by Simon Ings
It was still dark out, the wind shrieking and flapping the sides of the tent. Coren sat upright and fumbled with the lantern. The flash of light made per wince, and the icy air had per quickly wrapping perself in the blankets.
“Are you feeling better?” Alina asked.
“What are you doing? Molesting me in my sleep?” Coren demanded.
“You were hypothermic. I am generating heat for you.”
“You’re generating…” Coren looked bewildered. Then per saw the discarded debris of Alina’s dinner. “You ate everything?”
“You needed heat,” Alina said.
“You stupid…” Coren rubbed the side of per head. “Damn it, it’s too cold to argue with you.”
Per abruptly crawled back down into the blankets and pressed against Alina, seeking out every inch of warmth. Miserably per said, “You’re too good to pass up. I haven’t been this warm in months.”
“There is no shame in needing heat,” Alina replied, her chin atop Coren’s head. “I’m only a machine.”
“But it’s gross,” Coren muttered. ‘You could have at least kept your shirt on. Or my shirt on. What’d you have to take everything off for?”
“More effective heat transfer. Are you anxious because I am now aware of your physiology? You obviously have an XXY or XXYY chromosome arrangement.”
Coren sighed. “I don’t care what you think of my chromosomes. It’s gross because you’re topless and those are your naked breasts I’m up against and my full name is Coren Crowther and you’re my damned grandmother, how’s that?”
*
“I’m not your grandmother,” Alina said the next morning, as they packed up the tent under the clear blue sky. A thin layer of ice covered everything, but the storm was well past. “I’m a toaster oven who happened to carry your father’s fetus to full term.”
Coren was back in per own clothes, disgruntled because there was no food left for breakfast. “You keep saying that. But my dad, he’s the one who calls you his robot mom. He told us about you for the first time last year, on his birthday. Who would have guessed it?”
“He runs the community you live in,” Alina surmised. “In the coal mine.”
“The Crowthers made their money in coal,” Coren replied. Per tied down the last strap on the sled. “If the weather’s okay, we should be there in about five or six days. Is the baby going to be okay if you don’t get any food? You ate everything we had.” Alina had already calculated her nutrient levels. “It is not optimal, but I can sustain Con Leche, yes.”
“I might not be in such good shape. You might be dragging me on this sled by the time we get there. But it’ll be worth it just to see my dad’s face.”
“Is his gratitude important to you?”
“It’s not about gratitude.” Coren took up the sled straps. “I’ve got three older brothers. Big macho men. Everyone looks up to them, all the girls want to—well, you know. Me? Not so much. No one expects me to be as strong or fast or smart. So this way, I could prove myself. I could do something no one else did.”
Alina nodded. “I don’t have wishes, but if I did, I would wish to see your father. To help you prove your worth, regardless of the size of your testicles or breasts.”
Coren winced. “We don’t have to talk about that, okay?” Then per face clouded up. “What do you mean, you would wish it?”
“1721 Peach Tree Lane,” Alina said. “I must find Con Leche’s parents.”
“But you—” Coren started. “You can’t make it to Georgia on your own. That’s weeks away in this terrain and weather. The baby won’t last.”
“I will find food,” Alina told per. “I can trade or barter, I can perform sexual acts with strangers, I can dig up frozen corpses—”
Coren held up both hands. “Stop talking!”
Alina went silent. Coren took a deep breath and said, “The mine is a sure thing. We’ve got food and we can figure out a way to get your womb open; we’ve got some men who used to know a lot about computers—”
“Good luck to you, Coren, and thank you for rescuing me.” Alina started walking across the snow.
Coren caught up to her and snagged her sleeve. “No, wait! I’m serious. You can’t just wander around looking for two men who probably died a long time ago.”
“I’m aware there is risk,” Alina said. “But I can’t change my programming. I must seek the parents and deliver their child.”
She resumed walking. The fresh snow was thick and wet, hard on her snowshoes. The icy air made the slightest sound carry clear and wide. She was one tenth of a mile along the road before she heard Coren come after her with the sled. Alina stopped and waited.
