Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two

by Short Story Anthology

  Dancer vanishes next, and then Prancer, and the shape takes on solidity. It is long and tall and skeletal.

  "Let's have some more," it says, and Santa braces himself and thinks of the bumpy, rough texture of reindeer antlers, and the warmth of a reindeer's back, and of dark, spicy odors. But it's not enough. Vixen, Comet, and Cupid sift out of existence like falling grains of sand.

  The shape has a face of pale gray. Bottomless eye sockets. It spreads its stick-like arms out and shows its tattered cloak. The gaps in the fabric are vast. "Some more, please, Santa? I have been such a good boy."

  "Help me, Santa," cries Donner, and he is gone.

  "It hurts," Blitzen whispers as he loses cohesion and disappears.

  "Just the little shiny one left now," says the skeleton. "Ho-ho-ho."

  But the beacon calmly slips its harness. And it streaks away, darkness drinking its light.

  "Ah, well," Big Empty says. "He'll be easy enough to track down, all shiny like that. I've always liked loose ends, anyway."

  Santa steps down from the sleigh, the reins dangling down into the dark. He faces the skeleton, only the thickness of his mittens concealing the tremors in his hands.

  The skeleton's cloak waves in imagined breeze. "Got a toy in there for me?" Big Empty says. "Candy cane? Sugar plum? Eight maids a-milking?"

  Santa surges forward and slams into the skeleton with a bang and a flash of light. They grapple, and where the skeleton's fingers touch, Santa's flesh loses feeling. Teeth clack open and shut an inch from his face. They look very solid. The frayed edges of the cloak slice through Santa's red suit, and he feels cold rush in.

  "Those reindeer were very convincing," the skeleton says. "Musk smell and all. It must have taken a great deal of concentration to hold them together."

  "They were okay," Santa says.

  The skeleton is strong with all the little boys and little girls it has eaten. Slowly, Santa sinks to his knees. His prodigious belly shrinks and his beard thins.

  He realizes how close he is to losing coherence, and he knows he must sacrifice something. He can no longer afford to maintain everything in his world as well as himself. So, with a small wail of despair, he gives up his sleigh. He surrenders the leather reins, and the harnesses all festooned with bells. He lets go of the bulging sacks in back, stuffed with toys that die now, undelivered. But there is no time to mourn them, for free of the burden of maintaining their cohesion, Santa feels some strength returning to his limbs. He plants his feet firmly on nothing and gives a push.

  Taken off guard, the skeleton loses advantage, and Santa grips its bony arms and forces it back. But only a little. Big Empty is strong. It has spent a long time eating the world. Santa gasps when he finds himself immobilized in Big Empty's embrace.

  "You're spread too thin," the skeleton advises, its voice like rushing wind above him. "It's too difficult to keep so much going all at once. You had the right idea with the sleigh and the toys. Remember the last time we fought? That was such a brave and clever move, giving up your wife like that. And effective, too. You got me good that time."

  Sobbing, Santa reaches out across the distance. Far away, surrounded by the white-world of the North Pole, stands his castle and workshop. He lets them go. Then the North Pole itself follows. Santa feels like he's killing his own children. And, in a way, he is.

  "Lonely, isn't it?" the skeleton says. "But it was the only chance you had. Do you feel stronger now?"

  And, no, Santa does not. The skeleton is vast. The holes in its cloak are vast. It feeds on Santa's solidity, leaving more of the emptiness that Big Empty, Old Winter Death, loves so much. Santa's fur suit grows threadbare, and its brilliant crimson fades to a colder wavelength. There is only the skeleton, rendered in sharp detail, tiny pits in its bones.

  Then Santa sees a glimmer of light. He wonders if this is the sort of thing one sees before death, and he finds that, despite his great age, he is as terrified by death as any creature.

  But, no, he decides. In the darkness, light is nothing to fear.

  Light is life.

  Light is fire in the cold.

  And something yet burns.

  It is the beacon, and it is much changed.

  Enormous, it thunders toward him, its silver delta wings glinting. It launches silver missiles, and the world explodes in searing white light.

