Gravity Wells (Short Stories Collection)

by James Alan Gardner

  My Charge was one Louis Gerard, a man who lived with his sister Anne in a grand house more than a century old. I already knew Louis by reputation: he was a celebrated pornographer whose photos of naked women sold as High Art because he used black and white film and cropped their heads from the picture. Sometimes he used Anne as his model—she was unflamboyantly lovely and worshipped Louis as a genius. More often, he would bring home sleek young bundles of ambition who were only too eager to flaunt their flesh if it would look good on their résumés.

  I say I knew Louis Gerard by reputation, but in a few days, I knew him by his very stench. I sat in on his photo sessions and watched him exhort his women to caper for the camera. The foolish ones let him have his way with them afterward; the more astute did the same, but extracted letters of recommendation first. I watched his insatiable animal rutting and was appalled to the core of my soul.

  I watched Anne too: Anne cooking, Anne cleaning, Anne listening to the giggles coming from the studio and keeping her face blank. She developed all of her brother's photos, making print after painstaking print until she was satisfied with the result. For hours, I watched her working under the red developing light, its glow softening the intensity of concentration on her face.

  She worked diligently on her brother's lurid photographs, but more happily on her own. Her subjects were simple: melancholy landscapes, rusted machinery, sometimes gravestones. She never showed them to Louis—he would certainly have mocked her for wasting film on such sterile material. She showed them to me, though, even if she never knew it; and I saw more worth in one of them than in her brother's entire portfolio.

  I often contemplated the gift I would be giving Anne when I Reaped Louis. She would inherit his wealth and build a life of her own. I fancied her as a cherished protégée whom I would launch on a photography career more wholesome than her brother's. There was justice in that; and it led me to see justice in all acts of the Almighty. Could I interfere with that justice by refusing my duty? No. I would Reap those who must be Reaped, without questioning. That was the way of the righteous man. That was the path of faith.

  Thus I reflected to myself as Anne quietly read photography magazines and I watched her lovely face. But I had forgotten it is a law of Heaven that every faith must be put to the test.

  One sunny morning, as I sat on the patio and Anne pulled up weeds from the garden at my feet, a Reaper walked nonchalantly through the back hedge. It was the snow-angel boy from the highway, and he gave me an impudent wave as he sauntered up. "Hey, Reap! How's the scythe hanging?"

  "Do you have business here?" I asked.

  "Give me a sec to check my bearings," he said. With a great show of rummaging through the pockets of his raiment, he located his compass and flicked the case open. "And our next contestant is…the little lady crawling around here in the dirt! Let's have a big hand for her from the celestial audience. Yay!"

  He applauded derisively under Anne's nose. She continued to pull weeds calmly.

  Inwardly, I shuddered.

  The boy called himself Hooch and he would not go away. I demanded to check his instruments, of course, but he was telling the truth. From all angles, his compass pointed directly at Anne. The hourglass for her seemed to have precisely the same amount of sand as her brother's.

  "Mutual suicide pact?" Hooch suggested. I tried to slap him, but he skipped away, laughing.

  The serenity of my past few weeks quickly shattered into nightmare. Hooch proved inescapable. If I chose to watch Louis and his obscene photo sessions, Hooch was there, shouting, "Grind that pelvis, woman! Make it wet!" If I slipped into Anne's bedroom to savor her quiet breathing as she slept, Hooch would barge through the wall and shout, "Hot damn, she sleeps in the raw!" He lewdly intruded into her most private moments; he mocked her face, her voice, her clothes, her walk; and when he saw her photographs, he burst into laughter. To his crass intellect, they were "stupid, ugly, and boring."

  In my heart, I cried, Where is justice? Why was Hooch not burning in hell? Why was he, of all Reapers, called to Reap Anne? And why did Anne have to die now, when the death of her brother would free her for a new and better life?

  Then, in the depth of my despair, the answer came to me. Justice does not merely happen. Justice is made.

