Year's Best Fantasy 5, page 46
After she left, Henry took a plastic bag out to the garage. Carnelia would be home from school in a few hours. He pulled the bag over Marge’s head and sealed it around her neck with with duct tape. It moved in and out, slowly at first; then more and more slowly.
He didn’t want to watch so he went back inside and turned on the TV.
The news was disturbing.
“…unprecedented meeting of the Security Council with the International Red Cross,” read Graeme, editing Hipp’s clumsy copy on the fly. He had rushed in from the hospital where his mother was in a dim hallway with 126 other people, some of them screaming, others as quiet as herself.
“…confirms that no one has died, anywhere in the world, for the past thirty-six hours.”
“He cut to the tape. “It’s statistically improbable and medically impossible,” said a talking head in a white coat. “People are surviving unsurvivable accidents.”
Hipp nodded. Graeme came back on the air.
“And now we take you to Cold Spring State Prison, where our own Karin Glass is waiting for…”
Won Lee was taking a picture of Hong Kong harbor with his new digital camera when he felt the deck tip under his feet. Irrationally, it was his camera that he reached for as he began to skid across the deck. He almost caught a stanchion but the crush of falling, flailing bodies pushed him into the water.
It was cold and the camera was gone. It was dark and he held his breath for as long as he could, then gave up and felt the cold water filling his lungs, almost as satisfying as air. Then it wasn’t so cold anymore. Drifting down was like flying. He spread his arms, or felt them spread. He felt himself slip into the soft muck at the bottom of the harbor.
He waited to die. He could see sparks, all around. Had the ferry caught fire? The mud was cold, then not so cold. It all seemed to be taking a long time.
Someone settled beside him. Was it his wife? There was no light but he could make out a face, the eyes wide open like his own. Was it a man or a woman?
It didn’t seem to matter. Something was picking at his hand, uncovering little white bones. He watched and waited. It all seemed to be taking a long time.
“…governor promises an investigation,” said Karin. Her hands were shaking; she tried to hide it.
She had been allowed to see Berry, but not to speak with him. He was still in critical condition, not breathing.
“…after the last-minute arrival of the DNA test establishing his innocence,” she said. She held up the microphone to pick up the chants from the demonstrators. “Meanwhile, the demonstrators outside the prison are calling for the DA’s blood, in a dramatic and ironic role reversal.”
My best line, she thought. I’ll bet that fucking Graeme cuts it.
There were so many sparks. The thin line of light was almost invisible. It was like Milton’s blindness, she thought; there was plenty to see in the darkness. More than she had ever dreamed possible.
It had been a surprise, then a disappointment. Now she wanted to see what was on the other side. But there was no other side.
Only a thin line of light.
The sparks formed a cloud around it, like smoke. So many: I had not thought that death had undone so many. They were swarming and she was swarming with them, forward and back, filling the darkness so that the darkness was lighter than the thin line of light.
She wished she could remember her name.
“I’ll be late,” said Emily on the phone. “They’re putting us on extra shifts.”
“I know. It’s on TV.”
“Something very very weird is going on. The hospital is filled with people who shouldn’t be alive. One man who took a shotgun blast in the mouth.”
“It’s a big story,” said Henry. “It’s on the news.”
“Hey, I even saw what’s-his-name, from the Nightly News. His mother is here. There’s a whole hall filled with old people who have been taken off life support, waiting to die. Is Carny home?”
“Soon.”
“Is Marge—over?”
“Yes. I’m sure.” He told her about the plastic bag.
After he hung up, he went to the garage. He didn’t want Carnelia to see the plastic bag.
The bag was no longer going in and out. It had been almost two hours.
He unpeeled the tape and pulled off the bag. He hid it under the blanket in the trash. Marge’s eyes were closed. She wasn’t stiff yet. He curled her as neatly as possible in the blood-stained box, and changed the blanket.
He was tucking it around her when she licked his hand.
“Berry’s just one person,” said Graeme. “We need you here.”
“Please,” said Karin. “This is the biggest story of the year. An innocent man almost executed.”
“He’s still alive?”
“He’s on life support,” said Karin, “Unlike all the others, who don’t need it. Maybe he doesn’t either. But I need to stay here for when he wakes up.”
“Well OK, but stay by the phone.”
She laughed. “The phone stays by me. How’s your mother? Ruth?”
“I haven’t heard from the hospital. They said they would call. Meanwhile we just got word from the pound that dogs aren’t dying either. Cats, yes.”
“Figures,” said Karin, who had a dog. “Graeme, what in the world do you think is going on?
The Cedars was almost empty. The sound on the TV was off but the text scrolling across gave the story:
NO DEATHS, WORLDWIDE. NO REPORTED DEATHS IN…
“Weird, huh?” said the bartender, setting down a cold Heineken. “Where you been?”
“I’ve worked three shifts straight,” said Shaheem. “Who do you think is hauling all those people into the hospital? They used to wait for the guys from the funeral home.”
“My girlfriend’s into astrology,” said the bartender. “She says it’s a collusion or something of the planets, never happened before. Unpresidential.”
