Perhaps they had seen him. One of them called out what could have been a chattering, imbecilic greeting.
A number of them ventured forward out of the trees. Moving in fits and starts, they came towards him, spreading out as they did so.
The closer they got, the worse they looked.
Maurice knew he could not move another step. Resigned, he sat and waited for them.
Remembering he was hungry, he pulled one of the eggs from his pocket and put it in his mouth. Keeping his gaze steadily on the creatures, who were almost upon him, he bit down hard on the egg.
Later.
He was lying down, so he stood up.
He opened his eyes, and found he could see round in all directions at once.
But he could not see directly up or down.
He tried to touch himself, to find out what he was, but he had lost the use of his arms, if he still had any.
He was hungry, but there was nothing anywhere that looked like food. Then he realized he had no mouth.
He stretched his many legs experimentally. He discovered he could move easily across the crusted surface of the earth, with almost no effort.
He made a clattering sound by rattling parts of the top of his body.
He waited.
Then, feeling deeply anxious, he scuttled towards the line of trees to join the others of his kind.
“At least,” he thought, “I shan’t be alone.”
But, when he reached the trees, he realized they had been dead for a long time.
The place was deserted.
LISA TUTTLE WAS BORN in Houston, Texas, but has lived in Britain since 1980. She worked as a journalist for five years on a daily newspaper in Austin and was an early member of the Clarion SF Writer’s Workshop. She sold her first story in 1971 and won the John W. Campbell Award in 1974 for best new science fiction writer.
Her first book, Windhaven, was a 1981 collaboration with George R.R. Martin, since when she has written such novels as Familiar Spirit, Gabriel: A Novel of Reincarnation, Lost Futures, The Pillow Friend and The Mysteries. A new novella, My Death, recently appeared from PS Publishing, and her short fiction has been collected in A Nest of Nightmares, A Spaceship Built of Stone and Other Stories, Memories of the Body: Tales of Desire and Transformation and Ghosts & Other Lovers. The latter volume, plus another collection entitled My Pathology, have recently been released as e-books.
Tuttle’s other works include the Young Adult novels Snake Inside, Panther in Argyll and Love On-Line. She is also the author of the non-fiction guides Encyclopedia of Feminism, Heroines: Women Inspired by Women and Mike Harrisons Dreamlands, the erotic fantasy Angela’s Rainbow, and she has edited the acclaimed horror anthology by women, Skin of the Soul, and the anthology of erotic ambiguity, Crossing the Border.
“There’s not a lot I can say about this story,” admits the author. “I’m not myself a cat person, and never set out to write a cat fantasy, but a few years back I realized that three friends of mine, all single women of a certain age who lived in New York City with their cats, had stopped complaining about their unsatisfactory sex-lives and the lack of decent men, and seemed utterly content with their situation.
“As I speculated on possible reasons for the change, this story suggested itself. Of course, it is a total fiction, and you should not think for a moment that any of the characters or events portrayed here have even the slightest basis in fact.
“But I would say that, wouldn’t I?”
PEOPLE CAN CHANGE. People do. But some things remain the same – like my love for you. Once upon a time, when I first fell, I told you what we could have together was not exclusive and would not last forever. I never used the 1-word, and I drew away a little, disbelieving or offended, when you did. I told you, quite honestly, that I had no desire for children, and no use for a husband of my own. I was quite happy to share you with your wife.
It’s not surprising if you never understood how much I loved you when I took such care to disguise my deepest feelings. I was a woman with a past, after all. A woman of a certain age, happiest living on my own (well, with a cat) and with plenty of lovers already notched into my belt.
I was pastforty when I metyou, and the easy-loving days of my youth, when the times between men were measured in days or weeks rather than months or years, were gone. I had been celibate for more than six months when I metyou. I was feeling a little desperate, and I fell for you hard.
You probably won’t believe that, if you remember how hard I made you work to get me. Once I saw I’d caught your attention – the space between us seemed charged, remember? – I became distant, ironic, cool. I treated you with a casualness that bordered on the insulting. I was so desperate to be wanted that I didn’t dare let you suspect. Nothing drives people away more than neediness. And then, after we had become lovers, once you were well and truly caught, I guess it became a sort of habit, the way I was with you, as if you were an irritation to me, as if I suffered you to make love to me now and again as a very great favor.
But our affair went on for nearly seven years. Think of it. And eventually, our positions became reversed. I was no longer the less-loving, the more-loved – that was you. You grew tired of my undemanding presence, and called me less, or made excuses at the last minute to cancel a date. Did you really think I wouldn’t mind? That I might even be grateful to lose you? That it wouldn’t nearly destroy me?
Well, as I said before, people change. I might have shrugged and cut my losses – dropped you before you could formalize our break – and bounced back in my thirties, but, pushing fifty, the loss of you was the loss of the last of myyouth, practically the loss of life itself.
I was surprised by how hard it hit me. If I couldn’t win you back, I was going to have to learn some new way of living, to cope with my loss.