“No digging up corpses,” Coren said firmly. “No more naked in the middle of the night. If I say run, you say how far. And after the baby’s done, you come back to the mine with me. Agree to all that, and I’ll go with you. Stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ll go with you.”
Alina smiled. “Thank you. Together we can make Dan and Mark very happy.”
“We’ll see about that,” Coren said, not sounding entirely hopeful, and together they trudged toward the blinding white horizon.
(2012)
I AM CRYING ALL INSIDE
Clifford D. Simak
Clifford Donald Simak was born in Millville, Wisconsin in 1904. He wrote more than two dozen novels, several nonfiction science books and hundreds of short stories during a 37-year career as reporter, news editor and science editor for The Minneapolis Star and The Minneapolis Tribune. He received three Hugo awards, three Nebula Awards, and the Horror Writers Association made him one of three inaugural winners of the Bram Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement. In novels like City (1952) and Way Station (1963), Simak transported the Midwestern farmers he knew as a boy to imaginary planets while plaguing them with familiar, earthbound dilemmas. Robots feature prominently in his stories, likeable at first, but often morphing in surprising ways. Simak’s favourite recreation was fishing (“the lazy way, lying in a boat and letting them come to me”). He died in Minneapolis in 1988.
I do my job, which is hoeing corn. But I am disturbed by what I hear last night from this Janglefoot. Me and lot of other people hear him. But none of the folk would hear. He careful not to say what he say to us where any folk would hear. It would hurt their feeling.
Janglefoot he is travelling people. He go up and down the land. But he don’t go very far. He often back again to orate to us again. Although why he say it more than once I do not understand. He always say the same.
He is Janglefoot because one foot jangle when he walk and he won’t let no one fix it. It make him limp but he won’t let no one fix it. It is humility he has. As long as he limp and jangle he is humble people and he like humility. He think it is a virtue. He think that it become him.
Smith, who is blacksmith, get impatient with him. Say he could fix the foot. Not as good as mechanic people, although better than not fixing it at all. There is a mechanic people not too far away. They impatient with him too. They think him putting on.
Pure charity of Smith to offer fix the foot. Him have other work. No need to beg for it like some poor people do. He hammer all the time on metal, making into sheet, then send on to mechanic people who use it for repair. Must be very careful keep in good repair. Must do it all ourself. No folk left who know how to do it. Folk left, of course, but too elegant to do it. All genteel who left. Never work at all.
I am hoeing corn and one of house people come down to tell me there is snakes. House people never work outdoors. Always come to us. I ask real snake or moonshine snake and they say real snake. So I lean my hoe on tree and go up hill to house.
Grandpa he is in hammock out on front lawn. Hammock is hung between two trees. Uncle John he is sitting on ground, leaning on one tree. Pa he is sitting on ground, leaning on other tree.
Sam, say Pa, there is snake in back.
So I go around house and there is timber rattler and I pick him up and he is mad at me and
hammer me real good. I hunt around and find another rattler and a moccasin and two garter snake. Garter snakes sure don’t amount to nothing, but I take them along. I hunt some more but that is all the snakes.
I go down across cornfield and wade creek and way back into swamp. I turn snakes loose. Will take them long time to get back. Maybe not at all.
Then I go back to hoeing. Important to keep patch of corn in shape. No weeds. Carry water when it needs. Soil work up nice and soft. Scare off crows when plant. Scare off coon and deer when corn come into ear. Full time job, for which many thanks. Also is important. George use corn to make the moon. Other patches of corn for food. But mine is use for moon. Me and George is partners. We make real good moonshine. Grandpa and Pa and Uncle John consume it with great happy. Any left over boys can have. But not girls. Girls don’t use moonshine.
I do not understand use of food and booze. Grandpa say it taste good. I wonder what is taste. It make Uncle John see snakes. I do not understand that either.
