Fantasy & Science Fiction, Extended Edition

by Spilogale Inc.

  He thought that Rain Coming nodded slightly, but he might have been wrong. He asked, "Is she with your people?" When that did elicit a nod, Dr. Dapper chided the Abenaki mildly, saying, "You see, you had it backwards. She has come to you first, and I am only leaving now. It was you she went away with?"

  Rain Coming definitely nodded this time. Olfert Dapper asked, "Will she be well with you?"

  "Little time," Rain Coming responded. "Long time.…" He shrugged and shook his head slightly. He said, "Sometime. Somewhere." He made a gesture with both hands, as though he were pushing away the horizon.

  "You mean that she has long journeys yet ahead of her?" Rain Coming did not reply. Dr. Dapper said slowly, "I am sad for her. Tell her that I wish.…" But he had no idea what he would wish for Remorse Kirtley, and so he simply said, "Keep her safe while she is with you—and tell her that I will never forget her. Please tell her that."

  "For you," the Abenaki said. He reached into the deerskin pouch that hung ever at his waist and produced, crumpled and slightly frayed on one side, the small Dutch-style cap that Olfert Dapper had never seen Mistress Kirtley without, except on the one occasion. He accepted it hesitantly, his throat suddenly too dry to thank Rain Coming for bringing the gift. He could only manage to nod himself, bending his head over the cap for a brief moment. There was no smell of her. He had hoped there would be.

  Rain Coming had turned away before Dr. Dapper heard da Silva's wagon coming. He said, "The unicorn. I still do not know your word for it, but I know you have one." The Abenaki paused, but did not turn again. Dr. Dapper asked, "Did she…did you both ride it? I have imagined so."

  Rain Coming looked back at him then, but said nothing. The peddler's wagon sounded closer; he tried not to think about what the ungreased axles would sound like during the long ride ahead. Raising his voice, he said, "I saw it twice, and I had no right, I know that. I should never…did it…I mean, the creature—did it…do you think…?" But he did not know what he meant to ask about the unicorn, any more than he knew what he wanted Remorse Kirtley's life to be, and so he never finished the question.

  The night was dark yet, but a cock crowed sleepily in Schoolmaster Prouty's coop, and the bulk of Isaac da Silva's wagon was now visible as it neared Dr. Dapper's house. He rose to bring out his belongings; but realized as he did so that Rain Coming was still looking fully at him, and that the Abenaki's eyes had changed, becoming as they had been when they two had sight of the unicorn for the first time. Rain Coming's eyes were wide and young, brilliantly young as Dr. Dapper had never seen them, and so painfully clear that he could not look directly into them for long. Rain Coming said softly, "No more," and there was no sorrow or loss in his voice, but only an aching joy. "Never come back," he said again, almost singing it. "Never no more. Gone away."

  Then he was gone too, and Isaac da Silva was demanding that Dr. Dapper get himself and his scraps of rubbish into the wagon immediately, if he thought he was going to stand there and let his fine horse get chilled.

  Olfert Dapper rode all that first day facing backward, turning a woman's dowdy Dutch cap over and over between his hands. But the next morning he placed Mistress Remorse Kirtley's cap carefully into his pocket, and, sitting up beside the peddler, he set his face toward the sea.

  * * *

  Repairmen

  By Tim Sullivan | 3157 words

  A few years back, your editor received a letter from a disgruntled reader who complained that too many stories in F&SF featured writers as protagonists. "Don't you have stories about people who work real jobs?" he asked. Perhaps that reader will take interest in this story. Or perhaps not. But you, dear reader, may proceed to this story with the author's assurance that no working stiffs were harmed during the creation of this tale.

  LORNA MAILLET GOT HOME a little after dusk. She had just set her plastic grocery bags down to unlock the front door when she saw a tall man standing in the dark on her tiny porch.

  "I've got pepper spray."

  "You won't need it."