  Still entwined, Santa and the skeleton tumble and spin with the shock wave. But Big Empty's grip remains strong. "Two for the price of one," the skeleton says, and Santa hears the beacon whimper.

  Santa knows he has to give up the beacon. He has to absorb it, the way the skeleton has absorbed so much, and steal its strength. To save what's left of the universe, he has to kill its last light.

  No, Santa thinks. I have mittens. I have hands inside the mittens. I have white hair on the knuckles of my hands inside the mittens. These are my details.

  Sparks dance as the skeleton's teeth grind.

  "The fur inside my mittens is scratchy," Santa says. "My wife made me these mittens, but the fur inside them is scratchy. The mittens are uncomfortable. But I would never tell her that. It's a detail. I am a cluster of details."

  One of the skeleton's arms snaps in Santa's grip, and the skeleton screams.

  "I put talcum powder on my hands before I put on my mittens. Sometimes I shake too much out of the bottle, and there's a cloud of talcum powder that makes me sneeze. These are my details. And I am coherent. I am solid. I am Santa Claus."

  There is a crackling, like the breaking of dry twigs, and loud pops of implosion. Santa pulverizes Big Empty in his hands. Tiny bits of bone float in space and wink out of existence.

  "I am coherent," Santa says again. "I am damned coherent."

  He goes to the beacon. But the beacon is no longer really the beacon. It is a colossal reindeer with smooth, gleaming contours, its snout ending in an orb of white light. Its body is studded with ordnance. "We merged our clusters," the beacon says, the silver boy says.

  Santa nods, and as he takes stock of what he's lost, any sense of triumph quickly dissipates. His home. His workshop. His team. The toys. And anyway, Big Empty took away the reason Santa kept all those things in existence. All those little girls and boys and the worlds they kept intact, deleted.

  The silver beacon reads Santa's face. "There's still one little girl," it says. "The cephalopod."

  "But that's all," Santa says. "And I have nothing to give her."

  "Do you still believe the cephalopod exists?"

  Santa knows where this is going. "I suppose so."

  The silver beacon lowers itself, allowing Santa to climb on its back. "Well, then. So long as Santa believes, there will always be little girls."

  Rider and beacon sail silently toward the lump of coal where the little girl lives.

  Perhaps it won't be a merry Christmas.

  Perhaps it won't be a Christmas at all. But it will be a thing.

  And here in the late December, a thing of any kind is something to be thankful for.

  Copyright © 2003 Greg van Eekhout

  VYLAR KAFTAN

  Vylar Kaftan writes speculative fiction of all genres, including science fiction, fantasy, horror, and slipstream. She was nominated for a 2012 Nebula Award for her novella “The Weight of the Sunrise”, and a 2010 Nebula Award for her short story “I’m Alive, I Love You, I’ll See You in Reno.” Her stories have appeared in Lightspeed, Strange Horizons, Asimov’s, and Clarkesworld. Her work has been reprinted in Horror: The Best of the Year, honorably mentioned in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, and shortlisted for the WSFA Small Press Award.

  A graduate of Clarion West, she’s volunteered for that group as well as the Little Owls mentoring program for young writers. She’s a member of SFWA, Codex, Broad Universe, and the Carl Brandon Society. In 2011, she founded FOGcon, a new literary-themed science fiction and fantasy convention in the San Francisco Bay Area.

  She lives with her husband Shannon in northern California. Her hobbi
es include modern-day temple dancing and preparing for a major earthquake. Her favorite color is all of them. She prefers the term “differently sane.”

  The Weight of the Sunrise, by Vylar Kaftan

  1. The Disfigured God

  So you ask for the story of your origin, beautiful boy, and why you and your father are different from those around you. You are fourteen and nearly a man. Before you choose your name, you should know yourself–and I, your grandfather, will tell you the story of you. The tale is written in the scars of my hands, and told in the blood of the Incan people.

  You must imagine me younger, child–much the age that your father is now. Picture a warm December day, just before midsummer. It was 1806, though back then we did not count the years as Europeans do. Smallpox raged through the southern Land of the Four Quarters. You’ve seen your grandmother’s pitted face; once she was considered a beauty for those telltale scars. I worked in the fields near Cusco, because I enjoyed farming. I had never liked the city. The cool soil on my hands reminded me of childhood, and of home in the northern mountains.

