The Urban Fantasy Anthology

by Peter S. Beagle; Joe R. Lansdale

  I replied, “Absolutely not. It wouldn’t work.” But the idea lodged in my head and it wouldn’t go away. I wanted to write about the real world, but I also wanted to write fantasy. So I tried combining the two in one book and it didn’t work. But the process showed me how it could work.

  My next book was Moonheart (published in 1984), and I suppose the fusion of fantasy and realism in it was pretty successful since it remains in print to this day. I was blessed to have had that wealth of background reading from my youth. It allowed me to dip my proverbial ladle into that pool of myth, folklore and realism and play with various elements that intrigued me. And basically, I was doing the same thing that I do to this day: writing a story that I’d like to read but doesn’t yet exist. Combining fantasy with the modern world let me push through self-imposed boundaries, and beyond what was being published in the fantasy genre at that time.

  MaryAnn’s suggestion got me going, but I had other help along the way. A few other fantasy writers had used contemporary settings in their work (Roger Zelazny, Peter S. Beagle and Roberta MacAvoy were among my favourites). But mostly, it was Terri Windling, my editor at Ace Books, who gave me sage advice that deeply influenced the trajectory of my work.

  Terri had bought my high fantasy The Riddle of the Wren as well as Moonheart. After Moonheart, I turned in another high fantasy called Eyes Like Leaves. Although she’d accepted the book, Terri asked me if I was sure I wanted this to follow Moonheart. She cautioned me that with a couple of high fantasies already under my belt (The Riddle of the Wren, and The Harp of the Grey Rose from Starblaze/Donning), a third high fantasy might brand me forever as a high fantasy writer, no matter what else I subsequently produced.

  At the time I still liked high fantasy books. I liked them a lot. But I already knew I didn’t want to keep writing them exclusively. So I swapped the manuscript of Eyes Like Leaves for Yarrow, a contemporary novel I’d just finished.

  By the time I had a few more books under my belt (Mulengro, Greenmantle), I was calling what I wrote “contemporary fantasy.” Then, when I turned in my modern retelling of the old fairy tale “Jack, The Giant-Killer,” I made the mistake of calling it The Jack of Kinrowan: A Novel of Urban Faerie (the full title only showed up on the copyright page; everywhere else it was called Jack, The Giant-Killer).

  Somehow the subtitle translated to “urban fantasy” in all subsequent references to my work.

  I didn’t fight it, but it never sat well. For one thing, while I enjoy setting magical stories on city streets, many of my tales have been set in more rural environs.

  But I let it go.

  Or at least I did until I was getting ready to go on tour for my novel Someplace to Be Flying. I’m not a naturally entertaining speaker the way some of my peers are. When it comes to writers like Joe Lansdale or Neil Gaiman, the way they do a reading is often as compelling as the story itself.

  I felt I needed to do some prep work so I got together with Terri to talk about it. The first thing we realized was that I needed a way to describe what I did, because that’s almost invariably the first thing that an interviewer asks. Somewhere in that conversation Terri said, “If we have to be in a genre, why don’t we make up our own?”

  I’m not sure which of us came up with the term “mythic fiction,” but as soon as we had it, we knew it was perfect. Now, rather than paraphrase Terri, let me turn it over to her in some excerpts from correspondence to explain exactly why:

  We came up with the term because we wanted a way to describe novels and stories (including our own) that make conscious use of myth, medieval Romance, folklore, and/or fairy tales, but that are set in the real world, rather than in invented fantasy landscapes. “Fantasy” was inadequate for our purposes because it is a term that is both too broad and too limiting. Broad, because it includes imaginary world novels, as well as works that aren’t based on myth and folklore. Limiting, because “fantasy” has come to mean (to the average reader) fiction specifically published within the sf/fantasy genre, whereas the work we were trying to define was published in many other areas as well: mainstream fiction, historical fiction, horror fiction, postmodern fiction, surrealist fiction, young adult fiction, etc. We also found the terms “urban fantasy” and “contemporary fantasy” unsatisfactory—partly because of the connotations I’ve just described attached to “fantasy,” and partly because not all the works we were looking at were urban, or set in the present day.

