Incarnations of Immortality

by Anthony, Piers

  I got into second-draft typing of Skein and hit a record rate for me—65,000 words in five days, despite a cold snap into the thirties that forced me to bundle up as if in the arctic, and a jamming tab on my manual typewriter. Seems there are only about two writers in the genre who still use a manual machine, and I'm one of them—I think Harlan Ellison is the other—but they don't make manual Olympias anymore, and this one is ten years and ten million words old, so I may yet have to vault to the computer word-processing age, getting custom equipment so I can retain my special keyboard. You know, word-processing is hailed as a great boon to writers, but I do more actual writing in pencil and on the manual typewriter than anyone I know who is in word-processing; technology does not substitute for imagination and a Dvorak keyboard.

  Anyway, after those five days I had to take three days off to catch up on forty more letters. Happened again next month in the final five days typing of the submission draft; in one day forty-seven items of mail arrived, ranging from packages of books to fan letters, including one from a hopeful writer asking whether I would read his 800-page novel and give advice how to get it published, one from a publisher asking for a favorable comment on its enclosed advance proof of a novel, and one from another publisher who sent complimentary copies of a novel I read and blurbed in December. It's a funny thing, seeing my name printed on the cover of someone else's novel; too bad they didn't bother to make the corrections of errors I called out.

  I may have noted before the irony that when I had time to read everything in the genre, I lacked the money to buy the stuff; now that I can afford it, I lack the time even to keep up with what I am sent free. I suppose that's parallel to the cake problem I face as a diabetic. And a note from an eight-year-old girl: my youngest fan so far, the same age as Xanth. I answered that one immediately; after all, I was once that age myself. The other twenty-nine fan letters from that day I'll tackle right after I finish typing this Note and my summaries of the final two novels in this series.

  I pinched the nerve in my back three times in succession, trying too hard on my exercises, and had to call a ten-day halt while the sciatica abated; now I am easing up on those exercises, and that's a significant private turning point. Every year at my birthday I note the levels I do, and at my forty-ninth birthday I broke all my birthday records, but at my fiftieth I'll break none. I'm two-thirds of the way through my life, and the tide has turned during this novel.

  You know. Skein just might turn out to be my fiftieth book to see print. The writing of it was punctuated several times by calls from my agent, setting up the sale of eight of my back books in a package; those fans who bug me about where to find my out-of-print material may soon have an answer.

  During that sciatica—that's a shooting pain in the leg where there is no injury; the pinch is actually in the spine, but the body thinks it's in the leg—I glanced at the published comment I had made a year before on Gordon Dickson's Dorsai series (actually it's the Childe Cycle, but I don't know any better), and saw my reference to "Eileen?" therein. Suddenly I had a pain in my mind to match that in my leg, for several days. In Dickson's novel Soldier, Ask Not we see the death of an innocent young man, drafted to fight a war he does not understand on a far planet. He revives from his lethal injury long enough to speak the name of his wife, Eileen, as if trusting her to come and make the hurt go away. That tore me up; I have a deep feeling for those who are taken far from what they have known and loved, and who plaintively wish for return that is impossible.

  But on: we bought a videotape recorder, a great boon to my daughters, who have more time for TV than I do. Now they watch the weirdest stuff, some of it unsuitable for the fathers ofteenaged girls. Sigh. We also got a cordless remote phone extension, so that I no longer have to dash from the study to the house just in time to catch the dial tone after the last ring; that does simplify my life. My daughter Penny finally got her driver's license; whew! One down, one to go. My other daughter Cheryl took second place in a verbal presentation of her paper on the conservation of soil and water. That was a fitting topic, during this novel; I had taken time to help drill her on it, and suspect she really took first place but that the judges were closet sexists. Of course I may not be completely objective.

  I saw a bright triangle of stars in the morning sky, so I ferreted it out in the star books and discovered it was the constellation Libra—the scales. Yes, I was writing the coin-weighing scene along about then. Libra is Penny's sign, because she reads a lot—you know, the Library. I finally got a line on a mysterious, lovely melody I'd heard in fragments for years; I think it is titled Twin Sons of Different Mothers. Reminds me of this novel again, with virtually twin girls, daughters of different mothers. I quest for melodies as I do for story notions; I am haunted by those that flash a few tantalizing notes and disappear, leaving me longing.

  I also continued my quest for the Perfect Ping-Pong Paddle—and believe I have found it. It's made of graphite, very light and fast, and the backside has a "long pips" surface that sends the opponent's spin right back at him, messing him up instead of me. Lovely! I used it to defend the honor of Fantasy at my first SF convention, NECRON OMI-CON, in Tampa, in Oct-ogre 1983, the month that three of my novels were published. Of course I took my daughters with me; they loved it, and now they're con-crazy. One of my correspondents attended, and when she introduced herself I didn't make the connection. I wish I were better at spot memory of names!

