The Best British Fantasy 2014

by Steve Haynes

  The Best British Fantasy 2014

  An astonishing mix of hot newcomers, heavy hitters and superstars in this second edition of The Best British Fantasy.

  “More good news come our way from Salt Publishing, it seems that they will not only release a series of year’s best British fantasy, but also starting from next year a series of yearly Best British Horror too, edited by Johnny Mains.” —Dark Wolf Fantasy

  2014’s selection offers stories written by eight women and six men. All have been published in 2013, either in popular genre magazines such as Interzone, or in anthologies. In subject matter, the stories range from hard SF space travel, through near future Zero Hours social comment, to an alternate retelling of Theseus and the Minotaur and a world where flowers whisper poems.

  Praise for Best British Fantasy

  “All in all this is a great little collection of short stories by some of the best fantasy writers around, some you will have heard of and some that may be new to you but all of whom have earned their place in this anthology by being good writers. Whether or not it’s the ‘best’ and whether or not every writer is actually ‘British’ is open to debate, but one thing’s for sure, it will make a great addition to anyone’s fantasy library.” —Sci-Fi London

  The Best British Fantasy 2014

  Steve Haynes is an editor whose subtle approach to his chosen profession has earned him the epithets “Hacker Haynes” and “The Butcher of Bodmin”. He was born in Walsall in 1964. He read for a BA in English and Film Studies at the University of Wolverhampton, and was an English teacher at Secondary level for 25 years. He is a prolific and lifelong devourer of science fiction, fantasy, horror, science writing, contemporary philosophy and graphic novels.

  Also by Steve Haynes

  The Best British Fantasy 2013

  STEVE HAYNES

  Introduction

  Those of you who read my introduction to Salt’s previous Best of British Fantasy collection will know that I have a fluid definition of my favourite genre. British writers inherit a tradition that sees a blurring of the boundaries between rigid definitions of Sci-Fi and Fantasy, and that’s the approach I have continued to take with Best of British Fantasy 2014. You will find in these pages an eclectic collection of Sci-Fi and Fantasy as well as stories that could sit in either, or both, camps.

  I make no apology for this. In the year in which all these stories were published, there was a cultural event for an institution recognised by the wider public as very British Fantasy. I refer, of course, to the fiftieth anniversary of Doctor Who. For me, this Saturday evening TV programme, watched by millions around the world, is the inheritor of a particularly British approach to Fantasy and Sci-Fi. Make no mistake, I know the programme has its limitations, but I salute two separate dramatic scenes in the two TV specials commissioned to celebrate this show’s half-century.

  Towards the end of ‘An Adventure in Space and Time’, David Bradley’s William Hartnell (as the Doctor) looks across his central console for the last time and sees Matt Smith (also as the Doctor). In ‘The Day of the Doctor’, Matt Smith’s Doctor meets Tom Baker’s Curator. In these two beautifully balanced moments, we have an elegant meta-collision that subverts traditional ‘realistic drama’ and reflects the on-going meeting of Sci-Fi and Fantasy pervading our genre traditions.

  My recognition of this vibrant mix of Fantasy and Sci-Fi influences this anthology. I’ve purposely grouped stories into particular traditions, but my definition of the two genres is more complex than a simple ‘half-and-half’ division.

  While one story might explore a mythical fantasy from a very particular perspective, another mixes a contemporary setting with poetry spouting flowers. Another takes us into a fantasy world and yet explores a very current real danger that many young girls face. (As I write this the news is full of international condemnation at the kidnapping of over 200 girls in a crime that is as old as humanity.)

  The collection shifts suddenly into near-future political comment on a very current trend, while another story takes us into a British dystopia based on the most arcane of human divisions and prejudice. There are stories that explore ‘classic’ sci-fi territory (yes, you will find spaceships and robots in these pages), but through a lens of psychological complexity.

  Finally, the anthology again moves into an uncertain territory, where politics and technology mix with fantasy worlds; where spores represent emotions and the adventurer can literally be lost in the clouds.

