Genius Loci

by Edited by Jaym Gates

  He doesn’t want to be inside the building while Orla does what she has to do, but he can’t make himself walk back to the train station, either. Nearby, a cluster of Americans consults a map of the Old City, marveling that the sea-castle which was only a weathered ruin before the Collision opened can now be seen swarming with Crusader knights or being built, block by block, by the bare hands of brown slaves.

  Sometimes the castle stands in a future where it floats on a cloud. Sometimes it is blown apart by cannon fire before it is even finished being built, in a world where science comes to the margins before it reaches this, the center. In the three-second dark, the island is a refuge for sea-turtles laying eggs. In the three-second day, it is a nuclear test site.

  Then it all goes grey.

  Uthman blinks.

  He rubs his eyes to make the green and purple shapes, like battlements, go away. Then he walks forward. The woman with the long, black coat and coiled braid waits to meet him by the parked personal hovercraft. He’s selling it to her. The Grudge, which he built to get revenge on his brother, Abd-el-Mutif, is too narrow to fit a private vehicle. This woman, an art gallery curator, has brought the contract of sale.

  “It passed the performance tests?” he asks, taking the screen from her hand and flicking through the pages.

  “Like it was brand new,” she answers, smiling.

  Uthman puts his palm to the screen. The hovercraft is hers, now. The money is transferred quietly to his account. He’ll need it, because he is moving to the top floor of the wedge-shaped building, displacing one of his best customers, but he’s had enough of living away from the sea. Some of his best memories are of growing up by the beach.

  He looks up, across the four lane highway and out over the water, at the castle on the island surrounded by the cranes and loaders of the working port. For a moment, it seems like the alternating-block silhouette of the battlements is being made whole, zipping together with another, identical, upside-down castle.

  Laughing, he turns to see his sister, Rima, crossing the street with her two big-eyed, waif-like children.

  “So,” she says, not meeting his eyes. “We’re going to be neighbors.”

  The woman with the coat gets into the hovercraft and drives away, waving absently as she enters the heavy traffic on the noisy major road.

  “Looks like it,” Uthman answers, fishing in his pockets for chiclets and handing them out to the kids without asking.

  “Mutt still hates you,” she says.

  “But not you?”

  “Well, it’s true I don’t get to see the water from my window. But the traffic is pretty noisy and your building reflects and blocks a lot of it. My kids can get a peaceful night’s sleep.”

  “Well. That’s good.”

  Rima suddenly seizes the leather of his sleeve.

  “Uthman, I’m so sorry. Yes, I sort of knew the highway was going to take away most of your land, but I wasn’t paying attention, really. You know I had other problems to deal with at the time.”

  Uthman sighs.

  “Sure. I know.”

  “So.” At last, she lifts her gaze to his. “Maybe we could go for a walk along the beach. The café has good knefeh.”

  #

  Uthman dreams of a confusing movie he’s never seen.

  The editing is terrible. It changes every three seconds or so. Sometimes it’s night and sometimes it’s day, but the same thing always seems to happen: A man in jeans and a leather jacket gets hit and killed by a red hovercraft.

  Sometimes a woman with a braid wrapped around her head gets out and tries to help him but the man dies anyway. Mostly they’re on land, on a street or the narrow sandy swathe of the beach. Sometimes they’re on an island and occasionally there’s no island at all, only the sea, and the man is swimming and the driver of the hovercraft just doesn’t see him.

  When she does see him, she swerves away, only for the swell or a bystander or an earthquake to drag him into her path.

  But these are stitched up memories, mere elaborations of a mind finally at rest, and Uthman only half-remembers them when he wakes.

  COALTOWN

  Heather Clitheroe

  In North America, our lives are inextricably entwined with the coal and oil industries. While many people make an effort to use solar or other alternative energies and otherwise conserve energy, the reality is that most of us rely in large part on oil and coal to keep our lights on, heat our homes, and fuel our cars.