  Some works of mythic fiction—such as John Barth’s Chimera (in mainstream fiction), Delia Sherman’s The Porcelain Dove (in historical fiction), or Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood (in fantasy)—use mythic themes and tropes in obvious ways. Other works of mythic fiction are more subtle in their engagement with this material—such as the quiet bubbling of magic and folklore one finds within Alice Hoffman’s tales, or Steven Millhauser’s, or James P. Blaylock’s. Like “magical realism,” these stories use mythic and/or magical tropes to tell us something about the real world we live in, rather than (as in some other forms of fantasy) to remove us from that world altogether. Many magical realist tales also fall under the mythic fiction category—when they work with mythic or folkloric imagery rather than with surrealist imagery that is unrelated to these things. A story needn’t have literal magic or fantastical elements to be considered mythic fiction, however; there are realist novels based on myth and folklore that also fall into this category—such as Brian Hall’s The Saskiad (inspired by the Iliad).

  To which I might add that I think that the best of these stories deal with character—people’s relationships, trials and personal growth, using mythic and folkloric material either as a reflecting mirror, or to illuminate the tale by allowing inner landscapes and emotional states to appear physically “on stage” alongside real-world aspects.

  The value in this kind of story is that it speaks to the obvious concerns that make up the physical world we all share with one another, but also addresses the individual worlds we carry inside ourselves—hopefully in a manner that allows us to understand ourselves, and each other, a little better and with more empathy.

  By now you’ll have noticed that Terri Windling’s name has come up a lot in this piece. There’s a reason she is almost synonymous with the term “mythic fiction” that goes beyond what I’ve written about so far.

  The important thing to remember is that when she was an editor at Ace Books (from 1979 through the early ’80s), and then later at Tor Books (late ’80s through the ’90s), she created a home for this sort of fiction. From time to time other publishers put out books of a similar ilk, but it was the lines Terri created and edited that set the standard in those early days when publishers and their publicity departments weren’t quite sure what to do with such material.

  Even if Terri hadn’t been buying my books, I’m quite certain I would have continued to write this sort of story—once I realized it could be done, I wouldn’t have been able to stop. And I’m sure the same is true for Emma Bull, Ellen Kushner, Stephen Brust, Will Shetterly, and all the rest of us. But we would have had to work really hard at selling these stories, taking precious time away from our writing. We wouldn’t have had the safe haven that Terri provided, which allowed us to stretch and grow.

  She became a spiritual center around which gathered not only fiction writers, but also visual artists, poets…in fact, anyone with a creative impulse who wanted to meld traditional folk, fairy tales and mythology with their art. Through her work as an editor, and as a talented painter and author in her own right, she was instrumental in creating a focus for this conversation on the mythic arts that exists between artists, and between their work in various mediums.

  Putting aside her own wonderful paintings and stories, this community might well be her greatest legacy—a community that’s still active today and continues to grow:

  Her Endicott Studio website (www.endicott-studio.com) remains one of the best touchstones for the mythic arts, featuring art, essays, poetry, stories and links to other site
s.

  She also has a more personal blog at http://windling.typepad.com/blog/ in which she begins conversations in her posts that are often carried on in a lively discussion in the ensuing comments section.

  Thirteen years after the last Bordertown book was published (a shared-world anthology series written by several of the writers Terri first nurtured at Ace and Tor), a new Bordertown book is coming out in 2011 featuring many of the old guard and some of the brightest new writers working today.

  Folkroots, the column she initiated in Realms of Fantasy to explore the mythic arts, still appears in each issue with a new editor, Theodora Goss.

  And while The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror series that she edited with Ellen Datlow is no longer being produced, the writers and poets she featured in her choices continue to create work for all of us to appreciate and enjoy.

