by Neil Gaiman
He fumbled with the buckle of his safety belt and stooped as he got out. A head shorter than he, Jennifer stood bolt upright, still grinning as she pulled him along. "I've got to take you to your dressing room. It's not far."
What looked like a rooftop shed held an elevator in which the young woman in the blue jumpsuit and the cameraman were already waiting. Its doors closed and it fell from under him the moment Benson entered.
I'm seeing this as a real folksinger would, he thought, a backwoodsman brought to the city like this for the first time--even the familiar is new and terrifying.
His ears popped.
"Here we are," Jennifer announced. Doors slid open, and she and Benson stepped out. "My name's Jennifer, and I'm a page. Did I tell you that?"
Benson gulped and forced himself to say something. "Your name. Jennifer. You told me that up there."
"Well, I'm a page." Jennifer indicated the simple blue frock she wore. "Really I'm a summer intern. I'll get my master's in communications in two years. Come on."
Benson did, trying to recall one of Michael's books in which people were forever saying come on. Was he about to meet the Mock Turtle? The Mock Turtle would be reassuringly familiar after all this.
"Anybody who's got one of these blue dresses is a page," Jennifer explained, "except the guys. Guys have blue slacks and blue shirts. Same thing."
"All right."
"Ask us anything. Want a Pepsi? I'll bring it. Here's your dressing room." She opened a narrow green door.
"A glass of ice water," Benson told her as firmly as he could.
"Is that all?"
"A large glass of ice water."
"You'll have it in a nanosecond. Only go in your dressing room, okay? And stay there. Makeup will be in. Somebody'11 come for you at airtime, probably me."
"All right," he said again, and found himself in a small room containing a couch, a stool, a dressing table, a mirror ringed by lights, and very little else.
He sat down on the couch and looked at the Magusguitar. He had no memory of having had it on the helicopter whatsoever, yet here it was, still suspended from his neck by its narrow strap. He had carried it and failed to notice it, or it had dematerialized when he finished Aldo's song and rematerialized here. At the moment, those alternatives seemed equally likely.
The door opened, and a young man wearing black slacks, a white shirt, and a deplorable necktie set a tumbler of ice water on the dressing table, saying, "Jenny said you wanted this."
"I did," Benson began. "Thank--"
The door slammed shut.
Shrugging, he picked up the tumbler and began to drink. What had been in the bottles the chowchopper had passed out? Tap water, presumably. Not even cold, since there had been no condensation on the thin plastic.
He sighed, suddenly conscious that he was terribly tired. They would want him to play the song about Aldo's mother; the lyric had stuck in his mind, and the melody was so simple that he had improved it considerably, extemporizing as he played. What about the later broadcasts? They wouldn't want him to repeat the same song, surely.
There was a knock at the door, and he called, "Come in."
Daisy was the makeup girl. A nice touch, Benson thought, and tried to recall to whom he should be grateful.
"It would help if you lie down," she said, and he did.
She opened the large black box she carried and got out a monstrous powder puff. "I'm just going to put a little powder on you, and--" Her other hand dabbed at his cheeks. "A little rouge. Just a touch."
"I'm sunburned, I suppose," he ventured.
"A little white, really."
"Daisy?"
"What is it? Don't purse your lips. You need a lot of color there, too."
"Daisy, don't you know me?"
"Now the powder." It came as a sudden, suffocating cloud; and before it cleared, he heard the door slam.
He got up, went to the door, and looked out. Jennifer had told him to stay in the dressing room, but looking out would do no harm, surely.
Daisy was vanishing around a turn in the corridor, and a very pale but very attractive young woman in a black pantsuit was striding toward him. 'Tim? There you are."
An old sea song, "The Bulgine Run," popped into his head, and he played the first few chords for her. "How's this? I'm thinking of doing it on the eleven o'clock news."
She laughed. She had an infectious laugh, and he found that he enjoyed it--that he was drawn to her, in fact.
"Come on," she said, smiling. "Time's up." And then, as they walked down the corridor together, "Would you like to play that thing for me some more? I, like, dig rock stars."
