Gifts for the One Who Comes After
Page 29
I know he’s right. I know that bell isn’t enough, and if we wait, well, Jurie’s bones wouldn’t be the first to feed the darkness, his blood wouldn’t be the first dripping down into the great dark black. But, dammit, if there isn’t a worse thing I can imagine at that moment than climbing. But there is need, and I know it, and I know that if I do not climb then Jurie will be dead.
There are vertical ladders—five, six metres each—running up the side of the shaft, so before I think about it, before my brain slams on the brakes, there I am, twenty metres up, Jurie’s mine light winking away below me, him slumped over away from the broken guy wire. And then I am climbing. I am climbing and the shaft wall is wet with groundwater leakage, and it is running down the metalwork too, down those ladders I am clinging too. And my hands, my hands are wet with Jurie’s blood, but I pull myself up, I pull myself up until after a while I can hear Jurie singing, “go forward, go forward” in that crazy, pain-mad voice of his, or maybe I’m just dreaming it by then.
Because it is just like being underwater. It is just like that, the darkness close around me, and my muscles burning, burning. But I know that if I slack for a moment now, then I will plummet all that way and the dark will take me too.
So I start saying a word.
I started saying that word that Jurie taught me years before, and with every hoist upward I am saying that word now, I am breathing that word out and I am breathing that word in again and I am getting higher and higher and higher away from the blood and the cage and the pool of light beneath me.
And as I climb higher, it is like I am swimming up from deep water now, swimming from the ocean floor up and up and up to sunlight and the Sunday morning air.
But I know I will not make it. I know my strength is failing me.
I am a hundred metres up now. I am a hundred and twenty metres up. If I fall, I will die.
And there is something in the darkness with me.
Something in those dark waters of my mind, something that I sensed was always there with me, has always been with me since I was a child, since the day I was born. And she is sleek, gorgeous and deadly—this thing I know is my own death.
The killer. The man-eater. The slipway grey.
She is coming for me now, drifting along the currents, slick and terminal. Cold and quiet as the lights turning off one by one by one. Her mouth open and tasting. The wide, dark, liquid space of her eyes. The shadow of her, the shape of her. My death come for me at last.
I said, my bokkie, that I have never told this to another person, and that is true. But it was real. It was real to me. I swear it to you and I swore it to your Ouma and, for everything, I know she believed me.
I could feel my hands going slack on the ladder. My back humping out into the open shaft of the mine.
She was beautiful. I wanted her to come for me.
But then. But then, my bokkie, there was something else. Three boxes. I could see them as well as I can see you here, all dressed up fine for Sunday church and maybe a bit impatient—no?—with your Oupa’s stories. Three boxes.
So my hands are slipping and in my mind I am opening those three boxes. And do you know what I find? In the first is your Uncle Mika who had taken on the National Service for me. In the second is Jurie, lying in the darkness below me, singing that damn stupid song of his. And in the third is your Ouma who was everything to me. My piece of sunlight. My Sunday morning air. In those three boxes were all the things worth living for.
So I set myself to climbing again and oh, even though it hurt, even though it hurt more than anything, it was still easier than dying. So up I am coming, and I can see that shape of darkness near me. I could touch her. I can see those teeth of hers. But for the second time she passes me by. For the second time she lets me go, and up I come out of the mine. Up I come into the light, and there are the winding engine driver and all the others, waiting for me.
They got Jurie out, not fast, of course, not fast enough to save his thumb but fast enough that even though he was pale and shaking he was still alive. Still singing that damn song of his. “Go forward, go forward,” he was singing, “you are running away on those mountains, the train from Zimbabwe.”
Now, as I said to you, your Ouma and I, we could never much agree on what it all meant, what it was that I had seen there drifting in the darkness. But let me tell you this one thing, my bokkie, this one thing that I have not told another soul. At the end, after your Ouma and I had come to that decision together and I could see that the lights were going out, one by one, she drew me close to her. Her skin was as pale as old silk, and her touch was as light as a moth’s wing, but she pulled me close to her and she whispered into my ear, “I see it. Oh, love, I see it, and I am scared, and I see it, and she is come for me.”
Now I know you do not want to listen longer to an old man’s ramblings, but as I said, this is a true story. Not a fable. Not a fancy. And I swear to you that it has not grown in the telling. But even now. Even now as I am drawing in breath through these raggle-taggled lungs of mine, these lungs that the doctors tell me will not last much longer, these lungs that feel as if they are breathing in water instead of Sunday air. Even now I know she is coming for me. The grand dame of the river. The slipway grey.
There are three boxes.
Jurie has gone into one, your Ouma has gone into another, and I fear, my bokkie, the last box is mine. But this is how it should be. A man should not live forever.
Because that is what death is. That beast in the darkness where no beast should be. Death is the thing that hooks you and will not let you go. Death is the slow undoing of beautiful things. You should know this, my bokkie, while you are young. Your father will not teach you this.
