Still the baby just burbled and nodded, watching Morgan with those enormous white eyes.
Morgan suddenly realized he hadn’t heard Alice’s pacing for some time. He looked down at the hydrocephalic, up at the tunnel ceiling, and started his run.
“Alice!” He pushed his way through the narrowed tunnel.
He was tripping over boxes now, spilling and tossing their contents through the darkness. Clothing fell into powder and greenish sludge, toys and bottles and rotting household goods scattered, insects moved into the dark corners out of his path.
Had it been here all this time?
Morgan reached the bottom of the staircase. “Alice!”
Had it followed him all these years?
He took the stairs two at a time, stumbling, clutching the creaking rail. Gunstock, beer bottles, cans, boots, tire, driftwood, decaying underwear came rushing out of the past, whirling around him.
He stumbled over each landing and leapt to the adjoining step.
“Alice!”
Alice would make him forget.
Morgan tore open the cellar door and stepped out into the living room. “Alice?”
All the lights in the house were on.
He walked quickly from room to room, but Alice wasn’t in any of them.
Returning to the living room he noticed that the front door had been left open. He walked out to the edge of the porch. Looking past the gray bulk of the barn he could see a few lights from the town in the valley below. He breathed deeply, feeling small and childlike. He could imagine what she might have said. Even trade: one fantasy for another.
He could feel the tiny knotted fists clutching his pants legs at the back of his knees.
He could feel something, not quite bone and not quite flesh, pressing into the backs of his thighs, then the small hands reaching around his knees for an embrace.
TAP DANCING, by John Gregory Betancourt
Martha Peckinpah sat alone in the back of the theater, watching a dress rehearsal for Stardust Whammy. Floodlights bathed the stage in silvers and blues, glittering on the sparkle-sewn tuxedos on both dancers. Computer-synthesized Brahms swelled to dizzying peaks as the men rat-tat-tatted to a stop.
Brilliant. That’s what the critics would say, Martha thought. Only she knew better. There hadn’t been anything new or fresh in the choreography, and the kid on the left had been a half-beat slow on at least a dozen of his repartées. But nobody else had noticed. Standards had fallen, and tap had died a lingering death. This revival was the best she’d seen in the last five years, though, and it might run all of a week before closing. She felt a hollowness inside as she thought of how television and movies and vapid theatrics like Cats had replaced dance and theater as the American performing arts.
But the house lights would be coming on in a minute and the dancers might see her. She had to hurry. If the manager caught her again—
It would be: Miss Peckinpah, you know you can’t come in here and bother people. You’ll make the dancers nervous. Or: Don’t you ever learn? If you don’t leave, I’ll have to call the police. Again. Or, if he was in a kind mood: Miss Peckinpah, sneaking in during rehearsals isn’t proper. I know you used to dance here—but that was forty years ago, for crying out loud. Things have changed. You’re no longer a star.
Pity. That was the worst. If it hadn’t been for the car crash—
Shuddering, she seized her silver-handled cane and levered herself from the seat, cursing under her breath. Her left knee buckled. The dress she wore, with its faded cherry-blossom print, tangled around her like some monstrous python.
She grabbed for the chair in front of her—and missed. Teetering, arms flailing, she fell. Sharp, fiery pain shot through her left leg. She pressed hands to mouth and managed to stifle her cry…thankfully, what noise trickled out sounded more like the whimper of some distant, wounded animal than the shriek of a woman in agony.
Carefully she eased up and forward. Grabbing her purse, she searched for her pain pills. She found the bottle and ripped off its cap, only to have her shaking hand scatter the contents across the floor. Pills tap-tap-tapped downhill toward the stage.
The lights began to brighten. Her leg throbbed. No time. Bending, she ducked down and prayed nobody would see her.
The dancers walked up the aisle, laughing and joking, the little steel taps on their shoes muffled by the worn red carpet. The manager and two stagehands followed, muttering gloomily about potential box office. She pressed her eyes shut and held her breath. At last the doors squeaked and she was alone.
Why me, oh God why me? It struck her how pathetic she must seem, a crazy old woman nobody remembered, sneaking into theaters just to criticize the young, just to say to herself, Oh, how much greater we were back then. Better she had never come back to this theater. Better she had died in that car crash forty years before.
Better she had never been born.
“Not so.” It was a soft voice, a man’s voice, and the words held a strange inflection—a trace of a southern accent, and something else, something more.
“Who said that?” she called.
“I did.”
She became aware of light—a soft blue-gray glow that seemed to surround her. A man dressed all in black leather sat beside her. He had shoulder-length brown hair and wore dark glasses, an old-fashioned pair with round lenses and wire rims. A silver cross dangled from his left ear. He smiled and there was an aliveness about him that surprised her.
“You’re not Mr. Lipshitz, the manager,” Martha said. “You can’t throw me out—”
“Did I say I wanted to?”
“No.” There was something naggingly familiar about him, she thought. She’d seen him before, somewhere. Perhaps on television?
“I’m just a visitor. If you need a name, Johnny will do.”
“Can you help me up?”