  A coal mine is a strange place. In these tiny, poorly lit, dusty and dirty spaces, it's impossible not to be aware that you are underground and you may not live to see the surface. Miners around the world tell stories about spirits who live in the mines. Miners from the United States tell of Tommyknockers, who steal tools and food, and who knock on the walls of a mine right before a cave-in. The stories of the knockers were brought to the USA by Welsh and Cornish miners. Some miners see them as evil spirits, who knock on the walls to weaken them and cause disaster. Other see the knocking as a warning, and leave small bits of food as a thank you to the spirits.

  According to Bureau of Labor Statistics, mining is the second most dangerous occupation in the United States (as of 2006). Miners face risks of injury and black lung disease, and they work long, physically and emotionally taxing hours. When we talk about the hidden costs of our energy sources, we tend to speak of them in environmental terms. But there are other costs to consider.

  In Clitheroe's story, "Coaltown", a town relies on the local mine for their economy. All the families in the town are dependent on the success of the mine, but its success comes with a cost. In the story, Clitheroe uses fantasy to challenge us to consider the real costs of the resources we rely on.

  ***

  The new year was not even a full day old when the women of Coaltown came together in the community hall to hold their draw. They arrived tired-faced, with dark circles under their eyes from the party the night before. The mine was quiet. Their husbands and sons were home to drink and make merry for two days. It was the women who always seemed to suffer. The meals had to be got and the children looked after no matter how much their heads might ache. And if some of the women had drunk as much and made as merry as the men, it was only because they had tried very hard not to think about the draw to be made the next morning.

  The wind was cold. New snow had fallen in the night, and it covered the hills and rimmed the naked trees. The sky was sullen and heavy with cloud as the women walked silently through the slush. They crowded into the hall, stamping their boots clean as they came inside. Every one of them with something precious to lose, something to fear.

  This year, one hundred and ninety-seven women would put their name into the draw. They knew who they were. They didn't need reminding that they were to stop at the table at the entrance to carefully print their names on slips of paper. Several old women sat and took the slips gravely, placing them into an old, battered box with a slot on the top and a lock across its side.

  Edda Helms walked in behind her mother-in-law. Heavily pregnant, she bent awkwardly to write her name, then gave the slip of paper to her aunt.

  "How are you, dear?"

  "Oh, can't complain," Edda said. She would have liked to. She'd been up all night. First with heartburn, then a leg cramp, then the snores of her husband after he'd finally come to bed, stinking of sour whiskey and running urgent hands over her body. Her back ached and she had a headache, and there was still the laundry to do. Piter worked the second shift at the mine. He left early in the morning, before the sun was up, but at least he was home every night in time for dinner.

  "Come over after the draw," her aunt said. "Come have a cuppa tea with me. I haven't seen you all week long."

  "Maybe tomorrow?"

  "You look tired." The older woman cast an appraising eye at Edda's stomach. "The baby dropped. Not long now, eh?"

  "No," Edda said. "That's what everybody says." It felt like the baby
was almost between her legs these days. She only had two weeks to go. Maybe three. She ought to have kept better count…well, there was nothing for it. The baby would come when it was ready.

  She'd never thought she'd marry a miner. There had been talk of sending her away the city, to learn to be a teacher. She could come back and teach the little ones while their fathers were underground and their mothers were hard at work at home, trying to wash the coal dust off the furniture. She was supposed to have a better life.

  But then she'd gone and fallen in love with Piter. A miner, just like his da. He could barely read. Could sign his name but not much else. He left school early to go and work in the breakers, picking through slate and slag as lumps of coal rolled on by on the belt. Then he'd been put on as a door boy, opening up for the carts and the men. And after that, mule boy, driving the tired old beasts down into the mine. By the time he was thirteen, he was 'prenticed to his uncle, learning how to swing his pick and set a charge just so, bringing the coal down but not the roof. His skin was pitted with black dust, pale from so much time spent in the down under. He'd come to court her with his skin raw from washing, scrubbed so hard it was pink when he'd come to stand at the bottom of the porch step to ask her aunt if he might take her to the hall for a dance.