But here is another secret. The slipway grey has her own kind of beauty, and when you meet her you will know that. There is more to her than the teeth. This is how it is, my bokkie. I want you to know that. When she comes for me the third time, I shall be ready for her. I shall welcome her as an old friend. And when she comes to you, and pray God let that be many years from now, I know that you will do the same.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Two years ago, I remember writing the Acknowledgements to my first collection Hair Side, Flesh Side in an unnamed sorority house in Seattle—taken over for the summer by the Clarion West Writing Workshop in 2012. If there is a starting place for this book it was in that house, the first room on the left at the top of the stairs: not the room I had been advised to take, the one with the window that opened up to a balcony with a magnificent view of Mount Rainier, but a good room nonetheless, not too hot, with enough room for me, a couple of books, a bottle of Glenmorangie, and a notepad.
On my final night of the workshop I slept in the common room. I had wanted—had demanded—that my fellow classmates stay up with me all night so we could have as much time together as possible before I took the redeye back to Toronto. And I tried, but, really, I am like a child and so by two in the morning, I was zonked. So I grabbed a pillow and a blanket and I curled up on the couch. I drifted off to sleep, listening to the voices of my very dear friends—people I hadn’t known six weeks before but even now I can’t imagine not having in my life. I was sad. The summer was ending. I knew that I would be returning to a breakneck research schedule to finish my PhD dissertation. But I was happy too. Because I was surrounded by friends, and when you are a writer—or an academic—there is a kind of loneliness that comes with the job. One thing you learn in life is that nights spent with friends are rarer than you want them to be.
But when I think about the process of writing this book I don’t think about the loneliness. I think about all the people who helped me. I think about people who gave me their time, their support, their love, their knowledge, their companionship. I feel that same sense of happiness. And so of course I want to begin by thanking the Clarion Class of 2012, its instructors and organizers as well, for teaching me so much about the craft of writing.
And for reading my stories. All of them.
I want to thank my sister Laura to whom this book is dedicated: you have been my closest confidante, my co-conspirator, and my best friend. You brought home many bottles of champagne so we could always drink to our successes and commiserate our losses. You dragged me through all the dark places on the road, kicking and screaming sometimes, but you did it anyway.
Thanks to my very dear friend Robert Shearman. So many of these stories began with our field trips to haunted pubs or strange museums, wandering around the South Bank and climbing to the top of the CN Tower, with the fateful line: “How about a story where . . . ?” When anyone else would roll their eyes, you always let me get to the end of that sentence. You continue to inspire me. You continue to help me become the very best writer I can be.
And thanks to Sandra Kasturi, Brett Savory and the whole crew of ChiZine Publications. It takes tremendous bravery to run a publishing company. Few see the blood, sweat and tears. I did. I still do. What you have done is nothing short of heroic.
Chris Roberts, thanks to you as well: you make these stories come alive on the page. Your work is gorgeous and subtle, and I’m damned proud to be able to work with you.
Thanks to my family, to Sally Harding and the Cooke Agency, and to all the people who have seen these stories in various drafts and who have kept me breathing during the process of writing them: Nicole Adar, Scott H. Andrews, Nancy Baker, Nathan Ballingrud, Beverly and James Bambury, Brenta Blevins, Peter Buchanan, Michael Callaghan, Bryan Camp, Mike and Linda Carey, Indrapramit Das, Ellen Datlow, David Day, Sarah Dodd, Ron Eckel, M. Huw Evans, Gemma Files, Amanda Foubister, Laura West Friis, Neil Gaiman, Alexandra Gillespie, Sèphera Girón, Neile Graham, Gavin Grant, Paula Guran, Vince Haig, Lisa Hannett, James G. Harper, Mike Harrison, Alyc Helms, James Herndon, Nik Houser, Les Howle, Matthew Johnson, Stephen Graham Jones, Steve Jones, Georgina Kamsika, Michael Kelly, Rachel Letofsky, Henry Lien, Kelly Link, Silvia Moreno-Garcia, George R. R. Martin, Michael Matheson, Sean Moreland, Kelsi Morris, Kim Neville, Kathleen Ogden, Jonathan Oliver, Chuck Palahniuk, Dominik Parisien, Ben Percy, Chris Pugh, Ranylt Richildis, Mary Rosenblum, Michael Rowe, Cory Skerry, Carlie St. George, Simon Strantzas, Ann VanderMeer, Halli Villegas, Kaaron Warren, Greg West, Blythe Woolston, Connie Willis.
And, finally, my deep thanks to the Ontario Arts Council for awarding me a Works-in-Progress Grant and several Writers’ Reserve Grants; to the Toronto Arts Council for awarding me a Level Two Writers Grant; and to the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada for awarding me a Postdoctoral Fellowship to study at the University of Oxford. Without the generous funding of these organizations, this book would likely not exist.
PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED
“Crossroads and Gateways” first appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, ed. Scott H. Andrew (July, 2014).
“Death and the Girl from Pi Delta Zeta” first appeared in the inaugural issue of Lackington’s Magazine, ed. Ranylt Richildis (February, 2014).