  The morning came when my hourglass showed Louis had less than a day to live. He was not making the best of his brief time—he sat at the breakfast table, holding his head in his hands and staring blankly at his coffee mug. His eyes were bloodshot, his face flushed and unshaven; if his woman from the night before could see him now, she would have laughed and shouted just to cause him pain.

  Anne was at the stove, making French toast. I had watched similar scenes before and knew Louis would refuse to eat what she served; nevertheless, she always made the effort.

  Hooch sat on the edge of the stove and watched Anne work, her hand occasionally passing through his body. "She's burning this toast, you know," he told me. "She's standing right here, she's watching it all the time, and she's letting it burn."

  "Hooch," I said, "let's trade."

  "Trade what?"

  "People. Just for fun. You Reap Louis. I'll Reap Anne."

  "You have the most colossal hard-on for this broad, don't you?"

  "I merely think it would be interesting," I said, pleased how I kept the anger out of my voice. "Doesn't it bother you we Reapers have to toe the line all the time? We have to Reap who we're told when we're told. That certainly annoys me."

  "Don't try to con me." He laughed. "You've got the salami blues for Little Arfing Annie, and you want to be there to sweep her into your big strong arms when she croaks. That's cool, I don't mind. She's yours."

  I had my mouth open to protest, but I closed it quickly. Let him believe what he wanted; I knew the truth.

  The day continued badly for Louis. His model for the afternoon shooting session had too many ideas of her own. The two of them quarreled about poses, lighting, and the use of props. He finally threw the woman out of the studio, then spent an hour venting his anger on Anne: Anne couldn't cook, he said; Anne had botched developing the latest batch of prints; Anne should go get a real life instead of sponging off him. Of course, she made no effort to argue—she let him rage for a time, then left him alone.

  Without a target to strike at, Louis struck at himself. To be precise, he began to drink. Hooch egged him on. "Come on, Louis, belt back that gin. Be a man, make it a double. Yeah, a beer chaser, go for it!" As Hooch cheered, he stood with his scythe pressed to his cheek, his fingers avidly fondling the handle.

  Near midnight, Louis got the urge to work in the darkroom. "I'll show that bitch how to develop photographs," he muttered. I looked at the sand in the hourglass; it had almost run out.

  Inside the darkroom, Louis fumbled with the chemicals and spilled them several times. His hands were shaking and clumsy. When he lit a cigarette to calm his nerves, Hooch and I exchanged smiles.

  "Gonna have a hot time in the old town tonight," said Hooch.

  "I'll see to the lady," I told him, and started up to her bedroom.

  The explosion was less violent than I expected—we have all grown too accustomed to Hollywood's excess. From Anne's bedroom, the noise was barely audible: an airy whump that didn't disturb her sleep. When I stuck my head out the door, however, I could see flames racing down the hall like unruly children, tearing through the aged building with hot glee. It was easy to see that brother and sister might well have died simultaneously.

  I went back to Anne and sat on the edge of her bed. As the wood of the door frame began to smolder, I fondly stroked her hair. "Behold, I am with you," I told her. "While I am here, you shall not perish but have eternal life."

  Before the end, the roaring of the fire awoke her. She reacted unwisely: stood up, tried to run to the door. The smoke filled her lungs almost immediately and doubled her over with a wrenching spasm of coughing. She felt very dear to me then: so human and vulnerable, with the desperation of a lost child
. When she succumbed to the fumes and crumpled to the ground, she looked as innocent as a baby waiting for my baptism.

  Her hourglass emptied. I did not Reap her.

  Her body burned with fire, yet she was not consumed.

  In the course of time, the fire department arrived. Looking at her, they could not understand how she still lived. They sped her away in an ambulance.

  Soon after, Louis's now-dead spirit burst into the room with Hooch on his heels. When the boy caught sight of me, he began to sing, "Fire's burning, fire's burning, draw nearer, draw nearer…"

  Louis grabbed my elbow and shouted over the crackling and hissing, "Where's my sister?"

  "She's been taken to hospital."

  "Thank God," he said. "Thank God."

  I didn't correct him.

  Suddenly Louis howled and began dragging me toward the door. "My negatives! We have to save them!"