"I was expecting Jennifer," he told her, and was on the point of telling her that she was preferable.
"She's busy right now. What was that song?"
"This?" Benson played the opening bars, and she nodded.
"It's about sailors unloading freight in a railroad yard. You have to know nineteenth-century slang, sailors' slang and railroad slang, to understand everything. They yell to each other and to a girl in what we'd call a taxi, and so on."
The pale young woman in the black pantsuit grinned at him, her teeth flashing in the dimness of the corridor. "I've known lots of sailors and railroad men. I knew Casey Jones."
Benson grinned back. "I'll bet you did."
"Sure, lots," she said. They turned into a new corridor. It was even darker than the last, huHhere was a light at the end. "Won't you sing it for me? I'd love to hear you."
"All right." He would have one more song ready, and that could only be good.
"Oh the smartest clipper that you can find ..."
To his surprise, the pale young woman in black joined him on the refrain: "A-hee, a-ho, ain't you 'most done?"
VALOSAG AND ELET
Steven Brust
Steven Brust is a swashbuckling gypsyish individual of Hungarian extraction; a wearer of fine hats; a sipper of fine whiskies; a player of the drum and the doumbek; and a novelist.
He has crept into Sandman a couple of times: he can be spotted in The Worlds' End pub in the Worlds' End collection, and later, at the Renaissance Festival, in a story called "Sunday Mourning" in The Wake.
Steven Brust does not, as he will happily tell you, write short stories. This folk tale is one of the short stories he does not write.
Well, you all talk about Valosag and Elet, but I know the truth about them, and I can prove it to you. If you want me to tell you I will, only you must first buy me a drink so I can wet my whistle.
It came about like this: Once there was-a very poor family living in a cottage in the woods. They were so poor that the mother had to knit with cobwebs when she wanted to knit, and the father had to smoke the chimney sweepings when he wanted to smoke. All they had to live on was the milk of one poor old cow.
Now, they had three boys in this family. One day, the oldest one said, "I am going to go out to seek my fortune, so that we won't be poor anymore." You see, he was a good boy, who wanted to provide for his family. So they wished him well, and off he went.
Soon he meets a man who is walking barefoot through the woods. "Greetings, father," says the young man.
"Hello," said the barefoot man. "My name is Valosag. Where are you going and what are you seeking?"
"Why, I am going through the woods, and I am seeking my fortune."
"Well, but what is a fortune?" said the barefoot man.
"A fortune? Oh, it is to live as one dreams of living."
"Is that what you think?" said Val6sag. "Then you may have it." And the oldest brother fell down on the spot and began to dream, and nothing and no one could wake him up.
A year and a day after the oldest brother had left, the second brother said, "I am going to go out to seek my fortune, so that we won't be poor anymore." So they wished him well, and off he went. Soon he met a girl with hair as black as a raven's wing.
"Greetings, black-hai
red girl," he said.
"Hello," said the girl. "My name is Elet. Where are you going and what are you seeking?"
"Why, I am going through the woods, and I am seeking my fortune."
"Well, but what is a fortune?" said the black-haired girl.
"It is what you need never to know hunger or pain."
"Is that what you think?" said Elet. 'Then you may have it." And the middle brother fell down dead on the spot.
A year and a day passed. Now, during this time, the youngest brother, whose name was Jancsi, had been taking care of the cow, and he was always careful to make sure it had as much feed as they could spare, and that it was always kept brushed and its stall was kept clean. And so, when Jancsi announced that he was going set off to seek his fortune, the cow suddenly spoke. "Be careful, young master, that you do not make the same mistakes your brothers made."
"How are you speaking?" said Jancsi.
"Well, why shouldn't I speak? Am I not a taltos cow?"
"But what has happened to my brothers?"
"Your oldest brother has met with Valosag, and is dreaming his life away, and your middle brother has met with filet and is in the land of the dead. You must be careful to avoid the same fate."
"Well, but how can I do that?"
"You must take my horn (in those days, cows had one horn, right in the middle of the head), and you must use it to trap those two so they'll do what you say, then you can get your brothers back and make your fortune."
"But how can I do that?"