  When the gods summoned me, I was planting late-spring tomatoes–the ones that would blossom shortly before June frost. I knelt on the terraced slopes south of Cusco, on land owned by your grandmother’s clan–since as you know, I myself came from a poor potato-farming family. Each seed entered the ground lovingly; I thanked Pachimama that I could enjoy the planting and not fear the harvest. The noon sun blessed my bare head. My water jug rested nearby, with my flintlock rifle leaning against it.

  The sunlight faded–but no cloud marked the sky. I looked up. Two men approached, noble in dress and bearing. They wore macaw feathers at their throats, so I knew they outranked any noble I’d ever met. Although society did not require me to bow, I stood and did so anyway.

  The taller one, who wore the brighter feathers, said, “Lanchi Ronpa?”

  “I am Lanchi,” I said, leaving off the honorific as I often did. I disliked claiming noble status simply because my family survived smallpox, even though it was my right. I was traveling at the time and never exposed. For all I knew, smallpox would kill me if I ever caught it. Even the great physician Ronpa himself had admitted that while Inti marked certain families with the sacred scars, he would still take their children as he pleased.

  The shorter man looked disdainfully at my dirty tunic and hands. I guessed he was subordinate, because he didn’t speak. The first man said, “I am Amaru Aroynapa, and this is my cousin Paucar Aroynapa. We come on behalf of the Sapa Inca himself, Coniraya the Condor, Emperor of the Four Quarters. A matter of great importance has arisen. You are summoned into his presence.”

  My knees trembled. The Aroynapa family? Not just any nobles, but cousins to the god-emperor himself! It was only three years ago that the former Sapa Inca joined the Court of the Dead. The ruler now called Coniraya was barely a man, yet had proved his godhood through skillful combat against his brother. And now the god’s mortal cousins summoned me into his presence?

  “What honor could the Sapa Inca possibly wish to grant me?” I asked, my mouth dry.

  “Your grandfather was British, was he not?”

  “Yes,” I said, “born Smith in the land of Britain, but he came here as a trader and learned our ways. He took the name–”

  “And do you speak English?”

  I hadn’t spoken it since I was ten. My grandfather had lived in isolation on our farm, and we had always feared an edict ordering his death. He had died of digestive ills twenty years ago. “I have spoken English,” I said cautiously, worried that I had forgotten it. “But the foreigners were expelled from our land forty years ago. What possible need has the Sapa Inca for that language?”

  “Things have changed,” said the shorter man abruptly. “Do not question the need.”

  “His question is intelligent, Paucar,” said Amaru gently. “He will want to understand why the Sapa Inca summons him.” He addressed me. “There are visitors from the northern lands. They bear a British flag, but call themselves Americans. They brought their own translator, a poor fisherman from a distant village with heritage like yours. But such a man cannot appear before a god.”

  I understood instantly. “And there are no true nobles who speak this language anymore.”

  “Exactly. There are several families with English heritage, particularly among the farmers and fishermen in the distant north. There are also several families elevated to nobility as the Ronpa, because one parent and two children proved resilient to smallpox. However, there is only one man in Cusco who has both qualities.”

  I put down my hoe as my palms sweated. I had never felt like I belonged in Cusco, despite my rank. It was only at manhood that my family earned a place in the capital–and that, only by chance, as smallpox swept our village. I was no more elegant than the fisherman I would replace. But I had learned some manners in the city, and of course the Sapa Inca would not speak with a fisherman. Perhaps if I went, I might spare this man the pressures I had felt since arriving–the burden I could only share with my wife, who understood my fears.

  I said calmly, “If the Sapa Inca calls, then I answer gladly.”

  Amaru nodded. “Prepare yourself and inform your wife. Come to the palace at nightfall, where we will begin your quarantine.”

  I paused, concerned for my coarse appearance. “I have an embroidered tunic, perhaps–”

  Paucar snorted, but Amaru gave a tiny smile. “Your clothes will be burned, Lanchi. You may as well wear what you have on now.”

