The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year, Volume 7

by Jonathan Strahan

  He was concentrating on driving, and acting anxious. “I met your friends,” she said.

  He nodded curtly. “Yes,” he said. “They put a bug in my ear.”

  Kay Lynne wondered if it was still there, wondered if everything she said would be relayed back to the man with the tattoo, the man with the mustaches, and the woman with the great gray head of hair. She decided it wisest to proceed as if they could hear her because, after all, she wasn’t planning on telling her father about the Molly Speaks and its question.

  “Those people aren’t just bean growers,” she said, and to her surprise, he replied with a laugh, though there was little humor in it.

  “No,” he said. “No more than you’re just a rootworker. We all have our politics.”

  Kay Lynne considered this. She had never thought about politics and wondered if she had any. She supposed, whatever she decided to do, she would have some soon.

  He continued, clearly not expecting her to reply. “You know what’s needed now, daughter. It won’t take you long. Assess some soils, prescribe some fertilizers, program some legumes. You’re a quick hand at all those things. It’s just a matter of scale.”

  The younger man had said that, too. A matter of scale.

  Kay Lynne thought about all the unexpected things she had heard that day. She thought about expectation, and about surprise, and about time. She thought about which of these things were within her power to effect.

  Her father kept his promise to stay off her property uninvited and dropped her off at the corner. Kay Lynne did not say goodbye to him, though she would have if he had said goodbye to her.

  She made a slow circuit of her ground. Planting was in seven days.

  She entered her potting shed and found that she had five fifty-pound bags of fertilizer left over from last fall, which was enough. She pulled down the latest volume of her garden journal from its place on the shelf and made calculations on its first blank page. Is this the last volume? she wondered, then ran her fingers over the labels of the fertilizers, programming, changing.

  She poured some fertilizer into a cunning little handheld broadcaster and stood in the doorway of the shed. She stood there long enough for the shadow of the house to make its slow circuit from falling north to falling east. Before she began, she made a mound of her garden journals and set them aflame. She worked in that flickering light, broadcasting the reprogrammed fertilizer.

  Kay Lynne salted her own ground, then used a hoe to turn the ashes of her books into the deadened soil.

  And when she was finally done, she took the burdensacks down from the dowel by the door and walked out to the street. A bus rolled to a halt at her front path, though Kay Lynne did not live on a regular route. The sky was full of balloons, lit from within, floating away from the fairgrounds on the evening wind.

  The Mr. Lever #9 said, “All aboard,” and Kay Lynne climbed the steps and took her seat.

  It said “Next stop,” and paused, and then “Next stop,” and then again “Next stop,” and she realized it was asking her a question.

  The Woman Who Fooled Death Five Times

  A HwarhathFolk Tale

  Eleanor Arnason

  Eleanor Arnason [eleanorarnason.blogspot.com] published her first story in 1973. Since then she has published six novels, two chapbooks, and more than thirty short stories. Her fourth novel, A Woman of the Iron People, won the James Tiptree, Jr. Award and the Mythopoeic Society Award. Her fifth novel, Ring of Swords, won a Minnesota Book Award. Her short story “Dapple” won the Spectrum Award. Other short stories have been finalists for the Hugo, Nebula, Sturgeon, Sidewise, and World Fantasy awards. Eleanor would really like to win one of these.

  For the most part, the hwarhath do not think of death as a person. But there are remote regions on the home planet where education levels are low and superstition levels are high. In these places, people tell stories about Death.

  This is one.

  When the Goddess built the world, she worked like a good cook making a meal, tasting as she went along. She tasted the fruit to make sure it was sweet and the bitter herbs to make sure they were bitter. She tried other things as well: rocks, clay, water, bugs, fish, birds, and animals with fur. Cooked or raw, everything went onto her tongue.

  In the end, the world was done and seemed more than adequate. As for the Goddess, she felt bloated and over-full. She made herself a medicinal tea and drank it. Then she had an enormous bowel movement.

  After she had finished, she looked at the heap of dung. “Well, that looks nasty and smells nasty, too.”

  The heap moved, and a voice came from it. “Don’t be too critical. I am a creation of yours, just as the world is.” The heap heaved itself up, assuming the shape of a man, though it was a badly formed man, lumpy and drippy. Its eyes were like two black fruit pits; its leathery tongue looked like a piece of skin pulled from a roasted bird; and its fingernails were like fish scales.

  “I didn’t plan on you,” the Goddess said. “What are you?”

  “I am the end of everything,” the man-shaped heap replied. “I am Death.”

  The Goddess considered for a while and decided to let Death exist. Maybe he would prove useful. As he had said, he was her creation; and she rarely did anything that lacked point or meaning.

  The dung-man dried, until he was smooth and dark brown. He became better shaped in the process, though he never grew fur, and he was always rather lumpy. Once he was completely dry, he took on his job, which was escorting life forms off the planet when their time was done.

  Now the story turns to a woman named Ala. She lived in a cabin with her young son, a pet bird, and a loyal sul.

  One night Death came to her door and scratched on it.

  “Who is there?” Ala asked.

  “I am Death, and I have come for Ala.”