“If that’s what you want, yes.” He took her hand—his touch was cool, his grip strong—and he pulled her to her feet with little effort. The pain in Martha’s leg seemed gone. She stood with no trouble for the first time since her accident.
“Who—what?”
“Did you like their dance?” he asked softly.
“It could have been better.”
He shook his head slowly. “And what are you going to do to fix it?”
“Me?”
“Why not you?”
“Son, I’m old, and I’m sick, and I don’t have time for this nonsense. They don’t have the talent. They’re not as good as we were, that’s all there is to it.”
“You’re right, of course. A big star like you—I should just let you go on about your life. Whatever it is. Whatever it’s worth.”
Martha winced. “You’re cruel,” she whispered.
“I used to watch your movies,” he continued. “You and Fred, you were the best. It’s a shame to let all that go to waste. I know. It’s too late for me—I never shared my gifts, I hoarded them—and now I’ve got to work to make up for it. There’s a balance. You get some, you share some. Don’t hide it all away. There’s so much you know, so much you can still do—”
“Don’t lecture me!” she said. “I don’t need your pity!” She couldn’t make herself look at him. Guilt? Did she feel…guilt? “That was such a long time ago.”
“Have you forgotten?”
Had she forgotten? She could have laughed. Had she forgotten? Of course not. She couldn’t forget, not ever. Tap had been her whole life. Nothing else had mattered. Until those screaming brakes, that tree rushing at her—
“Please,” he said, taking her hand, squeezing it gently and reassuringly. “Dance with me?”
“What do you mean?” She finally met his gaze. There was hope there, and faith. He knew she could dance—he remembered!
“Come,” he said. He took her elbow gently and led her down to the stage. She was halfway there before she noticed she wasn’t using her cane.
“I left my—” she began.
“Do you need it?�
�� he asked.
“No. No!” She said it with conviction, then laughed. “No!” She stepped ahead of him, courage and confidence welling up inside her. Her stride was jaunty. The years seemed to be melting away. She could see the theater as it had once been: the red velvet seats, the plush carpeting, the crowds—
Then somehow she was on the stage. The footlights shone bright and hot, like always, like she’d never been away. She felt a heady rush of elation. Then she looked down and saw her scarred, treelike legs jutting out, those old woman’s legs with their sagging muscles—
“Oh no!” she cried.
“It doesn’t matter,” Johnny said.
And he was right, it didn’t. Martha took a deep breath. Suddenly she was no longer old Martha Peckinpah but Desirée Diamond again—star of stage and screen. She’d danced with the best of them, Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, Ray Bolger—
Tap-tap-tap. Rat-ta-ta-tap-ta-tap. Her feet moved on their own. They remembered. The opening number from Broadway Bound—
Johnny now wore a black tux with tails. He took her hand, spun her slowly, and they moved into all the old dances, up and across the stage, tapping away, faster and faster, around and around and around. Her red silk dress swirled. The tails of his tux whipped by. Martha was laughing and tears streamed down her face like they would never stop. Around and around and around they went, and the orchestra played as though their lives depended on it. Tap-a-tap-ratta-tap-tap!
Martha came to a stop, quivering. Her breath came in short gasps. She looked down. Her faded dress with its cherry-blossom print had returned. Johnny, smiling, gave her a little bow.
“You haven’t forgotten,” he said.
“No,” she agreed, “I haven’t.”
“Then I thank you,” he said, turning to go. “Thank you, and goodbye.”
“Wait!” Martha called. She took a step and the pain shot through her leg. She gasped, stumbled.
Johnny paused. “I’m sorry. I can’t stay any longer.”
“But why?” she cried.
“Purgatory isn’t a place, it’s a process. You have to work off your debt.” Then he turned and hopped down from the stage, melting off into the darkness. His voice seemed to carry back like an echo of an echo. “Remember…”
By the time Martha reached the aisle, the theater was deserted.
* * * *
She limped back to her apartment and collapsed in her overstuffed armchair, all her shattered dreams coming back to haunt her. Broadway Bound, closed in mid-run because of her accident. Her canceled contract with Sam Goldwyn. All her ruined plans.
A tear traced a path down the creases of her cheek. Angrily she brushed it away. I don’t owe them anything she thought. They never came to see me. They never wrote. They just swept me under the carpet and kept going with their lives like nothing had happened, nothing had changed.
She stabbed the remote control with one finger. The television flickered to life.
And she found herself looking at Johnny’s face.
“—dead tonight, Johnny Devlin, head singer of the heavy metal rock group, Cruel Blade. A drug overdose is suspected, and an autopsy has been ordered. Fans are already mourning Johnny’s loss. Cruel Blade’s first album, a groundbreaking mix of heavy metal, jazz, and reggae, is currently topping the charts in both the U.S. and England—”
Martha hurriedly flicked the television off. Johnny’s words came back to her, and she shuddered. That’s the way of things when you’re working off your debt.
Martha poured herself a brandy, downed it, had a second. Her hands were shaking again. You get some, you share some.
She spent a sleepless night wondering.
* * * *
The next morning, bright and early, she donned her good dress—the one she always wore to funerals—and had another drink. Then, spirit girded, she set off for the theater.