  The collection finishes with two stories that challenge our assumptions of genre, one exploring an experience of something alien, on several levels, and another that grounds us in the fears and politics of the modern age while weaving a disturbing fantasy thread through both personal and world events.

  Finally, for all my praising of Doctor Who, I recognise that there is a disturbing lack of women writers represented in such a major genre TV programme. It’s a situation that has been recognised in the wider world of Fantasy and Sci-Fi publishing, and debated at some length during the last twelve months. I’d just like to point out that nobody could ever say that about the Best of British Fantasy 2014.

  PRIYA SHARMA

  Thesea and Astaurius

  ‘Daddy, you’re telling it wrong.’

  ‘Am I?’

  Thesea looks up at her husband and daughter.

  ‘You tell it then,’ he says to the child.

  ‘King Minos prayed to Poseidon, who sent him a magic bull but Minos didn’t sacrifice it like he was supposed to, so Aphrodite made Minos’ wife fall in love with it.’

  Only the gods inflict love as a punishment, Thesea thinks.

  ‘The bull and the queen made a baby called the Minotaur.’ Thesea’s glad that she’s too young to be concerned with the details. She bares her teeth and draws her fingers into claws. ‘It was a monster.’

  ‘The Minotaur had a bull’s head on a man’s body.’ Their son; older, placid, lacking his sibling’s drama.

  ‘I’m telling it. Minos made Daedalus, his inventor, build the labyrinth to hold the Minotaur. He fed it human sacrifices sent from Athens.’

  ‘Really?’ her father asks.

  ‘Yes, then Athens sent a prince called Theseus who was so handsome that Ariadne, Minos’ daughter, gave him a sword to kill the Minotaur and string to find his way out of the maze.’

  The girl has no interest in being Ariadne. She leaps about pretending to be Theseus, imaginary sword in hand.

  ‘Calm down,’ Thesea puts an arm around her and draws her in. ‘You’ve all got it wrong. Listen and I’ll tell you what really happened.’

  Athens. Thesea is eleven. The other children are paddling in the shallows, splashing one another. The fisherman’s son follows her along the shore. He won’t leave her alone.

  ‘My mother said you’re going to be sent to Crete to die.’ He tries to grab her hand to stop her walking away.

  Thesea runs into the sea and dives into the advancing wave. She holds her breath and twists about so that she can look at the churning surf from underneath.

  So what she’s heard is true. She’s not meant for this world. Perhaps that’s why she’s always felt outside it. There are only these moments then. She resolves to make them last.

  Thesea at seventeen. She stands apart from the cargo of weeping foundlings, looking ahead. As they approach Crete, blue is divided by yellow sand into sea and sky. The ship navigates the coast to where Minos and his men have gathered on the dock to greet the fresh meat.

  The boat’s close enough for Thesea to see their faces. They look like salivating dogs. She can read Minos wit
h a glance; his smile is a yawning hole that could swallow her.

  He wants the entire world. Greedy bastard.

  The group shuffle down the gangplank. The Athenian crew can’t look at them. Sailors on other ships stand and stare.

  A girl greets them. She wears purple silk, and gold shimmers at her ears and throat.

  ‘I’m Ariadne, daughter of Minos, princess of Crete.’ She takes a garland from a slave’s arms and puts it around the neck of the first Athenian and kisses the boy’s cheek. ‘We thank you for your great sacrifice.’

  Thesea’s the final one in line. Ariadne stares as if trying to get the measure of her. The garland tickles Thesea’s neck. Then she feels cold metal slipping down the front of her gown.

  Ariadne kisses her and whispers, ‘Run. Run into the labyrinth.’ She steps back and smiles, the dimple in her cheek revealed. ‘Come, we’ve prepared a feast for you.’

  They’re mad. Thesea follows them to the tables. Every single one of them.

  Thesea’s spent her life expecting death at the Minotaur’s hands, teeth or trampled underfoot.