  “I’m her sister,” Ala replied.

  “Then I won’t bother you, but tell Ala to come out and meet me.”

  The woman hastily rolled up a quilt and tied it, then opened the door and handed it to Death. “Here she is.”

  Death had poor eyesight, especially in the dark, but he could feel. The quilt felt round and comfortable, like a woman of Ala’s age. He thanked Ala and put the quilt in his sack and headed home.

  You may think Death was stupid to mistake a rolled-up quilt for a woman. You are right. Remember that his brain, like the rest of him, was made of dung; and his job was comparatively simple. He didn’t need the intelligence and skill of a space pilot or a research doctor or even an ordinary person.

  When Death got home, he pulled out the quilt. A fire burned on the health, and there were several lanterns, which he lit as soon as he got in the door. He could see that he held a quilt.

  “I have been tricked,” he said. “But now I have a fine, thick quilt to put on my bed, which only had a worn sheet before. This is all to the good. Tomorrow I will go back for the woman.”

  He spread the quilt on his bed and slept in comfort. The next night he went back to Ala’s cabin. “You tricked me, but you won’t do it a second time. I will feel to make sure the thing you give me is warm and living.”

  Ala took her pet bird, which was sleeping on its perch, and handed it out to Death. Even his clumsy hands could tell it was warm and living. He thanked Ala and put the bird in his sack and headed home.

  After a while, the bird began to sing: a wonderful, liquid music.

  “That doesn’t sound like a person on her way out of existence,” Death said.

  He stopped by a wayside tavern. Light shone from its windows. Standing in the light, Death opened his sack and took out the bird. “You aren’t Ala, and your time is not over. Go on your way.”

  The bird spread its wings and flew to the top of a nearby mountain. There it sang and sang, until it attracted a mate. Together, they built a nest and raised nestlings, above clouds and mist and the troubles of the world.

  The next night Death went back to Ala’s cabin. “You have fooled me twice, but
you won’t do it again. I can tell if something is warm and alive and covered with fur rather than feathers. Give me your sister.”

  Ala gathered up her loyal sul, which was lying by the fire, and handed it through the door. Sulin have scales as well as fur, as everyone knows. But Death felt only the fur with his clumsy hands, and he put the sul in his sack.

  “Thank you,” he told Ala and headed home.

  On the way, the sul began to growl and snarl.

  “That doesn’t sound like a person on her way to the end,” Death said.

  He stopped in a high pass and waited for dawn. Then, when the sun’s first rays lit the pass, he opened his bag and took out the sul, which snapped at him, but was afraid to bite.

  “You aren’t Ala, and your time is not yet. Go on your way.”

  The sul loped down from the pass into a thick forest. There it encountered a brave and honorable hunter. The two of them liked each other at once. In this way, the sul found a new master, who would never betray it. They lived together and hunted together in perfect harmony for many years.

  The next night Death, who may have been stupid but was certainly persistent, returned to Ala’s cabin. “You have tricked me three times, but you won’t do it again. I can tell if what you give me is warm and alive, covered with fur and shaped like a person. Give me your sister.”

  Ala looked around her cabin. The only thing that met Death’s specifications was her son, a boy of four or five, well mannered, obedient, and quiet.

  She picked him up. “I am sending you with this man. No matter what happens, remain quiet.”

  The boy inclined his head in agreement, and she handed him through the doorway to Death.

  “Thank you,” said Death and popped the boy into his sack. Then he went on his way.

  The bag was very dark, except for the dead people it contained, who glowed faintly. The boy did not see entire persons, but rather parts: a hand, a pair of eyes, a leg or foot, all glowing dimly. The ghosts took up no room, but floated through one another and through the boy, complaining in barely audible voices. For the most part, he did not understand what they said, though sometimes he made out a word or two or three: “Grief.” “Pain.” “Not now.” “Not like this.”

  He was a stoic boy, but gradually he became frightened by the wisps of light and the sad, complaining voices. Nonetheless, he pressed his lips together and kept quiet, as his mother had told him.

  Finally Death reached his house. He opened the bag and pulled the boy out. “Tricked again! You’re not Ala, and your time has not come. Go on your way.”

  “Is your house near a town?” the boy asked.

  “No. It’s far into the wilderness.”

  “Then, I will die if you send me out alone; and you said this is not my time to die.”

  Death frowned deeply as he thought. “You are right.”

  “Why don’t I stay here?” the boy asked, glancing around at the warm fire and shining lamps. A fine quilt lay on the bed. The rug on the floor was badly worn, but still looked friendly and comfortable. “I could help you keep the fire burning; and I know how to sweep and wash.”

  Death frowned some more, then tilted his head in assent. “You seem like a mannerly child, and one determined to be useful. I could use some company and help around the house. You are welcome to stay.”

  So the boy remained in Death’s house, helping with the housework. At night, if Death was home, they played simple games together or the boy told stories as best he could. They were simple and childlike, but Death enjoyed them. Both were happy.

  In the meantime, Death went back to Ala’s house a fifth time.

  “You have fooled me four times, but this is the end. Send your sister out.”