*
I am hoeing corn when there is sound behind me. I look and there is Joshua. He is reading Bible. He always reading Bible. He make big job of it. Also, he is stepping on my hills of corn. I yell at him and run at him. I hit him with the hoe. He ran out of patch. He know why I hit him. I hit him before. He know better than stepping on the corn. He stand under tree and read. Standing in the shade. That is putting on. Only folk need to stand in shade. People don’t.
Hitting him, I break my hoe. I go to Smith to fix. Smith he glad to see me. Always glad to see each other. Smith and me are friend. He drop everything to fix hoe. Know how important corn is. Also do me favor.
We talk of Janglefoot. We agree is wrong the way he speak. He speak heresy. (Smith he tell me that word. Joshua, once he get unmad at me for hitting him, look up how to spell.) We agree, Smith and me, folk are genteel folk, not kind said by Janglefoot. Agree something should be done to Janglefoot. Don’t know what to do. We say we think more of it.
George come by. Say he need me. Folk out of drinking likker. So I go with him while Smith is fixing hoe. George he has nice still, real neat and clean. Good capacity. Also try hard to age moonshine but never able to. Folk use it up too fast. He have four five-gallon jugs. We each take two and walk to house.
We stop at hammock where three still are. Tell us leave one jug there, take three to woodshed, put away, bring back some glasses. We do. We pour out glasses of moonshine for Grandpa and Pa. Uncle John he says never mind no glass for him, just put jug beside him. We do, leaving it uncork. Uncle John reach in pocket and bring out little rubber hose. Put one end in jug, other end in mouth. He lean back against tree and start sucking.
They make elegant picture. Grandpa look peaceful. Rocking in hammock with big glass of moon balance on his chest. We happy to see them happy. We go back to work. Smith has hoe fix and very sharp. It handle good. I thank him.
He say he still confuse at Janglefoot. Janglefoot claim he read what he say. In old record. Found record in old city far away. Smith ask if I know what city is. I say I don’t. We more confuse than ever. For that matter, don’t know what record is. Sound important, though.
*
I am hoeing corn when the Preacher pass and stop. Joshua gone somewhere. I tell him should have come sooner, Joshua standing under tree, reading Bible. He say Joshua only reading Bible, he interpret it. I ask him what interpret is. He tell me. I ask him how to spell it. He tell me. He know I try to write. He is helpful people. But pompous.
Night come on and moon is late to rise. Can no longer hoe for lack of seeing. So lean hoe against tree. Go to still to help George now making moonshine. George is glad of help. He running far behind.
I wonder to him why Janglefoot say same thing over and over. He say is repetition. I ask him repetition. He not sure. Say he think you say thing often enough people will believe it. Say folk use it in olden day. Make other folk believe thing that isn’t so.
I ask him what he know of olden day. He say not very much. He say he should remember, but he doesn’t. I should remember too, but I can’t remember. Too long ago. Too much happen since. It is not important except for what Janglefoot is saying.
George has good fire burning under still and it shine on us. We stand around and watch. Make good feeling in the gizzard. Owl talk long way off in swamp. Do not know why fire feel good. No need of warm. Do not know why owl make one feel lonesome. I no lonesome. Got George right here beside me. There is so many things I do not know. What city is or record. What taste is. What olden day is like. Happy though. Do not need to understand for happy.
People come from house, running fast. Say Uncle John is sick. Say he need doctor. Say he no longer seeing snakes. Seeing now blue alligator. With bright pink spots. Uncle John must be awful sick. Is no blue alligator. Not with bright pink spots.
George say he go to house to help, me run for Doc. George and house people leave, going very fast. I leave for Doc, also going fast.
Finally find Doc in swamp. He has candle lantern and is digging root. He always digging root. Great one for root and bark. He make stuff out of them for repairing folk. He is folk mechanic.
He standing in muck, up to knee. He cover with mud. He is filthy people. But he feel bad, hearing Uncle John is sick. Do not like blue alligator. Next he say is purple elephant and that is worst of all.
We run, both of us. I hold lantern at alligator hole while Doc wash mud off him. Never do to let folk seeing him filthy. We go to hut where Doc keep root and bark. He get some of it and we run for house. Moon has come up now, but we keep lantern. It help moonlight some.