"If they try to do something that can't be done, then you can trap their power in the horn."
"But what can I have them do that can't be done?"
"I will tell you this much: everyone dreams of dying, but no one dreams of being dead. And that is all I can say."
And with that, the cow fell silent and would speak no more.
So Jancsi took the cow's horn and set off through the woods, and soon he met a barefoot man. "Greetings, father," said the young man.
"Hello," said the barefoot man. "My name is Valosag. Where are you going and what are you seeking?"
"I am going through the woods, and I am seeking my fortune."
"Well, but what is a fortune?"
"Who are you to ask me?"
'To find a fortune, you must first visit me, for I hold them all in my keeping."
"Well then, my fortune is my brother, who has been taken by Elet."
"Well, she is just a little farther along this path."
"Then I will go to her. But you must keep me safe."
"How am I to do that?"
"By making a dream of being dead."
"But no one dreams of being dead."
"Then I shall be safe."
So Valosag tried to make a dream about being dead, and Jancsi took Valosag's power and put it into the horn. Then he quickly ran along the path, and soon met with a girl whose hair was black as a raven's wing.
"Greetings, black-haired girl," he said.
"Hello," said the girl. "My name is Elet. Where are you going and what are you seeking?"
"I am going through the woods, and I am seeking my fortune."
"Well, but what is a fortune?"
"Who are you to ask me?"
"Whatever your fortune is, at the end you bring it to me, for I am the ultimate keeper of all fortunes."
"Well then, my fortune is my brother, who has been taken by Valosag."
"Valosag?" she said. "But surely you passed him in the woods."
"Maybe I did," he said. "But if I am to visit him again, you must protect me."
"How can I do that?"
"By wrapping me in the dream that comes from those who have died."
"But no dreams come from those who have died."
"Then I shall be safe."
So Elet tried to make those who were dead dream, and Jancsi quickly put her power into his horn. Then he went back down the path, with Elet coming after him. Well, soon enough Valosag and Elet meet, and they just look at each other for a minute, you know, the way you look when you're surprised to see someone, and then Valosag says, "What have you done?" and at the same time, you see, Elet says, "What have you done?" And they look at the young man and they say to him, "What have you done?"
Then Jancsi says, "Well, you have taken my brothers away from me, so I have taken you two away from the world, and I won't let you go until you have returned my brothers to me and done whatever else I want."
"Well," they said, "and what is that?"
"You must make our fortunes."
"But," they said, "what is a fortune?"
"It is all that my oldest brother has dreamed of while he has been dreaming, and it is the good health that my other brother was looking for before he died."
Having no choice, Valosag and Elet agreed to these terms, and no sooner had Jancsi given them their power back than up jumped the older brother, and in walked the middle brother, and you can bet they were all glad to see each other!
It took the three of them to carry all of the gold and silver the one brother had been dreaming of, but it wasn't too hard because they all had good health, and so did their mother and father, and the proof is that the buttons on my vest were made out of the very same horn from the taltos cow, and, not only that, but they gave me this fine gold watch because they liked the stories I told them, just as you are going to buy me another drink for the same reason. Now, this all happened many years ago, yet I am certain that if they haven't since died, they are all still alive to this day.
STOPP'T-CLOCKYARD
Susanna Clarke
Several years ago Colin Greenland (whose story opens this volume) sent me a novella by an author he had met at a writer's workshop. It was a wonderful story. The author was Susanna Clarke, who lives in Cambridge and writes like an angel. When I read it, I knew I wanted her to write a story for this book. (She sold that novella to Patrick Neilsen Hayden's anthology Starlight.)
The attraction for me of working on this anthology, fraught with strange and unexpected vexations though it has proved, was really the selfish desire to read a Sandman story; something that I have not been able to do until now.
I wish I had written this story. But I'm even more pleased that I got to read it.
In Don Saltero's Coffee-House in Danvers-street Mr. Newbolt was taking coffee with his son.
He said, "It is so long since last I saw you, Richard, I hope you have been well all this time?"
Richard sighed. "Father, I was drowned in the Dutch Wars. I have been dead these fifteen years."