I thought about my friends. Over the years that once large throng of independent single women who had comprised the very core of my city, my emotional world, had been whittled away by marriage, parenthood, defection to other parts of the country, and even death. Three remained, women I had been friends with for nearly thirty years, whom I saw regularly and thought of as “like me”. Janet was an artist, Lecia was a writer and Hillary was a theatrical agent. We had similar emotional histories and similar lifestyles, in our small apartments with our cats, in love with men who saw us in the time they could carve out from their real lives with their wives and children elsewhere. Over the years we had kept each other going, cheered and commiserated with each other, staying loyal to a certain vision of life while the men, the cats, the jobs and other details changed.
Now that I thought about it, though, I realized that I alone of the sisterhood still had a lover. The other three were all “between men” – and had been for at least two years. What’s more, they seemed content. In the old days, celibacy would have been a matter for complaint and commiseration. I couldn’t think of the last time we’d had a good moan about the perfidy of men, or a plotting session devoted to fixing up someone with Mr Right. Bits of subliminal knowledge, memories of certain looks, words unspoken, hints, fell together in my mind. I scented a conspiracy. They knew something that I didn’t. And I needed help.
I went to see Lecia. Our friendship was based on straightforwardness, intellectual discussions, a liking for the same books, an interest in both philosophy and gossip. I felt we were a lot alike, and I knew I could be straight with her. When we were settled with our cups of decaffeinated latte, I asked if there was a man in her life.
She chuckled and gave me a funny, assessing look over her cup. “No one except James.”
James was her cat, purring in her lap. Lecia lived near Washington Square, and the cat had turned up in her life a few years earlier just after she’d embarked on her project of reading or rereading the entire works of Henry James.
“How long has it been since you split up with . . . ?”
“Three years.”
“And there hasn’t been anybody since?”
“And it’s all right? You don’t miss . . . all that?”
Her mouth quirked. “Do I look frustrated?”
I gave her a careful inspection and shook my head. “You look great. Really relaxed. Is that the yoga? Hormones?” Lecia, who was a few years older than me, had elected to go for HRT when the menopause hit.
She chuckled. “I think it’s contentment.”
“You do seem happy, which is hopeful. But – wasn’ t it hard at first?”
“What’s all this about?” she asked. “William? Has William—”
I shook my head. “Notyet. He hasn’t said anything, but . . . I think he’s met someone, or if he hasn’t, he’s looking. He’s tired of me, I can feel it.”
“Poor baby.”
She sounded so detached, as if she’d never had to worry about being left by a man in her life. It annoyed me, because I remembered when things had been otherwise. Three years ago. What was the guy’s name? Jim. His marriage had ended, his affair with Lecia continued, and then he’d been offered a job in Albuquerque – and he’d taken it, just like that. Not that she would have, but he didn’t even ask Lecia if she’d go with him. She had been devastated. Looking at her now, remembering her face distorted with tears and the sympathetic tension in myself, I could hardly believe it was the same woman.
“How long did it take you to get over Jim?” I asked. “Did you just decide to give up on all men after he left?”
“Something like that. I decided . . . I decided I’d never be at the beck and call of another man. I was going to be in control from then on, and get what I wanted, take what I wanted – ouch!” James went flying off her lap. Lecia put her hand to her mouth and licked the scratch. She grinned crookedly. “Well, of course, there’s got to be give and take in any relationship. There’s bound to be conflict sometimes. But why let him make all the rules, call the shots, decide to leave you?”
“Are we talking about me or you? I mean, you said – are you seeing someone?”
She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “You see me as I am, a woman alone except for her cat. And her women friends. You’re the one with man-problems.”
“And you’ve solved yours. So what do you advise me to do? Drop him before he drops me?”
“Only if that’s what you want.”
“It’s not. I want him.” To my annoyance, tears came to my eyes. “And if I can’t have him, well . . . then I want to be happy without him. The way you seem to be.” I pressed harder, trying to make her acknowledge me and my right to know. “You and Janet and Hillary . . . you all seem so content to be alone. What’s your secret?”
She looked at me, but there was a reserve, a withholding, in her eyes. “You should get a cat; then you wouldn’t be so lonely.”
“I have a cat.”
“Oh, yes, I was forgetting Posy.” She looked across the room at James, who was sitting in the corner washing his privates. I looked at Lecia’s face, which had gone soft, dreamy and sensual, and suddenly I saw that face on a woman lying naked on a bed, with the cat between her legs.
The grossness of my imagination shocked me. I felt too embarrassed to stay longer. Lecia’s serene contentment certainly didn’t have its source in bestiality. I was agitated not only by the unwanted pornographic fantasy, but also by the certainty that there was something which Lecia did not trust me enough to share.
I didn’t go home when I left her, but instead walked down to Tribeca, to the newish high-rise where Janet had her apartment. It was still Saturday morning, and I was betting I’d find her in. She was, working on one of her intricate black and white illustrations. Although she was trying to make a deadline, she seemed pleased for an excuse to take a break.
“Red zinger, lemon and ginger, or peppermint tea?” she asked as I followed her back to the kitchen. Grey the cat was sleeping on top of the refrigerator. He opened one eye to check us out, then shut it again.