Rather than sliding her trusty old butter knife into the firedoor’s lock, lifting the latch, and sneaking in the way she usually did, she went straight to the stage entrance.
Adam Lipshitz, the manager, saw her coming and came out to meet her. “For the thousandth time, Miss Peckinpah,” he began, “I don’t want you coming here and—”
Martha cut him off with a curt gesture. “I watched the show last night. Your dancers are good this time, Lipshitz. Really good. But their routines stink.”
“I choreographed it myself!”
She snorted. “It shows! You need a professional. How long till opening? A week?”
He nodded.
“Then there’s still time…” She smiled and focused on him once more. “I want to help you,” she said kindly, in her best grandmotherly voice. “I think this time you could really have something here, something important, something great instead of merely adequate. Will you let me restage the routines for you?”
“Why should I listen to you?”
“I’m the best.”
“You were the best.”
“I still am,” she said. “I still remember…”
“How much will it cost?” he asked, eyes narrowing.
“You really don’t understand, do you? I’m an old woman. I don’t need more than I already have. This isn’t for money, Lipshitz, it’s for art. For tap. That’s why you couldn’t get it right.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, already! It doesn’t hurt to look. Come in, I’ll get the dancers. Then we’ll see what you suggest.”
Martha followed him, cane tap-tap-tapping the way to the stage. She began to smile. Backstage, with the smell of makeup, with the tiny dressing rooms and the clutter of props—it felt like coming home. How long had it been? Too long.
And when Lipshitz opened the curtain onto the side of the stage, when she saw the dancers fumbling their way through routines that should have come like water flowing down a river, she finally knew that this was good, this was right. Perhaps she’d been meant for this in the cosmic order of things. Perhaps her accident had happened merely to guide her here, to this particular moment, to make her a director instead of a star.
When Stardust Whammy opened, it would be magic, it would be art, and it would be beauty.
And she knew she’d be happy for the first time in forty years.
“This is for you, Johnny,” she whispered. “Thank you…I do remember.”
TO BECOME A SORCERER, by Darrell Schweitzer
Surely Surat-Kemad is the greatest of the gods, for he is lord of both the living and the dead. The Great River flows from his mouth; the River is the voice and word of Surat-Kemad, and all life arises from the River.
The dead return to Surat-Kemad, upon the waters or beneath them, borne by some secret current, back into the belly of the god.
We are reminded of Surat-Kemad daily, for he made the crocodile in his own image.
I, Sekenre, son of Vashtem the sorcerer, tell you this because it is true.
I
That my father was a magician I knew from earliest childhood. Did he not speak to the winds and the waters? I heard him do so many times, late at night. Could he not make fire leap out of his hands, merely by folding and unfolding them? Yes, and he never burned himself, for the fire was cold, like river water in the winter.
Once he opened his hands to reveal a brilliant, scarlet butterfly, made of paper and wire but alive. It flew around the house for a month. No one could catch it. I cried when it died and the light went out of its wings, leaving it no more than a trace of ash.
He made a different kind of magic with his stories. There was one in particular that went on and on, about a young heron who was cast out of his nest by the other birds because he had short legs, and no beak or feathers. He could pass for human, for all that he wasn’t. So he wandered in a lonely exile and had many adventures, in far lands, among the gods, among the ghosts in the land of the dead. Every evening for almost a year, Father whispered more of the story to me as if it were a special secret between the two of us. I never told it to anyone else.
; Mother made things too, but not fire out of her hands, nor anything that truly lived. She built hevats, those assemblages of wood and wire and paper for which the City of the Reeds is famous, sometimes little figures that dangled from sticks and seemed to come alive when the wind struck them, sometimes great tangles of ships and cities and stars and mountains which hung from the ceiling and turned slowly in a vastly intricate, endless dance.
Then a fever came over her one summer and she spent weeks working on a single, articulated image. No one could stop her. Father would put her to bed but she would get up again in her sleep and work on the thing some more, until a vast snaky creature of painted wooden scales writhed throughout every room of the house, suspended on strings just below the ceiling. At last she put a face on it—half a man, half a crocodile—and even I, six years old at the time, knew it to be an image of Surat-Kemad, the God Who Devours.
When the wind blew, the image writhed and spoke. Mother screamed and fell to the floor. Later, the thing was merely gone. No one would tell me what had become of it. When Mother recovered she could not recall anything that had happened to her.
One evening by a late fire, she explained that it had been a kind of prophecy, and when the spirit has departed, the seer is no more than an empty glove cast aside by some god. She had no idea what it meant, merely that a god had spoken through her.
I think even Father was frightened when she said that.
He told me one more installment of the story of the heron boy the same night. Then the spirit of that, too, left him.
* * * *
Father must have been the greatest magician in all Reedland, for our house was never empty in the early days. People came from all over the city, and from the marshlands; some journeyed for days on the Great River to buy potions and philtres or have their fortunes told. Mother sometimes sold them hevats, sacred ones for devotions, or memorials for the dead, or just toys.
I didn’t think of myself as any different from other boys. One of my friends was the son of a fisherman, another of a paper-maker. I was the son of a magician, just another child.
The Weird Fiction Megapack Page 3