  My face grew hot. “Of course.” The Sapa Inca would shower me with clothes and jewelry, as casually as a dog sheds its hair. And that was only the beginning. No matter what came of the meeting, my life would be different forever. No man could meet a god and remain unchanged.

  I shouldered my musket and water jug and headed home. I had a long walk. There were few fields near Cusco itself, since few commoners lived in the capital. In those days it was quite strange to be of Ronpa class; we existed in a world halfway between the established families and the workers. My home lay across the city. It would have been shorter to cut through, but I preferred the scenic route on the beautiful fitted stone roads, which had remained strong for four centuries. I’d heard that the roads in Europe were full of holes. It amazed me that the inventors of muskets could not build a road.

  As I neared home, I recognized the scent of llama stew, which my beloved Yma had promised me for supper. I hurried toward the familiar stone house, which still felt too lavish. We had a traditional blanket door rather than the newfangled European doors, because we preferred the fresh breeze.

  I pushed the blanket aside. “Yma, darling. I’m home early with news.”

  She looked up from her cookpot. My heart filled with contentment at the sight. My wife was as lovely as the day I gave her mother coca leaves; still sweetly shaped, like a goddess, with cornsilk hair falling to her hips. The pockmarks dotting her face proved her health and strength; no partial scarring to ruin her symmetry! My Yma had survived the pox at fifteen, which made her a good mate for a Ronpa like myself. With Inti’s blessing, our children might escape death by pox.

  Yma smiled, but her expression faded. “You look troubled. Is the news bad?”

  “Not bad,” I told her, “but unexpected.”

  With a peal of laughter, my little Chaska raced through the doorway, covered in cornmeal. “Papa!” she cried, hugging and kissing my arm with flour-covered lips. The joy of my life! She would be nine at Midsummer. Bright stars, her nickname meant–or planets, as we now called them, after sharing knowledge with European astronomers in the past century.

  “Hello, sweet child,” I said affectionately, patting her head so as not to spoil her. I pushed her away and went to my son, who crawled in his baked-earth playpen. I picked him up and swung him around once before setting him down. My heart ached to give this boy his nickname, but I didn’t dare tempt the spirits to steal him. He must simply be “the baby” until his second birthday.

&
nbsp; My wife said, “Chaska, get back to grinding.” My daughter bounded out the door. Work seemed to brighten her spirits, which we thought was positive. We took great care with our daughter, as she was considered one of the prettiest girls in Cusco, and we hoped she might be chosen as a priestess someday.

  “What has happened?” asked Yma, setting down her spoon.

  When I told her, her eyes widened and her face grew pensive. Yma was a youngest daughter of the lower nobility, and she knew what an imperial summons meant. It could mean our family’s great fortune–or the execution of us all, should I displease our ruler.

  Finally she said only, “I must cut your bangs before you go. I don’t want locks of your hair in the palace’s power.”

  I nodded, even though she had cut my hair only last week. She called Chaska to stir the stew. Yma trimmed my hair neatly to eyebrow length in front and chin on the sides. She wielded the knife carefully, as if her haircut would protect me when she herself could not. Ah, my child–how I loved that woman, your honored grandmother! I miss her every day, now that she has gone to the Empire of the Sun. She was the moon to my sun, the silver to my gold–the lesser but equally important half of our pairing, as all things in this world are matched. Without her, I would have been nothing. Someday, my child, you will choose a woman yourself, and you will understand why family is the world’s true gold. The greatest joy imaginable is to love another person as I did my Yma.

  But that evening, I kissed my wife goodbye fearing that I might lose all happiness. I embraced both my children lovingly, regardless of what others might say about spoiling them.

  I saw my city with new eyes as I crossed it that evening. I admired the square at Huacaypata, where workers prepared the vast stone tables for the Midsummer feast. I watched the lesser nobles bustle through the streets on evening calls, clad in bright wool tunics and shining feathers from the Amazon. A few even wore hats, which the Europeans had popularized, though many Incas now scorned that tradition as foreign. Yet none could argue that bright-feathered hats were practical, and thus the custom persisted in noble circles.