  These days a whole new group of writers have taken up the mantle of “urban fantasy.” At first they came from the mystery and romance fields, combining elements of those genres with the tropes of more traditional fantasy—I’m speaking here of writers such as Charlaine Harris, Kim Harrison and Patricia Briggs. Soon after there was a whole new wave of writers inspired by their stories, in the same way writers are always inspired by what came before them, using what they like as a springboard to take the stories they want to tell in new directions.

  As with any subgenre, some of the books are wonderful, some not so much. But the difference between what they do and what Terri and I call mythic fiction is that the magical/mythic/folkloric elements of these books is colour and shade, rather than the substance of the story. The new urban fantasy story remains rooted in the genres from which it sprang. Its magic is more often matter-of-fact—bricks and mortar—rather than something that leaves the reader with a sense of wonder.

  There’s nothing wrong with that, of course. Whether we call them urban fantasy, paranormal romance, or just “books we like to read,” they provide full entertainment value. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be as popular as they are, making inroads into television and film.

  I’m sure their readership overlaps with that of mythic fiction, but the two styles remain very different for all that they use many of the same tropes. For me, the biggest difference is that mythic fiction has room for a story to be told at a slower pace. The preternatural elements are present, not only for their coolness factor (werewolves and witches and vampires, oh my!), but because fairy tales and mythology tap into a deeper part of the psyche than an adventure story can reach.

  In the end it’s apples and oranges. I’m just happy that we live in a literary world where there is room for both, as well as for whatever new things might be waiting for us on the other side of the days still to come.

  As I’ve said before, I’m a writer and this is what I do no matter what name we put to it. Year by year, the world is turning into a darker and stranger place than any of us could want. Somewhere, there is always a war. Somewhere, there is always the threat of an act of terrorism. Somewhere, there is always a woman or a child in peril. Nature itself delivers devastating snowstorms, tsunamis, hurricanes and earthquakes. This is the only thing I do that has potential to shine a little further than my immediate surroundings. For me, each story is a little candle held up to the dark of night, trying to illuminate the hope for a better world where we all respect and care for each other.

  A Bird That Whistles

  Emma Bull

  The dulcimer player sat on the back steps of Orpheus Coffeehouse, lit from behind by the bulb over the door. His head hung forward, and his silhouette was sharp against the diffused glow from State Street. The dulcimer was propped against his shoulder as if it were a child he was comforting. I’d always thought you balanced a dulcimer across your knees. But it worked; this sounded like the classical guitar of dulcimer playing. Then his chin lifted a little.

  ’Twas on one bright March morning, I bid New Orleans adieu,

  And I took the road to Jackson town, my fortunes to renew.

  I cursed all foreign money, no credit could I gain,

  Which filled my heart with longing for the lakes of Pontchartrain.

  He got to the second verse before he stopped and looked up. Light fell on the side of his face.

  “I like the bit about the alligators best,” I said stupidly.

  “So do I.” I could hear his grin.

  “‘If it weren’t for the alligators, I’d sleep out in the woods.’ Sort of sums up life.” He sounded so cheerful, it was hard to believe he’d sung those mournful words.

  “You here for the open stage?” I asked. Then I remembered I was, and my terror came pounding back.

  He lifted the shoulder that supported the dulcimer. “Maybe.” He stood smoothly. I staggered up the steps with my banjo case, and he held the door for me.

  In the full light of the back room his looks startled me as much as his music had. He was tall, slender and pale. His black hair was thick and long, pulled into a careless tail at the back, except for some around his face that was too short and fell forward into his eyes. Those were the ordinary things.

  His clothes were odd. This was 1970 and we all dressed the way we thought Woody Guthrie used to: blue denim and workshirts. This guy wore a white T-shirt, black corduroys, and a black leather motorcycle jacket that looked old enough to be his father’s. (I would have said he was about eighteen.) The white streak in his hair was odd. His face was odd; with its high cheekbones and pointed chin, it was somewhere out beyond handsome.