“The Hanging Game” first appeared on Tor.com (March, 2013).
“I’m the Lady of Good Times, She Said” first appeared in End of the Road, ed. Jonathan Oliver (Solaris Books, 2013).
“In the Time of Omens” first appeared in Fearful Symmetries, ed. Ellen Datlow (ChiZine Publications, 2014).
“Lessons in the Raising of Household Objects” first appeared in CVC Anthology Series, Book Three (Exile Press, 2013). It was shortlisted for the 2013 $15,000 Vanderbilt/Exile Short Fiction Competition.
“The Slipway Grey” first appeared in Chilling Tales: In Words, Alas, Drown I, ed. Michael Kelly (Edge Science Fiction & Fantasy Publishing, 2013). It was reprinted in The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror 5, ed. Paula Guran (Prime, 2014) and was listed on the preliminary ballot for the Bram Stoker Award.
“The Zhanell Adler Brass Spyglass” was a semifinalist for the 2013 Omnidawn Fabulist Fiction Chapbook Contest. It was shortlisted for the 2014 $15,000 Vanderbilt/Exile Short Fiction Competition.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Helen Marshall is an award-winning Canadian author, editor, and doctor of medieval studies. Her poetry and fiction have been published in The Chiaroscuro, Abyss & Apex, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Tor.com and have been reprinted in several “Year’s Best” anthologies. Her debut collection of short stories, Hair Side, Flesh Side (ChiZine Publications, 2012), was named one of the top ten books of 2012 by January Magazine. It won the 2013 British Fantasy Award for Best Newcomer and was shortlisted for a 2013 Aurora Award by the Canadian Society of Science Fiction and Fantasy. She lives in Oxford, England.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Chris Roberts is Dead Clown Art. He is a full-time freelance artist, using mixed media and found objects to create his visual nonsense. Chris has made art for Another Sky Press, Orange Alert Press, Dog Horn Publishing, Black Coffee Press, Kelp Queen Press, PS Publishing and ChiZine Publications; for authors Will Elliott, Andy Duncan, Tobias Seamon, Shimon Adaf, Seb Doubinsky, Ray Bradbury and the wildly talented Helen Marshall. He made the list of recommendations (“long list”) for the 2012 British Fantasy Awards, and was nominated for a 2013 World Fantasy Award in the Artist category.
Chris would like to thank Helen for trusting him once again with the oodles of inside artwork he made for the stunning collection you hold in your hands. He’s incredibly thrilled and lucky to be the art part of this marvellous pairing, and couldn’t dream of a better creative cohort!
Thanks also to his pretty and patient wife, Kelly, and their cute and clever daughter, Amelia; for putting up with his “tortured artist” highs and lows, and for giving him the time needed to make all the things that he makes that were most certainly not here before.
You can watch Chris misbehave at deadclownart.com, or on Twitter @deadclownart.
COPYRIGHT
Gifts for the One Who Comes After © 2014 by Helen Marshall
Cover artwork © 2014 by Erik Mohr
Illustrations © 2014 by Chris Roberts
Interior design © 2014 by Clare C. Marshall
All rights reserved.
Published by ChiZine Publications
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
EPub Edition AUGUST 2014 ISBN: 978-1-77148-303-2
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Edited and copyedited by Sandra Kasturi
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We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.
Published with the generous assistance of the Ontario Arts Council.
HAIR SIDE, FLESH SIDE
HELEN MARSHALL
Winner of the British Fantasy Award
A child receives the body of Saint Lucia of Syracuse for her seventh birthday. A rebelling angel rewrites the Book of Judgement to protect the woman he loves. A young woman discovers the lost m
anuscript of Jane Austen written on the inside of her skin. A 747 populated by a dying pantheon makes the extraordinary journey to the beginning of the universe.
Lyrical and tender, quirky and cutting, Helen Marshall’s exceptional debut collection weaves the fantastic and the horrific alongside the touchingly human in fifteen modern parables about history, memory, and the cost of creating art.
AVAILABLE NOW
978-1-92746-925-5
THEY DO THE SAME THINGS DIFFERENT THERE
ROBERT SHEARMAN
Robert Shearman visits worlds that are unsettling and strange. Sometimes they are just like ours—except landlocked countries may disappear overnight, marriages to camels are the norm, and the dead turn into musical instruments. Sometimes they are quite alien—where children carve their own tongues from trees, and magic shows are performed to amuse the troops in the war between demons and angels. There is horror, and dreams fulfilled and squandered, of true love. They do the same things different there.
Robert Shearman has written four previous collections of short stories, and they have collectively won the World Fantasy Award, the Shirley Jackson Award, and three British Fantasy Awards. He is probably best known as a writer on the BBC TV series Doctor Who, and his work on the show gave him a Hugo Award nomination.
AVAILABLE NOW
978-1-77148-301-8
WE WILL ALL GO DOWN TOGETHER
GEMMA FILES
EVERY FAMILY HAS ITS MONSTERS . . .