“Unprecedented,” said Shaheem.
“But that’s fantasy,” said the bartender. “Me, I’m a believer in science.”
“Whatever that means.”
“Science is numbers.” The bartender pulled a magazine up from behind the bar. “Ever read Discover? This month is about the population explosion.”
“Implosion, you mean,” said Shaheem. “Guess I could do another.”
The bartender set another Heineken on the bar. “More people means more deaths,” he said. “It says here that more people die now every day than during World War II. Just of natural causes, plus all the little wars and disasters and shit.”
“Not any more,” said Shaheem. He told him about the scooper.
“Maybe death is getting behind,” said the bartender. “Temporary overload. No way to process them all. Nowhere to put them.”
“Does Discover tell you what to do?” asked Shaheem. He was not expecting an answer.
“Just wait,” said the bartender. “It’ll sort itself out. Things always do.”
“You wish,” said Shaheem. I wish, we wish, we all wish. “Ever thought you’d see the living waiting for death?”
The line of light was getting thicker. It was now a band of light. The sparks were flying through, extinguished by the light. She watched, breathless, bodiless, and saw that she was getting closer.
Or was the band getting wider? It was the same thing. So many sparks, all rising. She wished she could remember her name.
“It’s for you,” said Hipp. He handed the phone to Graeme as he picked up another.
The phones were all ringing at once.
“When is Karin coming back?” Hipp asked, over his shoulder. “We have to start putting the news together.”
“I’ll call her,” said Graeme. “That was the hospital.”
“Oh.” Then Hipp saw that he was smiling.
“My mother just died.”
Henry had quit smoking six months ago but he knew where half a pack was hidden, in his old coat. He smoked two waiting for Carnelia to get home.
There was something on TV but he kept the sound off. It was too weird. It was a worldwide crisis. But the most important thing was the crisis here at home.
Then he heard wailing and he realized that Carnelia had gone straight to the garage.
He found her wrapping Marge in the blanket. She dried her eyes with a corner. “Marge died, daddy. Can we bury her in the yard?”
Henry unwrapped the dog. Her eyes were open. There was no mistaking that peaceful look.
“Of course I will, honey.”
“Will you dig a nice hole? Why are you smiling, daddy?”
“Because, Carny. I’m not.”
So much light. There it was, all of a sudden, lots of it. Extinguishing the sparks, one by one, like rain drops in the sea.
Ruth, that was it!
Then it wasn’t.
“Thanks for hurrying back,” said Graeme, “I’m going to pick up my mother. I want to do it myself.”
“I understand,” said Karin.
“Lead with your big story,” said Graeme. “The man they almost executed.”
Karin was taking off her coat and combing her hair at the same time. “It’s a bigger story now,” she said. She held up her cell phone. “Berry died twelve minutes ago.”
“Oh shit.”
“I’ll try and get a statement from the governor.”
“And last words.”
“He was in a coma,” Karin said. “I’ll go with the last words we had from the beginning: ‘You are murdering an innocent man.’ ”
Golden City Far
Gene Wolfe
Gene Wolfe lives in Barrington, Illinois, and is widely considered the most accomplished writer in the fantasy and science fiction genres. His four-volume Book of the New Sun is an acknowledged masterpiece. He has published many fantasy, science fiction, and horror stories over the last thirty years and more. Each year he publishes a few short stories, of which at least one is among the best of the year in one genre or another, sometimes several, with 2004 that kind of year, a vintage Gene Wolfe year. Collections of his short fiction (all in print) include The Island of Dr. Death and Other Stories and Other Stories (1980), Storyes from the Old Hotel (1988), Castle of Days (1992), Endangered Species (1989), Strange Travelers (1999), and Innocents Aboard (2004), with a new one, Starwater Strains, out in 2005. The big fantasy news for 2004 was the publication of a major fantasy work, The Wizard Knight (in two volumes, The Knight and The Wizard).
“Golden City Far,” the adventures of a high school boy who dreams, complete with school psychologists and administrators, old ghosts, a beautiful girl and a beautiful woman, true love, and a talking dog, was published in Flights. We chose it to end our book this year. It is the longest story in this book and, perhaps, even, the best. What a fine year when stories of this quality contend for best!
This is what William Wachter wrote in his spiral notebook during study hall, the first day.
“Funny dream last night. I was standing on a beach. I looked out, shading my eyes, and I could not see a thing. It was like a big fog bank was over the ocean way far away so that everything sort of faded white. A gull flew over me and screeched, and I thought, well, not that way.
“So I turned north, and there was a long level stretch and big mountains. I should not have been able to see past them, but I could. It was not like the mountains could be looked through. It was like the thing I was seeing on the other side was higher than they were so that I saw it over the tops. It was really far away and looked small, but it was just beautiful, gold towers, all sizes and shapes with flags on them. Yellow flags, purple, blue, green, and white ones. I thought, well, there it is. I had to go there. I cannot explain it, but I knew I had to get to that city and once I did nothing else would matter because I would have done everything I was supposed to do, and everything would be OK forever.