Then Mr. Newbolt saw how cold and white was his face, how cold and white were his hands. "Why, child," he said, "so you were. I remember now. Still I am very glad to see you. Will you not walk home with me? It is scarce five minutes' walk and I daresay you will not mind the rain?"
"Oh, Father," cried Richard, "I cannot come home. I can never come home. Do you not see? This is a dream. It is only a dream."
Then Mr. Newbolt looked around Don Saltero's CoffeeHouse and saw the strangest people all talking and taking coffee together. "Why, child," he said, "so it is."
Mr. Newbolt woke in the cold and the dark and remembered that he was dying. He had been for forty years England's most famous, most revered astrologer. He had published hundreds of almanacks and made a great deal of money and he had looked into the stars--oh, long, long ago now--and he knew that he must die in this season and in this place. He lay in a clean, sweet bed in an upper room in Friday-street and his old London friends came to pay him visits. "Sir!" they cried. "How are you feeling today?"; and Mr. Newbolt would complain of a coldness in the brain and a heat in the liver, or sometimes, and by way of a change, the other way round. And then they would tell him that all the most gracious planets in heaven were slowly assembling above half-built St. Paul's in time to bid him--their old friend and confidant--a stately farewell.
One friend who visited him at this time was a very famo
us Jew of Venice and Amsterdam, a most wonderful magician among his own people (who know many clever things). This man was called Trismegistus. He had not heard that Mr. Newbolt was dying and had come to beg Mr. Newbolt's help in some very tremendous astrological or magical business. When he discovered that he had come too late, he sighed and wept and smote his own forehead. "Oh," he cried, "all my days I did despise every man's help. I have walked with vanity. This is my punishment and it is just."
Mr. Newbolt looked at him. "Oh, vanity in a fiddlestick, Isaac. I am sure there is no need to be quite so biblical. Let you and I drink some muscatel-wine and we shall soon find someone else to aid you."
So they did as Mr. Newbolt proposed. But, as there was no astrologer or magician in the City of London who had not, at some time or another, ridiculed one or other of them, who had not called one "Impostor" or the other "Juggling Jew," and as they both had an excellent memory for an insult (though they forgot many other things), they had very soon run through every name.
"There's Paramore," said Mr. Newbolt, "and he is cleverer than all of them."
"Paramore? Who is Paramore?"
"Well," said Mr. Newbolt, "I cannot truthfully tell you much good of him, for I never heard any. He is a liar, an adulterer, a gamester, and a drunkard. He has the reputation of an atheist, but he told me once that he professed blasphemy, because he had taken offense at some passages of Scripture and now was angry with God and wish't to plague Him. Like a mosquito that wish't to prick a continent."
"He is not the man I want," said Trismegistus.
"Ha!" cried Mr. Newbolt. "There are women in every parish of the City who thought that John Paramore was not the man they wanted. They soon discovered their mistake. And so did I. For I swore when he first came to me that I would not take him as a pupil, but now, you see, I have taught him all I know. I also swore that I would not lend him money. Still I love the rogue. Do not ask me why. I cannot tell. You must ask for Paramore at a house in Gunpowder-alley--'tis near Shoe-lane--where he owes eight weeks' rent for a little attic about the size and shape of a pantry bin. You must not expect to find him there, but very likely his footman will know where he is."
"He has a footman?" said Trismegistus.
"Of course," said Mr. Newbolt. "He is a gentleman."
So all that day and all the next Isaac Trismegistus trod the City streets and asked a great many people if they knew where John Paramore might be found, but he learned nothing to the purpose and what he did learn only brought him closer to despair. For the City did not think that John Paramore would wish to be troubled with an old Hebrew gentleman just now. The City knew of a certain widow in Clerkenwell with lands and houses and no one could tell what rich commodities, and the City happened to know that this lady--young, virtuous, and beautiful-- had lately lost a little boy, a sweet child, who had died of the rickets and the City said that in her misfortune John Paramore was her Mephistopheles who sat in the shadows behind her chair with satirical looks and his long, crooked smile and whispered in her ear and that she prefer'd his comfort to that of honest men and women.