Fiction River: Fantasy Adrift

by Fiction River

  Fiction River: Fantasy Adrift

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith

  Series Editors

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Editor

  Copyright Information

  Fiction River: Fantasy Adrift

  Copyright © 2014 by WMG Publishing

  Published by WMG Publishing

  Cover and Layout copyright © 2014 by WMG Publishing

  Editing and other written material copyright © 2014 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Cover art copyright © Rolffimages/Dreamstime

  Cover design by Allyson Longueira/WMG Publishing

  “Foreword: Sailing Forward” copyright © 2014 by Dean Wesley Smith

  “Introduction: Stories on Demand” copyright © 2014 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “Legacy” copyright © 2014 by Irette Y. Patterson

  “Shaman” copyright © 2014 by Leslie Claire Walker

  “The Red-Stained Wishing Tree” copyright © 2014 by Eric Stocklassa

  “Shifting Jinn” copyright © 2014 by Rebecca S.W. Bates

  “Still Red” copyright © 2014 by Kara Legend

  “Generations” copyright © 2014 by Steve Perry

  “In the Play of Frigid Women” copyright © 2014 by Dean Wesley Smith

  “Old Magics” copyright © 2014 by Steven Mohan, Jr.

  “My Real Cousin Ruby” copyright © 2014 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “Leave a Candle Burning” copyright © 2014 by Dayle A. Dermatis

  “The Magic Man” copyright © 2014 by JC Andrijeski

  Smashwords Edition

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Table of Contents

  Foreword: Sailing Forward

  Dean Wesley Smith

  Introduction: Stories on Demand

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Legacy

  Irette Y. Patterson

  Shaman

  Leslie Claire Walker

  The Red-Stained Wishing Tree

  Eric Stocklassa

  Shifting Jinn

  Rebecca S.W. Bates

  Still Red

  Kara Legend

  Generations

  Steve Perry

  In the Play of Frigid Women

  Dean Wesley Smith

  Old Magics

  Steven Mohan, Jr.

  My Real Cousin Ruby

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Leave a Candle Burning

  Dayle A. Dermatis

  The Magic Man

  JC Andrijeski

  About the Editor

  Copyright Information

  Foreword

  Sailing Forward

  Dean Wesley Smith

  Starting year two.

  Wow, that’s amazing. We’ve done six regular volumes of Fiction River and one special edition. And now, with Fiction River: Fantasy Adrift, we start into the second year.

  We had a very, very successful first year with Fiction River. So many publishers only manage one or two anthologies a year. WMG Publishing managed seven major anthologies in one year in this series, with varied lead editors for each one.

  Just managing to get that many volumes out is a complete success.

  But the first year also succeeded in other ways. The volumes pretty much paid their own way, and the readers and reviewers loved them. All seven volumes are still out there for sale. (So if you missed one or two volumes, you can still get them in paper or electronic or audio editions from your favorite booksellers.)

  Also, keep in mind that subscriptions for this coming year are available on FictionRiver.com so you don’t miss an upcoming volume.

  We even have the third year planned, but to be honest, that seems as far off right now as this volume did eighteen months ago when we started this idea with a successful Kickstarter project.

  Right now we’re focused on year two.

  Along the way a lot of people (and I do mean a lot of people) helped with the first year of volumes.

  Not only did we list all the supporters in each volume from the Kickstarter who helped us get started, but the crew at WMG Publishing were amazing and worked tirelessly to get the seven volumes out. I want to specially thank three of them as we start this second full year:

  Allyson Longueira, the publisher of WMG Publishing, who shepherded each project to completion and also did the fantastic covers and layout.

  Jerimy Colbert, who kept wrestling all the website and subscription problems to the ground, helping anyone who missed an issue get it.

  And Jane Kennedy, WMG Publishing’s audio director, who did a fantastic job recording each volume. Considering how diverse the stories were and how many recording artists she had to work with, that’s amazing.

  And mostly I want to thank you, the readers, who encouraged us to keep going by buying these volumes of original fiction. Thank you.

  So here we are with another volume of great stories for you to read.

  All of us associated with Fiction River are happy to welcome you to another year. We really can’t believe we got here, to be honest.

  So starting off this second year, Hugo and World Fantasy Award winning editor Kristine Kathryn Rusch pulls fantastic stories from a varied list of professional writers. Somehow, she found original stories that not only were on topic, but needed a good home.

  So in essence, these were fantasy stories adrift in more ways than one. She talks about that in her introduction.

  I am very pleased to do the forward to the first volume of the second year in Fiction River.

  Fiction River is a project of which we are very, very proud.

  And now the project continues into the future. Thanks for sticking with us.

  Fiction River flows into year two.

  Join us for the ride and the great fiction.