  "He still hasn't figured out he's dead." Hooch laughed, prancing in the flames. I caught sight of the hourglass bouncing where it was tethered to his belt. Anne's hourglass. It was full. I felt a surge of triumph.

  Hooch noticed the direction of my gaze and looked at his hourglass in surprise. "That's weird, isn't it? Hey, what did you do with the bimbo's soul?"

  "I didn't Reap her."

  He gave a low whistle and backed away from me. "You're in trouble, man."

  "I'm not in trouble. She was your Charge."

  "Help me get the damned negatives!" Louis shouted, but neither Hooch nor I paid attention. Reapers are Reapers; Louis was merely another dead man.

  With narrowed eyes, Hooch raised his scythe high, holding it as a weapon. He came slowly toward me. "You suck, man. You really suck."

  I laughed at his monumental arrogance.

  Whether he would have struck me, whether it would have hurt, I do not know. I could feel sudden warmth in the air, smell the breath of roses. The glorious hand of an angel materialized between us and Hooch lowered his scythe slowly.

  "Good-bye, Hooch," I said. "Enjoy the wailing and gnashing of teeth."

  But the hand reached out for me.

  In a place of darkness, I asked, "Am I in hell?"

  A voice said, "Should you be?"

  I didn't answer.

  After a while, I said, "I did it for Anne."

  The voice asked, "Did you?"

  I didn't answer.

  Much later I said, "I understand now. You make people Reapers to test them. We're supposed to care so much for a Charge that we risk our own souls for their lives."

  The voice asked, "Did you risk your own soul?"

  I didn't answer.

  Lesser Figures of the Greater Trumps

  The "Greater Trumps" are the major Arcana of the tarot. This piece is based on pictures from the classic Rider-Waite deck.

  0. The Fool's Dog: He smells interesting. Like a long walk and sweaty. Like sex too. His crotch smells like sex.

  I like the smell. I push up against him to remind myself of the fragrance. A little while later I'm not sure I still remember it exactly, so I push up against him again.

  I wonder who the woman was.

  I wonder what she smells like now.

  1. The Tree Above the Magus: The sun is warm. The sun is tasty.

  The wind whispers that fall is coming. She tests my leaves to see if they will come loose.

  I am perfectly aware that fall is coming. But today, the sun is delicious.

  The man below me poses as if he is someone special.

  But he's in my shade.

  2. The Scroll in the High Priestess's Hand: She holds me gingerly as if I am fragile; but I am parchment. Decades ago, I was the skin of a sheep. When the sheep was shorn, I was all that protected it from the elements. Rain made me slick. Snow melted slowly against me. I wasn't fragile then.

  The sheep died, but I was rescued. Humans blessed me and scraped me clean. They scratched me with quills; it stung, but it made me special in their eyes.

  I don't know what they wrote.

  The woman's hand is warm and gentle. It reminds me of my sheep.

  3. The Dress of the Empress: Am I not of regal cloth? Am I not elegant? Am I not luxuriant with color?

  I was designed by a man from across the sea. I was sewn by imperial seamstresses. One seamstress was whipped because her hems were uneven. Right in the palace workrooms: the woman was whipped in front of me. A speck of her blood sprayed onto the cloth, where it falls across the Empress's breast. No one noticed. It blended right in.

  Isn't that delightful?

  Each morning, the Empress rises from her bed and puts me on. Three maids help with her hair and makeup and perfumes, but she puts me on by herself. I drape her body; she basks in my caresses.

  If she did not surround herself with my finery, she would not feel like an Empress.

  Without me, she is nothing.

  4. The Emperor's Crown: For five hundred years, I have watched this family. This boy, his father, his grandfather…so many generations I've lost count. Some were good rulers; some were tyrants; some were mad.

  This boy is the best of the line. He's rather stupid, but he keeps his hair clean.

  5. The Two Monks Who Kneel Before the Hierophant: One of us will replace the Old Man soon. He can't live much longer. His mind wanders. He mumbles when he's giving an audience, and he mumbles when he's alone.

  At one time, he was the voice of the gods on Earth. They possessed him and spoke through him.