  Ala looked around her cabin. There was nothing more to give Death. She opened the door and said, “Your visits frightened my sister so much that she has fled south. Come in and look. You won’t find her.”

  Death accepted her invitation, came in and looked around. The cabin seemed bare without quilt, bird, sul, and boy. He could find no second woman. “Very well,” he said. “I will look for Ala in the south. Don’t expect to see me again, until your time has come.”

  He left, and Ala exulted. She had fooled Death five times and was free of him. Granted, she had lost her fine quilt, her pet bird, her loyal sul, and her son. Her cabin seemed cold and empty now, and she wondered if she could have found other ways to fool Death.

  Wondering this, grief and sadness crept into her mind. But it was mixed with the joy that came from being free of Death.

  At dawn she went down to the river to get a bucket of water. Mist obscured her way, and the wooden steps that led to the river were glazed with ice, which she could not see in the dim light. When she had almost reached the river, she slipped, fell into the water, and drowned.

  Her bucket floated free, bobbing in the rapid current. She followed, her body turning slowly. At length, a long way down river, she climbed out.

  Because Death had not found her, she was not entirely dead. Rather, she existed in a strange place between life and death. Her fur was drenched with water. Her teeth chattered, and she shivered all over.

  She tried to gather dry vegetation to huddle under, but her hands went through the branches and leaves.

  Next, she looked for people and their fires. She found a group of hunters around a roaring bonfire. Her old sul was among the sulin and growled, but no one else noticed her. She moved closer and closer to the fire, till she should have been roasting or burning. But the heat did not reach her. She remained wet and cold. Crying out in despair, she fled into darkness.

  So began years of wandering. She never dried off or grew warm, though she tried over and over to heat herself at every fire she found. Even on the hottest days of summer, when everyone else was panting, she remained wet and cold.

  People could not see her, though they sometimes felt her as an icy draft. Her only company was angry ghosts, who gathered around her complaining—not gently, like the newly dead, but in harsh, loud voices. Their deaths were unjust. Their families were ungrateful. The neighbors had been out to get them. Malice and bad luck had followed them all their lives. Their voices pierced her like knives of ice, making her even colder.

  Finally, after years of wandering, she came to Death’s house. Her son was outside, sweeping the front step. By this time, he was nine or ten, a tall and promising boy. He looked at her and frowned.

  “You look like my mother, though she was not soaking wet the last time I saw her.”

  “What house is this?” the woman asked.

  “Death lives here.”

  “Then you must be my son. I gave him to Death years ago.”

  The boy paused, considering. “It hasn’t been a bad life here, and Death has always told me to be courteous. So I will welcome you, though I never liked the way you handed me over. Come in!”

  She entered the house and sat by the fire. Her son pulled the fine, thick quilt off the bed and folded it around her shoulders. At last, she stopped shivering and her teeth stopped chattering. The boy heated soup and gave it to her. At last, she was able to eat, though she hadn’t eaten or drunk for years.

  Hah! The warm soup felt good going down! The quilt felt good on her shoulders! The fire’s heat felt good on her face and hands!

  “Who is this?” asked Death, coming through the door.

  “My mother,” said the boy.

  “I am Ala,” the woman said. “I tricked you five times. Nonetheless, I died.”

  “You haven’t died entirely, but you are mostly gone, as I can see,” Death replied. “This is why a stupid person can do my job. No one can escape the rules of physics and biology.”

  “I died by accident, not physics,” Ala replied angrily.

  “All living beings die one way or another,” Death replied comfortably. He helped himself to a bowl of soup and sat down to eat.

  “What happens now?” Ala asked. “I can tell you I don’t like my current existence. I
have been cold and hungry and tired for years, unable to warm myself or eat or sleep.”

  Death gave her a considering look. “Usually, people die the moment I pop them in my bag. They may make a little noise, but they are gone. When I get them home, I take them out of the bag and divide them in two. The good parts go off to another place. I have no idea what happens there. The bad parts remain here as angry ghosts, complaining about their lives and deaths. Gradually, their anger wears them out. They grow thin and vanish entirely.

  “But you are something new, neither alive nor dead. If I popped you into my bag, you might well become entirely dead. Then I’d have to divide you into good and bad. I’m worried about what would happen. You gave up a pet bird, a loyal sul, and a son to remain alive. This is bad; and it leads me to believe that most of you would become an angry ghost. Maybe I could drive you away; but since you tricked me five times, I’m not sure. I don’t want an angry ghost screaming and crying around my house at night. It would be unpleasant and likely to bother the boy. What do you say, lad? Do you want the ghost of your mother screaming outside our door?”

  “No,” the boy said. “You have taught me to appreciate quiet. I don’t want to hear my mother screaming in the night.”

  “I think I can see a few glimmers of good in you,” Death said to Ala. “The good is small and dim, and it’s tightly tangled with badness. It would be hard to pull free. Maybe this could change in time. Do you think you have learned any remorse?”

  “I have learned there are worse things than death,” Ala replied.

  “That’s a start,” Death said. “Why don’t you stay here? I would enjoy some grown-up company, and your son would enjoy his mother; and neither of us would have to deal with an angry ghost.”