“I started walking, and I was not thinking about how far it was at all, just that it was really nice that I had found out what I was supposed to do. Instead of thrashing around for years I had it. It did not matter how far it was, just that every step got me closer.
“Cool!”
He could not think of anything else to write, but only of the golden towers, and how the flags had stood out stiffly from them so that he had known there was a hard wind blowing where the towers were, and he would like that wind.
Someone passed him a note. He let it fall to the floor unread.
Mrs. Durkin took him by the shoulder, and he jerked.
“Billy?”
It was hard to remember where he was, but he said, “Yes ma’am?”
“The bell rang, Billy. All the other kids have gone. Were you asleep?”
Thinking that she meant when he had seen the towers and the flags, he repeated, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Daydreaming. Well, you’re at the right age for it, but the period’s over.”
He stood up. “I should have done my homework in here. I guess I did, some of it. I want to get to bed early.”
The sea was to his left, the ground beneath his feet great stones, or shale, or soft sand. The mountains, which had appeared distant the night before, were so remote as to be almost invisible, and often vanished behind dunes covered with sparse sea oats. There was a breeze from the sea, and though the scudding clouds looked threatening, it did not rain or snow. He was neither hungry nor thirsty, and was conscious of being neither hungry nor thirsty. It seemed to him that he had been walking a long while, not hours or days or years, but simply a long while, time as it had been before anyone had thought of such things as years or centuries.
He climbed dunes and rough, low hills, and beyond the last found an inlet blocking his progress; long before he reached the point near which she lay, he had seen the woman on the rock in the water. She was beautiful, and naked save for her hair; and her skin was as white as milk. In one hand she held a shining yellow apple.
He stopped and stood staring at her, and when a hundred breaths had come and gone, he sat down on a different rock and stared some more. Her eyes opened; each time he met her gaze, he felt lost in their depths.
“You may kiss me and eat one bite of my apple,” she told him. “One bite, no more.”
He was frightened, and shook his head.
“One bite will let you understand everything.” Her voice was music. “Two bites would let you understand more than everything, and more than everything is too much.”
He backed away.
The sun peeped from between clouds, bathing her with black gold. “What color is my hair?”
Perhaps its black was only shadow. Perhaps its gold was only sunlight. He said, “Nobody has hair like that.”
“I do.” She smiled, and her lips were as red as corals, and her teeth were sharp and gleaming white. “Men have found themselves in difficulties through biting my apple.”
He nodded, certain it was true.
“But kiss me, and you may do anything you wish.”
“I wouldn’t be able to stop,” he told her, and turned and ran.
He woke sweating, threw off the covers and got out of bed. The house was dark and quiet. The alarm clock meant to wake him for school said five minutes past four. He carried his books and notebooks to the dining-room table, turned on the light, and began to study.
In study hall that afternoon, he wrote this in his spiral notebook:
“One time Mr. Bates said how do you know this is real? Maybe what you dream is really real and this is a dream. How can you tell? People argued about it, but I did not because I knew the answer. It is because what you dream is different every night. Waking up you are wherever you went to sleep. Last night it was kind of the same as before, but different because the city was gone. Anyhow I could not see it. I met this girl who tried to get me to say what color her hair was, only I could not. She wanted to kiss me and I ran off.”
He made a small round dot for the final period, and read over what he had written. It seemed inadequate, and he added: “I would like to go back.”
He stopped upon the summit of a hill higher than most, and turned for a last look. She was standing on her rock now, sparsely robed in hair like fire that cast shadows upon her white flesh that were as black as paint. One hand held up her shining apple. When she saw he was watching her, she raised the other, kissed it, and blew the kiss to him.
For one brief instant he saw it fluttering toward him like a butterfly of cellophane. It touched his lips, soft and throbbing and redolent of the flowers that bloom under the sea. He shook, and could not stop.
A long time after that, when she and her inlet were many hills behind him and he had long since stopped trembling, he saw a black and white dog. It had a long and tangled coat, a long and feathery tail, and ears that would not stand up quite straight. He had never had a dog, but the people next door had a dog very much like that, a dog named Shep. He played with Shep now and then, and he whistled now.
The dog turned to look at him, pricking up the ears that would not quite stand up straight. It was some distance away but came trotting toward him, and he himself trotted to meet it, and stroked its head and rubbed its ears. After that the two of them went on together (the dog trotting at his heels) climbing and descending hills which gradually became less lofty and less rugged, sometimes catching glimpses of the sea to their left, where waves flashed in sunshine like mirrors, or stalked from darkling sea to darkling land like an army of ghosts.
The alarm clock was ringing tinnily. He got up and shut it off, stretched, and looked out the window. There were leaves, mostly brown, on the broken sidewalk in front of the house. He tried to remember whether they had been there the day before, and decided they had not.
Later, as he shuffled through the leaves, Shep joined him and accompanied him to the bus stop. He petted Shep and declared him to be a good dog, and found something strange in the way Shep looked at him, some quality that slipped away no matter how hard he tried to grasp it.