  —Dean Wesley Smith

  Lincoln City, Oregon

  November 30, 2013

  Introduction

  Stories on Demand

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  I’m editing this volume of Fiction River, Fantasy Adrift, because I fell in love. I read some stories at one of the workshops WMG Publishing puts on at the Oregon Coast every year, and I knew I had to have these stories. In fact, I knew I would fight to the death for them.

  I haven’t had that feeling since I edited The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction years ago. I would see stories at conventions or at workshops I was teaching, and I would demand that a writer send me that piece.

  I don’t usually demand. I try to be fair. It is the writer’s career, after all, and they can choose who to mail their stories to (or not to mail them at all). Sometimes I try to be altruistic and tell writers that they would be better served if they send their stories to another magazine with a long-term reputation.

  In the past year, I’ve recommended that writers from the workshops send stories to magazines as diverse as Asimov’s, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, The New Yorker, Esquire, McSweeney’s, and so many others. Sometimes those editors even agree with me and buy the stories that I think belong in their magazines. It does my heart proud, because those writers are getting huge exposure, lots of new readers, and a great deal of attention.

  When I edited F&SF, I knew I had one of those magazines. With a circulation in the tens of thousands, the magazine helped writers find a new audience. When we started Fiction River in 2013, we had our wonderful Kickstarter supporters (thank you!) and the hope of attracting lots of
new readers.

  As I write this, we’re getting a lot of new readers. At the moment, Fiction River doesn’t have the circulation that F&SF had when I was editing (not that F&SF these days has that circulation either), but we’re growing.

  Fantasy Adrift marks the beginning of our second year of publication. Even though we publish diverse stories from every genre we can think of, readers have turned into subscribers and are joining us on this journey in larger numbers than we expected to have by now.

  I can be a little less altruistic now. And I feel comfortable enough to demand a story. The writer still has to choose to let me have it for whatever Fiction River volume I’m editing.

  Fortunately for me, every author in this volume chose to have their stories here.

  Even though I decided almost a year ago to edit a completely fantasy volume, don’t expect a narrow focus here. I have no ability to focus narrowly on any genre.

  The stories in Fantasy Adrift run the gamut. We have two historical fantasies, a few urban fantasies, some riffs on legends and fairy tales, some writers who’ve developed their own mythology, and some stories that whisper fantasy rather than scream it. The tone of the volume goes from humor to horrific, from romantic to bleak.

  If you read the stories in order, I’ve eased you through the mood changes. If you read out of order, you’re on your own.

  What I can promise you is what we promise with every edition of Fiction River: Great stories, well told.

  I love the stories here. I hope you will as well.

  —Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Lincoln City, Oregon

  November 29, 2013

  Introduction to “Legacy”

  We start Fantasy Adrift with a historical fantasy. Set in Atlanta more than thirty years ago, “Legacy” captures the feeling of dread that suffused the city at that time. This story, delicate and powerful, is one of the most memorable pieces I read in the past year.

  “Legacy” also marks the return of Irette Y. Patterson to our pages. She appeared in the very first volume of Fiction River, Unnatural Worlds. She writes fantasy, science fiction, and romance. Since we publish all three here, we can only hope she’ll grace us with more of her wonderful fiction.

  Legacy

  Irette Y. Patterson

  It was the jangling of keys that clued me in that he was leaving. The television news was on and I was sitting in front of it, fibers from the shaggy orange rug against my thighs poking through my pajamas. I normally would not have been able to hear the keys over the droning of the news that had been my companion, but I could that day. I knew exactly when my dad had taken the keys off the rack and was planning on heading out without me.

  Man, back then, I swore he could protect me against anything. When you’re ten years old, your dad looks tall even if he is only really five-five. He was still in his work clothes that evening. They were leftovers from the last few years and like everything from the 70s, they were just a bit too much. In the case of the brown slacks and neutral button-down shirt, it was way too much polyester. His black hair was an afro, not the current style kept low and the moustache reached right below his lips like someone from a western.

  “I’m going out to grab a pizza for dinner. I’ll be right back,” he said.

  I unfolded myself from my place and headed to stand next to him at the door, reaching for my sneakers that Mom insisted we keep by the door so we didn’t track dirt inside.

  “Ready,” I said.

  “No, Mouse, uh, I mean Angie.” Waves of power shimmered from him like heat from asphalt in the hot Georgia sun. “You stay here with Mom and Gramma. You’ll be fine,” he said. “Gramma’s here.”

  I took a look at my grandmother on the black pleather sofa sitting just to the right of the tear where pale yellow stuffing peaked out. My dad had used some liquid leather thing he’d bought off a TV commercial to repair it. It didn’t work.

  Gramma reminded me of an oversized stuffed bear with her ankles so swollen they had to be wrapped. She was visiting us in Atlanta for some doctor appointments. Her hands gripped her dark wood cane and she smelled of Ben Gay and dimestore rose lotion. Even when we lived back in Green Path, South Carolina with the rest of the family, I’d avoided her. Besides, she wasn’t staying with us to visit. We were just a cheap place to stay for her doctor appointments.