  She squinted at the sound of the familiar voice. "Edmond?"

  "Let me get those for you," he said as he stepped from the shadows and stooped to pick up the two bags.

  "Okay, thanks." Lorna opened the door. Her cat Boris passed their feet like a fleeting black shadow. She waved Edmond in after Boris and shut the door behind her.

  "What are you doing here, Edmond?"

  "I wanted to talk."

  "I haven't seen you since Victor's memorial service."

  "Yes, I know."

  "I tried to get in touch." She snapped on the light and set her purse down on the little table by the door. "I left messages."

  "It's good to see you, Lorna," Edmond said, the bags dangling from his fists. "How are you holding up?"

  She felt tears starting. "I guess I'm all right."

  "I know it's been hard."

  Lorna snatched a tissue from the box next to her purse and dabbed under her eyes. "Edmond, why did he do it?"

  "He wanted to go home."

  "That kind of talk doesn't mean anything to me."

  "But it's true."

  "Sorry, I'm not religious." She was sure Victor hadn't gone anywhere. He had shot himself only days after she broke it off with him. Her therapist had assured her that his suicide was neither her fault nor her responsibility, but she couldn't get over thinking that if she had just been patient a little longer, maybe.…

  Lorna blew her nose and led Edmond to the kitchen.

  "You can put those bags down here," Lorna said, pointing at the counter by the fridge. "And have a seat."

  She took out a bottle of cabernet and poured them each a glass, leaving the bottle on the table. After she shook some crunchy cat food into a bowl for the yowling Boris, she quickly put the groceries away and sat down facing Edmond. He wasn't as handsome as Victor, but there was something kind in his gray eyes that made her like him and trust him.

  "Here's to Victor," Lorna said and clinked her glass against Edmond's.

  They downed the wine.

  "You two used to practically finish each other's sentences," she said.

  "We had similar upbringings," Edmond replied in his peculiar accent.

  "You guys seemed pretty exotic."

  "Did we?"

  "You know you did," she said. "The first time I met Victor—what was it, three years ago?—I thought he was from South America," she said. "Then I found out he didn't speak Spanish, so I thought maybe Israel or Hungary. I couldn't place his accent at all. When I asked, he just smiled."

  Edmond didn't say anything.

  "You talk like him," Lorna said. "Did you come from a privileged background?"

  "Privileged?"

  "Yeah, you know," she said. "Were your parents rich?"

  "I didn't have parents."

  "Oh, Edmond, I'm sorry."

  Edmond nodded.

  "I always had a thing for guys who are different," Lorna said.

  He made no comment.

  "Why so close-mouthed?"

  "Close-mouthed?"

  "Yeah, you know…secretive."

  He shrugged.

  "Another glass?"

  "Thank you. That would be nice."

  "Aren't you afraid it will loosen your tongue?"

  "No, it might help."

  She poured more wine. "Where did you say you've been these past few weeks, Edmond?"

  "I didn't."

  "Have you been up-frame?"

  "What?"

  "You never heard that phrase before?"

  "I don't think so," Edmond said. "Where did you hear it?"

  "From Victor," she said. "I remembered it last night, while I was trying to get to sleep. Once I asked him how he got to know you, thinking that you grew up together, or maybe you'd been classmates."

  "What did Victor say?"

  "He said you didn't know each other up-frame," Lorna said. "At least that was what I thought he said. When I asked what he meant he claimed he'd said 'up-state,' and t
he subject was dropped."

  Edmond was thoughtful before asking: "Could he have said 'up-brane,' Lorna?"

  "Up…brain?"

  "Brane is short for membrane."

  "Oh, now everything's clear."

  "I know you're kidding, but I think that's probably what you heard."

  "If you say so," Lorna said. "Tell me something, will you?"

  "I'll try," Edmond said.

  "How did you end up living together in the same house?"

  "It was convenient."

  "Financially…or was it convenient in some other way?"