  Now he mumbles.

  I wonder what it feels like when the gods speak through you. It's frightening to imagine. In all the pantheon, there isn't a single god you'd want to turn your back on. If you lent your coat to a god, you'd never get it back again. Not in one piece. So why is it such an honor to lend them your tongue?

  Stop mumbling, old man. Pull yourself together.

  6. The Snake Who Watches the Lovers: Humans know nothing about love. They stand beside each other naked and think nakedness is love.

  A snake knows love.

  Love is the smell that drags you away from everything that is safe, across fields, over roads, into villages, while in the back of your mind a voice tells you truly, "If humans see you, you'll die." Not death by languishing, but death by crushing, feet trampling you as bones snap and guts rupture. And you continue anyway, not because you want anything but you are incapable of seeing anything but the path toward passion.

  Humans think that lovers are star-crossed if their families disapprove.

  At their most ardent, humans still take a moment to find a soft place to lie down.

  7. The Black Sphinx Who Pulls the Chariot: The conquering hero rides through the city, believing he is the terror and envy of all who see him. With his helmet stuffed down around his ears, he can't hear the muttering of the people in the street.

  "Can't he afford a horse?"

  "I knew him when he was a brat who threw stones at old women."

  "Putting on weight, isn't he?"

  When he parks this chariot outside the Ministry of War, children come and scratch my ears. They call me kitty.

  8. The Flowers That Girdle the Woman of Strength: What is the nature of strength?

  Nothing fights with us flowers. Nothing eats us, except for the occasional budworm. People don't try to make their reputation by conquering us.

  The woman of strength strives to close the lion's mouth, and this time she succeeds. Or maybe it's just that this time, the lion allows himself to be subdued.

  If the lion wins the next time and tears her apart, we flowers will certainly be damaged too. But the lion won't go out of his way to hurt us. He won't resent us. He won't want revenge on a bunch of flowers.

  What is the nature of strength?

  9. The Hermit's Staff: Straighter than any tree that ever grew…I was a tree once, a sapling. Cut down by a woodcutter, because it was his nature to cut wood. Selected by an artisan, because I stood straighter than my fellows. Whittled and trimmed, planed and sanded…shaved down to some hu
man's idea of how trees should really grow.

  I am half the diameter I once was. A spindly weakling. If this hermit put his full weight on me, I would snap.

  But I am very straight.

  I am here for symbolism, not support.

  10. The Creature That Bears the Wheel of fortune: The wheel doesn't float in midair; I hold it up.

  The crowd watching the wheel thinks that it turns on its own. I like to foster that illusion.

  "Oh, no!" I shout. "It's turning, it's turning, oh, no! Harvests will be bad, winter will be hard, infants will be born sickly." And people of the celestial audience shake their heads gravely as if the universe has revealed its callousness.

  "At last!" I shout. "It's turning, it's turning at last! Crops will ripen, summer will be kind, children will laugh and see the world with wondering eyes." And people of the celestial audience sing hymns to laud the banishment of evil.

  The spectators think the wheel turns on its own.

  They think it really has an effect.

  When I grow bored of this game, I'm going to drop the wheel and watch the looks on their faces.

  11. The King Who Bears the Scales of Justice: Visitors to my court wonder why I'm not wearing a blindfold. But if I wore a blindfold, how could I read the scales? Put my finger on one side or the other? That would give a fair reading, wouldn't it?

  I'm not being cynical.

  I know that if I were wearing a blindfold, I'd peek. People wearing blindfolds always peek. Stage magicians. Knife-throwers. Children pinning the tail on the donkey.

  I'm not being cynical.

  It wouldn't matter. The scales still work. Justice is served.

  But a blindfold would be pure showmanship.

  Not that I have any complaint with showmanship. I've thought of getting a blindfold so people would believe I'm impartial.

  "It's not enough for justice to be done; people must believe justice has been done." People always repeat that maxim after the scales make an unpopular judgment. What they mean is that the truth is not good enough if the truth is unappealing. They don't want the scales to reveal the truth, they want the scales to confirm majority opinion.