  I shook my head, trying to clear the fuzziness as if the motion would clear away the magical influence my dad had rolled out toward me. Gramma could not protect me. And she wasn’t safe. Just like this house wasn’t safe.

  We’d moved here in the spring right after my tenth birthday party. At first, the family thought that I was just a late bloomer. At least that’s what my aunts and uncles told my parents while not quite meeting their eyes.

  The tenth birthday was the cutoff. No one had ever developed abilities after their tenth birthday. There were cases, though, where it came on the day of your birth. That’s why my party was held, not on a Friday afternoon or the weekend when it was convenient, but at 3:22 pm on a Wednesday on the exact date and as close to the exact time of my birth as was possible.

  I stood at the head of the battered oak table at Gramma’s house that we used for holiday meals. My parents stood on my right. The long oak table was filled with aunts, uncles and cousins seated along both sides and some stood spilling into the formal parlor off to the right. Gramma stood in the doorway of the kitchen on the far side of the table closest to the front door. The round cake frosted with buttercream and “Happy Birthday Angie” piped in yellow on the top sat before me. Ten lit candles sunk into the cake in a circle.

  I closed my eyes.

  Please let me be like everyone else. I don’t want to be Mouse. I don’t want to be Mouse.

  Then I opened my eyes and with one big breath they all went out—wisps of smoke from them. Pairs of dark brown eyes stared at me from along the length of the table, waiting for me to finish. Sounds of breathing peeking through the silence.

  I concentrated on the candles, seeing the flames flash back to life in my mind. My cousin Armanda who was a couple of years older than me and with a world of more experience had told me to just concentrate and the candles would light again. It had happened for her. It was going to happen for me. I decided I would open my eyes when I heard the pop of the lit candles and cheering.

  Except nothing happened in those few seconds.

  I concentrated harder, my head aching and flashes of light popped behind my eyes. A thread of rose lotion laced with Ben Gay made its way to my nose. It grew stronger with each dead stop of the cane against the hard wood floors. It stopped as pressure gripped my shoulder.

  “Mouse,” my grandmother had said. It was an announcement. No magical ability in me that anyone could tell.

  We were gone inside two months to Little Five Points, an Atlanta inner city neighborhood popular with the counterculture types meaning that bars sat a couple of streets over and the rent was cheap. Atlanta was the New South, Dad had said, with opportunities for Black people. It was a place where I’d be normal, where I would fit in. My parents had heard tell of the stories, of course, the two child murders from the last summer. That was last summer, though. Everything was supposed to be ok now.

  If my parents had asked me before we moved, I would have told them the haze still covered Atlanta, shading the dogwood trees and azaleas gray like God had forgotten to clean the windows of the city. The killer’s silence between the previous year and this one just meant that the murders had stopped for a bit, not forever.

  Outside, the thunderstorm picked up just like the weatherman warned. The pine trees thrashed in the wind swatting the house. Mom had had to delay the planting of the red rose plant she’d bought to place next to the garage because of how fast the storm blew in. That rose was the one plant she’d gotten permission to put in the ground. We’d always had red roses in the yard in South Carolina so that we could pick them fresh come Mother’s Day to wear on our dresses to church to signify that our mother
s were alive. An aunt or a cousin would come around to gather rose hips to make tea when someone got sick to their stomach.

  This place? Concrete and asphalt were dead. You couldn’t take energy from it. You couldn’t conjure healing from the red clay. I guess it didn’t matter because we didn’t do that kind of thing anymore.

  I knew one thing, though. I would not be left behind. “I’ll go with you.”

  Dad sighed and then sat on his haunches. The power waves coming from him now were thicker like the hair grease my mom used to plait my hair. “You can’t be like this,” he said. “You’ve got to be a big girl.”

  The television droned on and then I noticed Dad was watching the screen behind me. I turned to look at it. Individual rectangle pictures of black boys against neutral backgrounds filled the screen. They looked like they were taken at picture day at school. They were older than me, about Armanda’s age. According to the news lady with the clipped voice and a straight line instead of a smile, another body had been found. Like the others, there were no clues and no leads.

  Dad turned me around to look at him.

  “Listen,” he said, “you can’t be scared all the time. What do you do when you’re outside at recess in school?”

  That was simple. “Stick to the teacher.”

  He shook his head. “You can’t let those things scare you. You’re going to be fine right here in the house.”

  The house creaked. It was an old house with old house noises and issues.

  He stood up. I reached out and held the edge of his shirt sleeve.

  “Cleo,” he called out.

  “Yeah,” my mom answered from the kitchen.

  “Come on, we’ll go pick up the pizza together.”