  "How much do you know about Victor and me, Lorna?"

  "You're not going to tell me Victor was gay, are you? I won't believe you, not after what I had with him."

  Edmond was silent.

  "It's none of my business," she said, embarrassed. "I guess he would have made a man happy, too."

  "That's unimportant."

  "I guess so," she said. "It's just that I like to think of him as being all mine."

  "He cares about you, too."

  "Aren't you forgetting something?"

  "What?"

  The tears were coming back. "You used the present tense."

  "It wasn't a mistake."

  "Are you making fun of me?"

  "No." Edmond's eyes were not mocking, not in the least. "I'm going to tell you the truth, Lorna."

  "What truth?" She sniffled and brought the damp, wadded tissue to her nose.

  "Victor is not dead."

  She threw down the tissue. "Edmond, how can you say something like that?"

  "I'm sorry, I don't—"

  "He put a gun barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger," she said, barely controlling the urge to scream. "He was cremated. His ashes are buried in an urn in my family plot at Hope Cemetery."

  "That was just a body."

  " His body," she said, not caring if she was shrill. "Are you telling me his soul is up in heaven with the angels?"

  "No, I'm telling you that he's alive."

  "This isn't funny."

  "I know it isn't."

  "I always thought you were a nice guy."

  "Think what you like about me, Lorna," Edmond said, "but Victor is not dead."

  "Where is he then?" she said in a contemptuous tone. "Up-brane?"

  "Yes."

  "This is too much. Finish that wine and get out."

  "Lorna, please listen to me."

  "I've heard all I care to." Anger billowed up from her guts, making her face hot. "Just go away."

  "I've done this badly." Edmond stood and looked down at her. "I'm sorry."

  "You should be, saying hurtful things like that."

  "Won't you hear me out?"

  She hesitated. If she never saw Edmond again, she would lose her last connection with Victor. No one had known him the way Edmond had, not even her. Besides, she liked Edmond too much not to give him a chance to make things right. "Okay, say what you came to say."

  "May I start by explaining what a brane is?"

  She sighed. "If you must."

  "It's a multidimensional configuration, a basic construct of nature."

  "What?"

  "We're on a brane right now."

  "We are?"

  "Everything is."

  "It's big, huh?"

  "Yes, very big," Edmond said. "Victor and I were trained to find pathways from one brane to another."

  "Oh, I see. You were pathfinders," she said, "and blood brothers, too?"

  "It's important that branes don't collide with each other."

  "Why?"

  "Such a collision causes a transformation of space, time, and energy."

  "What does that mean, Edmond, the end of the world?"

  "It means the end of a lot of worlds, an uncountable number."

  "Oh, the end of the universe as we know it," she said. "Is that all?"

  "No, not all," he said, looking straight into her eyes. "The universe—the multiverse—will still exist, but we won't."

  "Are you telling me you two are some kind of astronauts?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Then what are you?"

  "We're just repairmen."

  "Yeah, that's what Victor said whenever I asked him what he did, but he didn't have a truck or any tools, and his hands were never dirty. What do you repair?"

  "Breaks in the pathways."

  "Edmond, have you been taking drugs?"

  "No," he said, glancing at his wineglass, "but I have been drinking."

  Lorna didn't know what to say to that. She became aware of the hum of electric current, something she usually noticed only late at night when she was alone and unable to sleep.

  "Sit back down, please," she said after a moment. "I don't really want you to go."

  "You don't?"

  "No, I want you to help me finish off the wine."

  "Have you been drinking very much?"

  "More than I should," she admitted. "It's how we cope with tragedy down here on Earth."

  "I'm sorry that you're unhappy," Edmond said as he sat down again.

  "You've told me quite a story, Edmond. Now it's my turn to tell you one. Mine's about real life, not branes and breaks and dead people who aren't really dead."

  She poured more wine into their glasses. Edmond accepted his but didn't drink from it yet.