*
We come to foot of hill with house on top of hill. All lawn between foot of hill and house. All lawn except for trees that hold up hammock. Hammock still is there, but empty. It blow back and forth in breeze. House stand up high and white. Windows in it shining.
Grandpa sit on big long porch that is in front of house, with white pillars to hold up roof. He sit in rocking chair. He rock back and forth. Another rocking chair beside him. He is only one around. Can see no one else. Inside of house women folk is making cries. Through tall window I can see inside. Big thing house people call chandelier hang from ceiling. Made of glass. Many candles in it. Candles all are burning. Glass look pretty in light. Furniture in room gleam with light. All is clean and polish. House people work hard to keep it clean and polish. Take big pride.
We run up steps to porch.
Grandpa say, you come too late. My son John is dead.
I do not understand this dead. When folk dead put them into ground. Say words over them. Put big stone at their head. Back of house is special place for dead. Lot of big stones standing there. Some new. Some old. Some so old cannot read lettering that say who is under them.
Doc run into house. To make sure Grandpa say right, perhaps. I stay on porch, unknowing what to do. Feel terrible sad. Don’t know why I do. Except knowing dead is bad. Maybe because Grandpa seem so sad.
Grandpa say to me, Sam sit down and talk.
I do not sit, I tell him. People always stand.
It was outrage of him to ask it. He know custom. He know as well as I do people do not sit with folk.
God damn it to hell, he say, forget your stubborn pride. Sitting is not bad. I do it all the time. Bend yourself and sit.
In that chair, he say, pointing to one beside him.
I look at chair. I wonder will it hold me. It is built for folk. People heavier than folk. Have no wish to break a chair with weight. Take much time to make one. Carpenter people work for long to make one.
But I think no skin off my nose. Skin off Grandpa’s nose. He the one that tell me.
So I square around so I hit the chair and bend myself and sit. Chair creak, but hold. I settle into it. Sitting feel good. I rock a little. Rocking feel good. Grandpa and me sit, looking out on lawn. Lawn is real pretty. Moonlight on it. First lawn and then some trees and after trees cornfield and other fields. Far away owl talk in swamp. Coon whicker. Fox bark
long way off.
It do beat hell, say Grandpa, how man can live out his life, doing nothing, then die of moonshine drinking.
You sure of moon, I ask. I hate to hear Grandpa blaming moonshine. George and me, we make real good moonshine.
Grandpa say, it couldn’t be nothing else. Only moonshine give blue alligator with bright pink spots.
No purple elephant, so say Grandpa.
I wonder what elephant might be. So much that I don’t know.
Sam, say Grandpa, we are a sorry lot. Never had no chance. Neither you nor us. Ain’t none of us no good. We folk sit around all day and never do a thing. Hunt a little, maybe. Fish a little. Play cards. Drink likker. Feel real energetic, maybe I’ll-play some horseshoe. Should be out doing something good and big. But we never are. While we live we don’t amount to nothing. When we die we don’t amount to nothing. We’re just no God damn good.
He went on rocking, bitter. I don’t like the way he talk. He feel bad, sure, but no excuse to talk the way he was. Elegant folk like him shouldn’t talk that way. Lay in hammock all day long, shouldn’t talk that way. Balance moonshine on his chest, shouldn’t talk that way. I uncomfortable. Wish to get away, but impolite to leave.
*
Down at bottom of hill, where lawn begin, I see many people. Standing, looking up at house. Pretty soon come slow up lawn and look closer at house. Saying nothing, just standing. Paying their respect. Letting folk know that they sorrow too.
We never was nothing but white trash, say Grandpa. I can see it now. Seen it for long, long time but could never say it. I can say it now. We live in swamp in houses falling down. Falling down because we got no gumption to take care of them. Hunt and fish a little. Trap a little. Farm a little. Sit around and cuss because we ain’t got nothing.
Grandpa, I say. I want him to stop. I don’t want to hear. Don’t want him to go on saying what Janglefoot been saying.
