’ve both had lovers before. We worked at it, I know. When it ended, all those other times, I didn’t shrug it off, did you?”
“No, you’re right. I’ve had my heart broke.”
“I never had this feeling before, that cheesy teen romance thing where if you died, I feel like I would too. I’m a practical person, not some doe-eyed movie heroine.”
It was almost dawn. Aidan had found work making buns and custard cakes in the scorching heat, cash under the table, in a bakery that purported to be Portuguese. Now he was out on his break, in the alley. We’d missed each other too much to wait the six hours until his shift ended.
He said: “Maybe the clichés were true all along. Maybe there is one perfect soul mate for everyone.”
“Not a bunch of people who’ll do?”
“I didn’t believe either—I was a scientist, Calla.” He pulled me close and my heart trip-hammered. He had come straight from the kitchen, and his skin lacked its usual chill. He was almost as warm as a man. “Love at first sight…I never bought into that.”
“Maybe it wasn’t true all along,” I said. “Maybe when all that horror-movie stuff escaped near Portland, fairy-tale things came too—”
“Things,” he teased.
“Love at first sight, like you said.” I poked him in what should have been his ribs. “Someday my damn prince will come.”
“One glass slipper, one foot to fit? Happily ever after?”
Nose to nose, we giggled nervously. If we got caught we’d be separated, locked away just for being freaks. Maybe all this nigh-painful joy was just the knife edge of secrecy, the intensity of being cut off from normal life. We had to be everything to each other; we couldn’t trust anyone else. “We’re not Cinderella and Prince Charming, Aidan. More…Bonnie and Clyde.”
“Without the guns,” he said, and I found myself wishing he’d denied it. “Thelma and Louise.”
“Without the big kersplat?”
“Let’s hope.” He kissed me and I savored those lips, that warmth. “My break’s over.”
; One more squeeze and he was gone, with a blast of hot air from the baking ovens and the clang of a fire door. I was alone in the alley with a couple of hopeful, garbage-seeking grackles and my thoughts, which tended to the grim.
My swamp man made love more or less as a man did. He was shaped right, even if the feel of him against my skin lacked an animal’s heat. I had to learn not to bite him, ever, because the marks lasted for weeks, and the acrid tang of plant juice on my tongue was too much of a reminder of how far removed from human he had become.
I couldn’t think about his swampy self, about what he was like in the rain. Instead I watched his face as I moved over him, his expressions twisting in normal, undignified, apelike contortions of pleasure. He groaned and shuddered and came like any man, and sometimes when he did, there was a rush of sound, wind through poplar leaves, and I’d feel something titanic, an internal battering wind, irresistible, pleasure so intense it was as though it might fling me across the room. I’d feel him and me, locked around each other, and our problems became as ephemeral as tissue paper.
Also, he wasn’t uptight: he let me name that part of him Woody.
We kept to ourselves out of necessity, playing hermit to protect our secret, and so we made love a lot. Our days in the desert were sex and TV, book reading and naps, walks together in the heat, sleeping odd hours and as much cash work as we could get. Warmth and sunshine for him, food for me, all the money we could squirrel away. We were always poised to flee: cash in the truck, a packed suitcase, full tank of gas and the endless speculating. Where next?
“Alberta’s dry,” he said one day as we were strolling through an orchard, six-foot trees laden with green, rock-hard apricots.
“The winters are cold,” I said. “You’ll stiffen up.”
“You’ll keep me warm.”
“If I can.”