  "You know, I've lived in this little house all my life," she said. "I finished paying off my parents' mortgage just last year."

  "Do you regret not leaving?"

  "I did leave once, right after high school."

  He leaned forward, as if he didn't want to miss a single word. He was a good listener, and that made her want to talk despite the crazy things he'd been saying.

  "I was married when I was only eighteen, about twelve years ago," she said. "I got sick shortly after my husband Fred and I moved into an apartment. That's when I found out I would never have children, because I had endometriosis."

  "That must have been painful."

  "Yes, to say the least. Fred wanted out, so I had to come back here. I attended community college, worked some jobs I hated, watched my parents age. They weren't young when I was born. I partially supported them after I got a position with the County Parks Department. My father died of a stroke seven years ago. He was an alcoholic. I don't miss him. Mom passed a few months before I met Victor. I do miss her sometimes.

  "When Victor came along it was like starting life all over again. I thought we could make it work."

  "What changed your mind?"

  "I was willing to give up everything for him. Support him or sell the house and move away, go anywhere, do anything he chose," she said, "but he wouldn't make a commitment."

  "That was because he couldn't."

  "Tell me why."

  "Because he had to go back."

  "Go back where?"

  "Home."

  She slammed the base of her glass down so hard that she thought it would shatter. It didn't, but some wine sloshed onto the Formica surface, washing over it like pale blood. "He had to kill himself to get there?"

  "Yes."

  "Do tell," Lorna said. "I've got all night and there's a fresh bottle chilling."

  "All right, I'll tell you the rest, Lorna, but I don't know if you'll like it."

  "Try me," she said. "I'm in serious need of diversion."

  "Our bodies last only so long before the strain begins to break them down."

  "Join the club," Lorna said.

  "They're highly efficient for a few years."

  "Well, Victor's sure was."

  "But then they begin to atrophy if we don't go up-brane for treatment."

  "And you go there by killing yourselves?"

  "Sometimes we have to, because we can't slip back through the break once it starts decaying. It's too wrenching."

  "What's this break you keep talking about?"

  "It's the source of a dark-energy leak that must be repaired both here and up-brane, because of entangle
ment. We widen the break and slip through to do our work. If we succeed in sealing it, potential trouble is averted and we go on looking for other breaks."

  "And you expect me to believe this flight of fancy has something to do with Victor shooting himself?" She tried to laugh, but she couldn't.

  "Yes, he had to because he stayed too long."

  "Why would he do that?"

  A pause, and then: "For you."

  "You're blaming me for what he did?" Somehow she had known it was coming. She remembered how sick Victor had looked in those last days before she broke it off. She'd thought he was taking drugs, running around on her.

  And she remembered her father sneering after her marriage failed, making her feel as if her inability to hold on to a man and have kids was her fault.

  She should have trusted Victor.

  Now she looked hard at Edmond, searching for a hint that he might be lying.

  He didn't blink. "I don't assign blame, but the truth is Victor stayed too long because he couldn't bring himself to leave you."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "Is it?"

  Lorna looked down at her wineglass.

  "I told you I didn't think you'd like it," Edmond said.

  "It's not true," she said.

  "You know it is."

  "Prove it."

  Edmond reached inside his jacket and pulled out something that looked like a small, polished turquoise. He held it up to the light.

  "What's that?"

  "Call it a weaver."

  "Why?"

  "Because it braids broken strings," he said as he set the weaver on the table. "It makes a gap we can slip through and then closes it up."

  "How?"

  "It briefly adjusts local space and time."

  "That little stone?" She tried to laugh, but found that she couldn't.

  "It's not a stone."

  How could he act so serious while he was saying such idiotic things? She shouldn't have relented after telling him to leave. He was nuts. She was, too, for listening to him. She didn't want him to go. She was lonely enough to put up with just about anything for some company. Lorna had believed she was strong enough to withstand the grief. Maybe she overestimated herself. Maybe her father was right.