  It touched her. It touched her powerfully.

  One thing led to another. She found she was late. There had been a wedding. As was so often the case in Coaltown, the wedding dress passed down to her had an extra panel sewn in around the belly, with clever darts and lace work that hid her thickening waist. Her aunt only said that she hoped Edda would be as happy as she had been, that she wanted her to have a good life. There was no more talk of going away to be a teacher.

  Piter bought up a house—the papers on it were owned by the company. But it was theirs, with a small front room that he filled with furniture bought on credit, and he carried her over the threshold as she laughed. They made love in their new bed, ate the dinners she cooked. She scrubbed at the floor and the bed linens to get the coal dust out, just like Piter's mother did for his da. Just like her mother must have done. A married woman now, Edda was putting her name in the draw for the first time.

  Her aunt took the slip of paper and pushed it through the slot and into the box. For a wordless moment, the sour sick came up the back of her throat, her heart pounding. "Come and see me tomorrow, love,” her aunt said. “I'll fix you up a nice lunch when Piter's gone down."

  “I…” What to say? The sweat prickled down the small of her back, the fear hissing in her ears as she struggled to compose herself. She blinked hard, tried to take a slow breath and choked.

  Her aunt's callused hand closed over hers. "No worries, my girl," she whispered. "Don't count your sorrows until they're drawn."

  Edda walked into the hall, trying to smile at the women she knew. Some of them patted her shoulder or looked on with sympathy. The others just smiled vaguely back at her, lost in their own worries.

  There were no chairs set up. No need. There'd be no lingering, after. When they were all there, the boxes were carried up to the front, and she held her breath with one hundred and ninety-six others. Nobody was missing. Only Tessa Adams was at home, nursing her da after his stroke, but Tessa's oldest daughter stood as proxy, put her name in for her. Edda leaned against the wall to try to rest her back and waited for the draw to begin, one hand on her stomach while the baby rolled and stretched.

  #

  She went home in a daze, her mother-in-law and her aunt walking alongside her. Five names drawn, and one of them her own. Of the five, she was the only one roundly pregnant. In her pocket was the first envelope of money they'd given her. "To help with the baby," they'd said. "To thank you for your service." The other women had the same envelopes, but they weren't afraid. One look at Edda and they were reassured; she'd have the baby before they were even puking up in the morning. She'd be the one to carry it down to the mines before she could even cross her legs comfortably. The mine only needed one.

  A good omen, to have a baby to take down so soon. That was what people were saying.

  By the time Edda was home, there was a covered basket waiting for her. Her aunt picked it up as Edda opened the door. "Somebody's brought you dinner," she said, lifting the cloth to look inside. "Stew."

  "Fine," said Edda, tonelessly.

  "Why don't I make you some tea?" Her mother-in-law was already into the kitchen, reaching for the kettle.

  "No," said Edda. "I have to start the wash."

  "Just a cup," said her mother-in-law. "Sit down."

  Her aunt helped her to a chair, then sighed. "Don't cry," she said. "There will be other children, pet. There will be. But I wish it weren't you."

  Her mother-in-law glared at her aunt. "Don't say that," she said. "It's an honor, that's what it is. She should be proud."

  "To give up her first to be a canary?" her aunt snapped.

  "Don't use that word," her mother-in-law said. "It's vulgar. Her husband is a miner. She knows what it means to be drawn. She should be glad."

  "Glad," Edda's aunt muttered. "It's barbaric."

  Edda let them bicker. She sat, with her hands resting on her belly. Breathing in and out slowly, waiting to feel the baby move. There. A fluttering kick. Another. I'm so sorry, she thought. Oh, god, I'm so sorry.