  Phone call from Bowker, publisher of Fiction 18761983, in response to my curt note about the way they listed some of my novels under Anthony and some under Piers, omitted my first New York Times bestseller Ogre, Ogre, and listed my mundane name nine times in succession. I had suggested that they hire a proofreader, since this volume costs $100 and is supposed to be comprehensive. They were apologetic, but noncommittal about the proofreader. Call from a Colorado fan who wished to visit me; he would be traveling with a school group of about twenty people and needed advice where they could stay cheaply. My wife phoned about and finally arranged free camping for them at a local park, and we went out to talk to the park people and clarify that we had the camping permit for them... and then the group changed its mind and went elsewhere. But the fan did come to visit me, and I chatted with him for a couple of hours. He wrote later that it was the high point of his life. He was generous;

  I'm a pretty ordinary character in person, really not worth that sort of effort.

  My wife spied a sale on some nice enclosed bookshelves; now we are in the process of dismantling my rickety prior shelving and setting up the beautiful new ones. At last my file copies of my own books are getting proper treatment! I keep one file copy of every edition of every book I have published, hardcover, paperback, British, German, French, Japanese and so on; at present that makes about 150 volumes, and it's growing.

  In the spring came the mundane political primaries, and I had to watch the best man in the field, former Governor Reuben Askew of Florida, bite the dust in New Hampshire. Once again the political process wends its inevitable way to mediocrity. And I heard about a recent survey; 96 percent of Americans believe in God, 90 percent of those also believe in Heaven and Hell (it's hypocritical to believe in one without the other); only 4 percent expect to go to Hell. Oh, yeah? Well, I have news for someone....

  Thus my mundane life, proceeding in its petty pace from day to day. You can see that when the fantastic is removed from my life, not much of interest remains. If you fell asleep during the last paragraph, I understand. Now it is time to separate from this novel, too, and I do it with a certain muddled mixture of emotions. In one sense I am satisfied, for I believe Skein to be a decent novel. I feel nostalgia for the experience of it that is now passing behind me. I am concerned as I anticipate its coming course through the gauntlet of the publication process and the cynosure of the great readership beyond. I feel advance resentment for the scoffing some reviewers will do about its merits and demerits and the inevitable sneer at this Note. A recent survey shows that the mor
e ignorant a reviewer is, the more critical he is; any professional writer could have told you that twenty years ago. In fact Alexander Pope told us two and a half centuries ago:

  Tis hard to say if greater want of skill

  Appear in writing or in judging ill.

  But he had the answer:

  Let such teach others who themselves excel,

  And censure freely, who have written well.

  I am also apprehensive about the flood of mail this Note may generate when the novel sees paperback publication. Oh, yes, I get mail on my Notes; sometimes the reader doesn't bother with the novel at all, just the Note. I had one letter from a person who fished my novel out of a trashcan, read only the Note, wrote me a fan letter, and (I suspect) threw the book back in the can. But he really liked the Note. Well, I daresay he got his money's worth.

  I do try to keep up with my mail, but after doing 702 letters last year—yes, I remain a compulsive counter—I see the handwriting in the figurative bruises my head makes against the wall, and suspect that my performance in this respect will turn the tide and begin to ebb, as with my exercises. They aren't all simple notes, either; I have to try to make meaningful responses to those who wish to become instant successful writers—if I had known how to do that, I could have saved myself eight years!—or who ply me with complex lists of questions for their research papers, or try to convert me to Jesus (I came to know Jesus when I put him in Tarot as a character, but I don't think that's what they mean), or who are contemplating suicide. This is no joke; there are some very real problems out there, and I do not feel competent to address them—yet I have to try, because these folk really do want my input, such as it is. I remind myself that it is much better to be relating to my readers than to be emotionally alone.

  If Fate is the plot of life, then feeling must be its content. To be known, to be needed, to be loved—this may be the true problem of our society. We see people turning to alcohol, to mind- and mood-affecting drugs, to gambling, to casual sex both hetero and homo, to violence, to cults, to self-destructive behavior, when these may be but poor sublimations for the recognition, interaction, security and love they truly crave. Isn't it an awful irony that some of us must even turn to fantasy to glean some semblance of the companionship we are denied in mundane existence, and we cannot even cry "Eileen"! We suffer all manner of compulsive behavior, in futile reaction to fundamental inadequacies of emotion we do not comprehend.

  As I worked on Skein, a woman was gang-raped on a barroom pool table; when the rapists were tried and convicted, women of that community demonstrated in favor of the rapists. Loveless sex pervades the media. Preschool children are sexually molested by the staff of the nursery—and this is said to be only a hint of the abuse and incest that is not rare but is typical today. Satan's mischief, surely.

  Yet there is also joy in the world. Some find their solace in religion, in the belief that God loves them. Some find it in close family ties. I myself have gained some share of the Heaven of a close family life, after emerging from the Hell of the denial of it, but I remain scarred. I don't like to travel, for as a child I found that my travels had no returning. I don't like to leave my family, because I remember how fragile family existence can be. Some regard me as overprotective as a father, but I resolved at the outset that my children would never be exposed to what I was and, after losing three, I know that no life is guaranteed.