  The rest of the Athenian’s have been sacrificed and there’s not a monster in sight. Only Minos and his men. Thesea’s witnessed it. Sex and blood, all at once.

  ‘Your turn.’

  She’s untied. A hand clamps her wrist. She’s not agreed to this. This isn’t sacrifice for the greater good. It’s rape and murder. She pulls the knife from her dress and plants it in the man’s neck. He has a soldier’s reflexes. His sword bites her arm.

  Ariadne’s plan doesn’t seem so stupid now. Run. Whatever is in the labyrinth can’t be worse than this.

  ‘Get her.’

  ‘No,’ Minos calls from the heart of the carnage, ‘leave her. She’ll starve in there. Or he’ll find her. Let him have a live one. Poor sod deserves a bit of fun.’

  There’s laughter. She runs faster in case they change their minds. When she looks back over her shoulder the soldiers are dragging the bodies towards the maze’s mouth.

  Let him have a live one.

  The novelty of a warm, writhing body instead of a cold, already ill used carcass. She pictures the bull headed giant sitting on a throne of bleached bones, tearing the flesh from a human leg with his teeth.

  Thesea feels like a bucket of hot water has been poured down her arm. It’s slick down to her wrist. There’s a relentless drip from her fingertips. Her heart thumps to compensate. A contrary feeling, making her weak and energised all at once. She tears the hem from her gown and binds her arm.

  The labyrinth’s endless corridors of white marble. Blind endings. Steps and turns. Arches and pillars. It’s baffling. Thesea turns a corner to find a fountain, the water making music. In a courtyard there’s an altar laid with roses. Elsewhere a lyre nailed to a wall. Smells without source – jasmine, fire and cooking fish. These anomalies don’t help her to orienteer.

  Thesea remembers being lost in the forest as a child. The trees’ pretence of familiarity. The maze is the same. Alive. When she leans against a wall it moves beneath her skin as if breathing her in.

  I’m going mad.

  I’m going to die.

  She lays down, head on the ground. Stone shifts beneath her cheek, like something exhaling. Her skull trembles. Vibrations announce the Minotaur’s approach.

  There’s a roar that could shatter rock.

  She pulls herself up to a sitting position.

  Let him come. I was bred for death.

  The Minotaur’s an abomination. Union of earthly woman and divine bull. His outline fills the corridor. His horns throw long javelin shadows on the floor. He lowers his head and breaks into a run.

  The Minotaur halts beside her. Thesea tries to be calm as he picks her up. She’s cradled in his arms. He smells, she thinks, like the summer rain on warm earth.

  She’s being carried along a corridor. Its proportions are less grand than the rest of the labyrinth. The Minotaur’s bellowing is no longer just sound, it’s becoming speech.

  ‘Daedalus! I’ve found one. She’s alive!’

  The workshop’s around the next corner. Daedalus looks up from his bench. Thesea sees a frowning mouth, crooked nose, a pair of goggles and a flash of grey hair. He sheds the goggles to reveal blue eyes.

  ‘Quick, on here.’

  Daedalus clears the bench with a single sweep of his arm, his tools shrapnel flying to the floor. Thesea’s laid down, a body on a slab. She’s heard of this Daedalus, dubbed the cunning worker. His constructions are wonders. He’s so complicated that his king is his patron and enemy and he’s ended up imprisoned with a beast in the jail that he was commissioned to make.

  Will he convert her into a terrible machine or will the pair of them sit down to feast on her?

  ‘Fetch my medicine chest.’

  The Minotaur looks about in panic. The workshop’s a mess of prototypes and parts. It smells of grease and metal. Boxes spill maps, sketches, cogs and wires. Others are sealed with triple padlocks.

  ‘The leather one, there.’

  Thesea feels a cold ring of metal on her chest. It’s connected to tubes that Daedalus puts in his ears. He tells her the name later. Stethoscope. Daedalus checks the integrity of her bones. Lays a flat hand on her abdomen. Then he unwraps the binding on her arm.