  #

  When the labour pains were close together, she sent Piter to get the midwife. The roof creaked as the wind blew. It was snowing again. Edda waited in her bed, her hands twisting the sheets into lumps. She tried not to groan from the pain, to stay calm. She could imagine curtains stirring as women went to their windows to watch Piter dashing through the snow.

  Everybody was waiting on Edda. There'd be no long months of hoping for one of the five to get pregnant. She came with a baby ready-made, and all she had to do now was to push it out. The front door rattled and she raised herself up to her elbows. Was that Piter? Was he back already?

  No. Just the wind. She let herself back down, groaning as another contraction seized her.

  Coaltown produced the very best. It came from deep inside the hills, way down far. Their coal burned hot and bright. A good, smokeless blue flame that gave the best heat. There was always steady work here. You could work for the mine or you could do something to help the mine stay running. Nobody went hungry in Coaltown. It was a poor life, always in debt to the company store, but at least you could feed yourself and your own and have a little left over to save for another day.

  And other mines didn't have canaries. They were dangerous. Nobody sang to the things that came up from the down below to keep them from attacking the men. Heard but not seen, the canaries held off the firedamp that could tear the men apart, too. They sang to keep the rocks from falling on them. They saved the men from the afterdamp that would smother them. Coaltown's men made coal, and its women made canaries and the next generation of miners.

  The house shook with a savage gust of wind, and she started to cry with fright and dread.

  The hours were lost to her. The world contracted into a ball of pain, wracked her until she was shivering and sweating at the same time. The midwife spoke soothingly to her at first. Then sternly. Then sharply to Piter. "Get my bag." Edda was dazed, lying limp in the new bed that she and Piter shared. Spent. But still the pains came. She didn't want to push. But her body had its own reason and logic that she did not, could not resist.

  The clanking of metal stirred her from her misery, and she spoke. Her voice was raw. "W-what's that?"

  "To help the baby," the midwife said. "Lie back."

  The wind roared loud around the house as she heaved and pushed and sobbed. The ground trembled in time with her contractions. The hills waited with the women of Coaltown, who, at home in their beds, thought sorrowfully of Edda Helms and what she was going to have to do.

  #

  She was weak and pale from the blood she'd lost, but she'd memorized every line of his face, every wrinkle, the soft
folds on the back of his neck. They let her have that. Then her aunt and her mother-in-law got her up from bed and helped her dress and wash, braiding her hair. They told her it was time.

  Piter sat in the rocking chair in the kitchen, holding his son. The baby was swaddled in flannel. The coal fire was lit; the room was warm. Piter's eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, but he gave the baby to his mother. Edda put on her coat and slowly wound a scarf around her neck. She leaned on her aunt, and together they slowly walked out the door. "Be strong, my girl," her aunt said softly. Piter choked back a sob.

  The sun was just rising, a splash of feeble light edging over the hills. Her breath came in a ghosting cloud. It had grown cold, and the slushy snow had frozen into hard ruts along the road. Women were waiting for them. They came hurrying out of their front doors, some standing on their porches or in their front yards, expectant and hushed. They began to fall in step behind Edda as she walked past, keeping a respectful distance behind her. Edda could feel them watching, their gaze a pressure that settled between her shoulders. She walked up from the rows of houses into the winding, tree lined road that led to the mines, followed by the mass of women.

  Here the trees were thick, clustered close together so that the branches formed a tight woven canopy. In the early spring, when the leaves first came out, the bowered path was pretty. "Just how like looking through water," Piter said one night, in the dark, while they lay in bed together waiting to fall asleep. "It's the prettiest thing I ever seen," he said. And then he corrected himself. "Except you." She'd laughed, her head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

  It did not look friendly now, or pretty. The branches twisted together, gnarled limbs making fists that clenched. A gust of wind rushed suddenly down the hills, and they shook. Edda heard somebody coughing wetly behind her, wondered who it was that had come out to risk pneumonia for her. Her aunt took her arm as they began to climb, breathing more heavily, and Edda put a hand on hers. "If it's too much…"