  I turn down most invitations to be Guest of Honor at conventions, not from any dislike of people or any fear of public appearances—stage fright, like writer's block, I conquered long ago, and I am quite at ease among fans— but simply because there is nowhere I'd rather be than home. I trust that after reading this Note, those who have been disappointed by my relative isolation from the public will understand that there is nothing frivolous in this. It is one of the ways I have come to terms with the problem of my own existence. I hope that what I write helps others come to terms with theirs.

  Copyright © 1985 by Piers Anthony Jacob

  ISBN: 0-345-31885-4

  War - Wielding a Red Sword (1986)

  1 - MIME

  It was a traveling show, the kind that drifted from village to village, performing for thrown rupees. There was a chained dragon who would snort smoke and sometimes fire when its keeper signaled, a harpy in a cage who flapped her wings and spat curses at the audience, and a mermaid in a tank who would, for a suitable fee, bring her head out of the water to kiss a spectator. Standard stuff, hardly impressive, but fun for the children. The dragon was old and flabby, the harpy was ugly, and the mermaid, though pretty enough, evidently spoke no local dialect. But at least this show was convenient and cheap, and the crowd was thick.

  The man who watched was undistinguished. He was slightly below average height, wore a faded gray shawl, and he kept his mouth shut. He had evidently suffered some abrasion of the face, for it was to an extent swathed in dirty bandages, so that only his eyes, nose, and mouth were exposed. He had the mark of the Sudra caste, though he could have been taken for an Aryan in race. Since none of the twice-born would mix voluntarily with the more lowly merchants and laborers of the once-born, his identity had to be taken at face value.

  Of course, caste had been legally abolished in most of the kingdoms of India. But what was legal did not necessarily align with what was actual. One had only to watch the reaction of anyone who inadvertently brushed by a Pariah to understand that!

  Now the main show developed. A stage magician performed sundry acts of illusion, causing the faces of demons to manifest in smoke and a flock of birds to startle out of his hat. One of the birds let a dropping fall on the head of a spectator, who complained loudly, whereupon the magician gestured and changed the bird into a shining gold coin, which tumbled to the ground and rolled. The spectator pounced on the coin-but it converted to a venomous snake that hissed and struck at him, while the other spectators laughed. Good magic!

  Then there was an exotic dancer, who undulated in the company of a giant python. Her performance was partly artistic and mostly erotic, and the percentage of men in the throng increased. Then the python opened its mouth and took in her left hand. The dance continued, and the reptile swallowed her arm and then her head, and finally the rest of her body. There was strong applause as her two kicking feet disappeared into the maw and the snake slithered heavily back into its curtained cage.

  Now a startlingly lovely young woman took her place on the small stage. Her skin was so pale as to be almost white, and her hair was the color of honey. She had a little harp and she set herself and began to play and sing. The song was in English, a language generally but not universally understood in this region. This was a novelty, and the audience was quiet.

  The song and music spread out to captivate the listeners. There was a special quality to it that caught them up, even those who could not follow the words. It was as if a mighty orchestra were playing and a chorus of deific beings singing-yet there was only the one woman and her instrument. This was a phenomenon beyond what had been presented before, and all stood entranced.

  When the song was done, there was a hush. Then the rupees began flying, landing at the woman's feet, fairly burying them in metallic brightness. All that the audience had came forth, begging for another song.

  The woman smiled and sang again, and it was as before: every person within range was transported. Even the old ones were rapt. Now those of the aishya caste, the husbandmen and merchants, entered the throng, heedless of propriety, listening. When the second song was done, the shower of money from these higher-class listeners overwhelmed the prior contributions. Applause enough!

  The Sudra man stood transfixed, even after the woman had taken up her harp and retired to her wagon and the next show had come on. Jostled by his neighbors, he recovered enough to walk away, his gaze almost vacant. He had evidently been smitten and hardly knew how to cope with it.

  He found his way to a wall that offered some slight seclusion and leaned against it. Then he reached into
an inner pocket and brought out a ring in the form of a coiled little snake. He set this ring on his smallest finger and brought it covertly to his bandaged face.

  "She?" he whispered in English.

  The snake-ring came alive and squeezed his finger once.

  The man removed the ring from his finger and returned it to his hidden pocket. He paused, considering. How was he to approach this lovely and talented woman, and how would she receive him? He could get more specific advice from the ring, but he preferred to work it out for himself, as his possession of the ring could identify his nature if it were seen by others.

  In the end, he waited till dusk, when the throng dissipated and the traveling show was closing up for the night. He approached the covered wagon he had seen the woman with the harp enter. He stood by it and clapped his hands, gently, so as to attract attention without generating too much of it.

  The woman appeared. "Yes?" she inquired. Now her lovely fair hair was bound in a heavy kerchief, and she wore a functional skirt and jacket, but her beauty overcame these restrictions.

  The man opened his mouth, but did not speak. He gestured helplessly.

  "I am sorry," the woman said. "I can see that you have been injured, but I do not speak the local dialect. Do you know English?"

  The man tried again. His mouth worked, and finally the sounds came out. "Ah-ah-ah-I do," he said.

  She glanced sharply at him, tilting her head. "You are shy?" she inquired. "There is no need to be. What is it that you wish?"