  ‘It’s just a flesh wound. She’s lost some blood though. Get me the Glenrothes.’

  The Minotaur holds out a bottle of amber liquid but Daedalus is too busy with needle, syringe and vial. He nods to the Minotaur, ‘Pour me a glass.’

  ‘It’s not to clean her wound?’

  ‘Single malt? Are you joking? That’s for me. We’ll use the cheap stuff on her arm.’

  The Minotaur fusses over her so much that Daedalus sends him away.

  ‘Can you feel this?’ He prods at the edges of the wound with a needle. ‘No? Then we’ll begin. Look away.’

  Thesea refuses. She watches the needle pierce numb skin.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Thesea.’

  ‘Greek?’

  ‘Yes.’ Of course Greek. Where else? ‘Minos. I didn’t know . . .’ Her sentence collapses.

  ‘He’s as crazy as a sack of snakes.’

  They lapse into silence. Behind Daedalus there’s a lit candle in a niche. It illuminates a painting of a young man lying on a rock, his complexion ashen. The sky behind him is red, the horizon a dark line. White nymphs reach for him with pale hands.

  A pair of enormous wings are strapped to his arms.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asks.

  ‘A gift from the Minotaur.’

  ‘He’s an artist?’

  ‘No. He just thought I should see it. It’s called ‘The Fall of Icarus’.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Daedalus finishes his embroidery. Flesh is reunited.

  ‘We’ll talk later.’ He drops the needle into the bowl. ‘You should get some rest.’

  Thesea’s mouth is dry when she wakes. Daedalus dozes in a chair. She looks at his sketches but can’t fathom their purpose. She helps herself to water from the jug. Slices cheese onto bread.

  She looks into an alcove, then realises it’s a balcony. The Minotaur’s below her, in a vast field. He waves.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘Much.’

  She recognises now that the stretched mouth is a smile.

  There are bodies laid out in a row. Ariadne’s flowers are tangled with torn clothes. She recognises a wave of black hair. A scarf. A necklace. They remind her that mauled flesh was someone she once knew.

  The Minotaur’s stripped to the waist, shovel in hand, knee deep in a hole. Behind him markers stretch down the hill and out of sight.

  He’s burying them, she thinks. Each in their own grave.

  ‘I’m going for a walk
.’ Thesea stretches, trying to lengthen her muscles.

  ‘Sure,’ Daedalus rummages in a box, ‘you’re not a prisoner. Take this string and use it to find your way back.’

  ‘Call if you get lost. I’ll come.’ Then the Minotaur adds, ‘If you feel faint put your head between your knees.’

  ‘How will you find me?’

  ‘I will.’

  Daedalus follows her down the corridor and whispers in her ear. ‘Be careful. He’s different, depending where he is in the maze.’

  ‘He can’t always speak, can he?’

  ‘Not just that. He’s not always so affable.’

  ‘How will I know?’

  ‘You’ll know.’

  Her walk exhausts her. The Minotaur lays a blanket over her knee when she returns and fetches extra cushions. She watches him work the bellows for Daedalus and together they shape metal. Flames and fatigue bring sleep but not for long. Thesea sits upright, wet faced, choking on a scream.

  ‘You’re safe.’ The Minotaur kneels before her, clutching her hand.

  ‘You’ve no idea.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I’m sorry, of course you do.’ He dignifies the dead with burial.

  The Minotaur reaches into his pocket and brings out a brass ring. ‘Minos gave me this when I was a boy. His captain held me down while he put it through my nose. Daedalus was kind enough to remove it.’

  Daedalus tells her everything later. How Minos sniggered as he threatened to castrate the Minotaur when he reached manhood. How they branded the delicate flesh of his inner thigh.

  ‘I’m not an animal,’ the Minotaur tells her.

  ‘No, I know you’re not.’

  Thesea is holding his hand now.

  Thesea cries less in her sleep. She walks further each day using her string as a guide. Daedalus won’t let her chalk arrows on the floor. Just in case we get unwanted visitors.