  But his eyes—they were like green glass, or a green pool in the shadow of trees, or a green gemstone with something moving behind it, dimly visible. Looking at them made me uncomfortable; but when he turned away, I felt the loss, as if something I wanted but couldn’t name had been taken from me.

  Steve O’Connell, the manager, came out of the kitchen, and the green-eyed man handed him the dulcimer. “It’s good,” he said. “I’d like to meet whoever made it.”

  Steve’s harried face lit up. “My brother. I’ll tell him you said so.”

  Steve disappeared down the hall to the front room, and the green eyes came back to my face. “I haven’t forgotten your name, have I?”

  “No.” I put my hand out, and he shook it. “John Deacon.”

  “Banjo player,” he added. “I’m Willy Silver. Guitar and fiddle.”

  “Not dulcimer?”

  “Not usually. But I dabble in strings.”

  That’s when Lisa came out of the kitchen.

  Lisa waited tables at Orpheus. She looked like a dancer, all slender and small and long-boned. Her hair was a cirrus cloud of red-gold curls; her eyes were big, cat-tilted, and grey; and her skin was so fair you should have been able to see through it. I’d seen Waterhouse’s painting The Lady of Shalott somewhere (though I didn’t remember the name of the painter or the painting then; be kind, I was barely seventeen), and every time I saw Lisa I thought of it. She greeted me by name whenever I came to Orpheus, and smiled, and teased me. Once, when I came in with the tail-end of the flu, she fussed over me so much I wondered if it was possible to get a chronic illness on purpose.

  Lisa came out of the kitchen, my heart gave a great loud thump, she looked up with those big, inquiring eyes, and she saw Willy Silver. I recognised the disease that struck her down. Hadn’t she already given it to me?

  Willy Silver saw her, too. “Hullo,” he said, and looked as if he was prepared to admire any response she gave.

  “Hi.” The word was a little breathless gulp. “Oh, hi, John. Are you a friend of John’s?” she asked Willy.

  “I just met him,” I told her. “Willy Silver, Lisa Amundsen. Willy’s here for open stage.”

  He gave me a long look, but said, “If you say so.”

  I must have been feeling masochistic. Lisa always gets crushes on good musicians, and I already knew Willy was one. Maybe I ought to forget the music and just commit seppuku on stage.

  But you can’t forget the music. Once you get the itch, it w
on’t go away, no matter how much stage fright you have. And by the time my turn came—after a handful of guys-on-stools-with-guitars, two women who sang a capella for too long, a woman who did Leonard Cohen songs on the not-quite-tuned piano, and the Orpheus Tin-and-Wood Toejam Jug Band—I had plenty of stage fright.

  Then Willy Silver leaned over from the chair next to me and whispered, “Take your time. Play the chord progression a couple of times for an intro—it’ll settle you down.”

  I looked up, startled. The white streak in his hair caught the light, and his eyes gleamed green. He was smiling.

  “And the worst that can happen isn’t very bad.”

  I could embarrass myself in front of Lisa…and everyone else, and be ashamed to ever show my face in Orpheus again. But Willy didn’t look like someone who’d understand that.

  My hands shook as if they had engine knock. I wanted to go to the bathroom. Steve clumped up on stage, read my name from the slip of paper in his hand and peered out into the dark room for me. I hung the banjo over my shoulder and went up there to die for my art.

  I scrapped the short opening I’d practised and played the whole chord progression instead. The first couple measures were shaky. But banjos give out a lively noise that makes you want to have a good time, and I could feel mine sending those messages. By the time I got around to the words, I could remember them, and sing them in almost my usual voice.

  I got a bird that whistles, honey, got a bird,

  Baby, got a bird that will sing.

  Honey, got a bird, baby, got a bird that will sing.

  But if I ain’t got Corinna, it just don’t mean,

  It don’t mean a natural thing.

  At the back of the room, I could just see the halo of Lisa’s hair. I couldn’t see her face but at least she’d stopped to listen. And down front, Willy Silver sat, looking pleased.