“Red zinger, please.” I watched Janet closely as she made the tea. She was slim and strong and she moved lightly as a dancer, humming under her breath. If I hadn’t been there she would probably have been talking to herself, I decided, but apart from the scattiness which she’d always had, she looked serene and positively bursting with good health.
“Do you mind being celibate?” I asked her.
She looked at me sharply. “Who says I’m celibate?”
“Oh. Well, when was the last time you had sex?”
Spots of red appeared high on her cheekbones. “That’s kind of a personal question.”
“I know. I thought we knew each other well enough after all these years to get kind of personal . . .“Janet was one of the most highly sexed and sexually experienced women I knew, and she’d never been one to keep quiet about the most intimate details. She’d said nothing to me about sex or even romance for so long that I had assumed that there’d been no men in her life since the disappearance of Leland.
“Let’s go sit on the couch.”
“Goody.” When we were settled, I said, “So there is somebody? What’s the big secret? Who is he?”
“Do you have some reason for wanting to know? Apart from prurient curiosity?”
I laughed. “Prurient curiosity was good enough in the past. Look, as far as I knew, after Leland dumped you there wasn’t anybody. For, what is it, two years?”
“Not quite.”
“Whatever – in all that time, as far as I know, you haven’t gotten involved with anybody else, and it seems like you haven’t wanted to, either. Same as Lecia. You seem so calm, so happy. I want to know your secret, because I have this awful feeling that William’s fixing to dump me, and the way I feel now, it’ll just kill me. If I can’t keep him, I need to know how to survive – more than survive – without him.”
Her eyes searched my face. “You love him?”
“Oh, God. Yes. More than anyone I’ve ever – yes.”
“Could you live with him?”
I hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s never been an option. He’s tired of me, anyway. If I pushed him, now, or tried to make him choose between me and his wife, I’d lose him for sure. I can put up with sharing, with uncertainty – I’ve done that for years. If I’ve lost him, though – what I really want is to be okay about it. Like you and Lecia and Hillary. You seem so together, like you know something. You do, don’t you? There is a secret?”
She gave the tiniest nod, then shook her head as if frantically trying to cancel it.
“There is! Oh, God, I can’t believe you know something and you haven’t told me. You and Lecia – I thought we were friends! What did I do to you?” We stared at each other like two kids on a playground, one the betrayer, one the betrayed, and I saw my anguish get to her. She couldn’t resist the claim of friendship.
“You didn’t come with us,” she said in a low, pleading voice. “I know it wasn’t your fault, but that’s why, that’s the only reason. If you’d been with us, you’d know, too. We swore we’d never tell anyone else.” She hesitated, convincing herself. “But you’re not just anyone else – you should have been with us. It was meant for you, too. I’m sure I’m right. Wait, look, I’ll draw you a map.” She got up and went to her drawing table, found a piece of light card which was just the right size, and began to sketch and write something on it, muttering to herself. Then she presented it to me.
“What’s this?”
“It’s where you have to go.” She leaned close and spoke very low, although we were alone. “Take William. Any excuse, a nice hike in the country, just get him there, find the fountain, and make him drink. Not you. Just him. If you can’t get him to drink there, take a flask and make sure he drinks it later, when you’re alone together.”
I’d known Janet to be loopy sometimes – she was the fey and temperamental artist, she believed in angels, fairies, witchcraft, magic, anything going, really. For a time she had lived in an occult spiritual commune upstate somewhere.
“And what happens then?”
I asked.
“Shh! Just do it. I really shouldn’t be telling you. Now, go.” She pushed me toward the door, and I went without protesting that I hadn’t had my cup of Red Zinger.
I looked at the card when I was in the elevator. The directions were to the Adirondacks, to the middle of nowhere, halfway up the side of a mountain where there was a magical fountain . . .
Then I remembered. The fountain. Three years ago, the others had gone on a camping trip, to a “magical place” with a “special fountain” that Janet had learned about in her commune days. It was meant to be a spiritual retreat and a bonding experience for us four friends. Only the night before we were to leave I ate a bad shrimp, and so while my friends were hiking through the woods I was laid up at home with a case of food poisoning.
Something had happened to them, something they had never told me about, but which explained their solitary contentment.
Outside, I crossed the street and walked past a couple of still unconverted warehouses with trucks in front and big, sweaty men unloading boxes and shouting at each other. I walked past, around, through them like a ghost. I can’t say I missed the whistles and sexual commentary my presence would once have inspired, but just then I could have done without the reminder that I was an aging, invisible woman.
A garish green poster, plastered on a wall, caught my eye. It had a spiral pattern and the only words I could read at a distance were TIR NAN OG. That was what the Celts called the Land of the Ever Young, but probably it was the name of a band or a club – my not knowing, my recognizing it only as a reference from an ancient culture, was just another proof of how out of it, how past it, I was.
This was not my city anymore, I thought. This was not my country. The problem was, I didn’t know where else I could go, or what else I could be, now that I was no longer a young and beautiful immortal.
I looked at the card again. If it was the fountain of youth, why shouldn’t I drink it? Why should I give it to my lover? Janet had been so definite. But what did it do? If it was supposed to make your man love you again, why had Leland and Jim disappeared?
The Mammoth Book of Terror Page 25