by Anthology
—Traitor!—
——
—Right!—
* * *
Up, up goes a ragtag fleet of leftovers m rejects, cripples m trainers, cargo ships m normally unarmed couriers m whatever the hell old Moorman can scrape up carrying whatever the hell old Pallbox can scrape up and down it comes again in chunks & cinders & anybody survived the zapbap crap uppa high turns to jelly when he hits ground as fast as those poor bastards hit it.
Couple hours later some old town shakes m breaks m that’s the end of it. Probably it was Bayou La Batre but no matter really.
* * *
New gumt.
Up goes the leftovers of the leftovers, rejects of the rejects, spastics & amputees & idiots & tiny tots m down comes jusssst dusssst.
Fsssssss!
* * *
New gumt. They face facts.
* * *
Freddie wakened crying as usual. Somehow they missed him in both combouts but old Bayou La Batre boy, he didn’t do so well, not so well, one day troopers rang the bell, oh hell, ta-ta B La B b.
Now Freddie wakened crying. Well, nobody ever said it was all Jack Daniels and cheesecake. Into the old plaingrays m off to work.
M now the old emcee was introducing the act. Boyzna band made a big thing plane Dixie, heculan headbone hornist givena wow-wow-wow heren theren marracas brrrpin m drummer whanging m banging on the old whiteskins m now Freddie listened fruck you.
—Ladies m gentlemen, ladies m gentlemen—(some familiar faces m some unfamiliars out there tonight)—mespecially our honored guess from offworld—he made a little bow m fluttery movements wivviz hands, Freddie saw—zmai great pressure to welcome you to our little show, the finest in Leto m we believe sincerely one of the best on the whole (ahahaha) of N’Alabama.—
He taken a little swing around the floor looken at customers. Then—Mnow folks, sgreat pressure present the star are show, dancing for your sthetic ratification, Miss Merriass Markham!—
Rowna plause. Lights down. Music up.
Miss Merriass prances onstage to marraca scrucks m headbone honks, Freddie watches her through misty-dim eyes, sniffles a snuffle or two. Ah, Miss Merriass, she’s a beauty as ever, maybe a few pounds heavier (most everybody else is lighter these days) but she still got that old swaying grace.
Those blond locks they’re a tiny wee darker now, proximately space black one might sight, m that beaches m clean complexion getting fashionably otherwise these days, what with lossa sunning m certain pills thatter not exactly talked about too much but very very popular. Miss Merriass she’s hardly no darker than most of the grinning tourists ringside, mind, but fashionable, fashionable, N’Ala ladies (don’t split no hairs bebay) mostly all looking a wee bit suntanned these days to say the leastest.
Miss Merriass she stands there in her old costume, summat weather-beaten m ragged but still worth looking at m serviceable (that’s the costume) (also Miss Merriass) m that stretchable halter with the cutouts wooeee how that must cut in but it does, it does draw the eye to those two openings wherein Miss Merriass demonstrates her devotion to the Way Things Are Today.
And panties, well, just dwell, rivet your attention on that lovely third dimension Miss Emem displays. Nudity? She’s got it licked all holler, has Miss Merry.
Well she starts inta moving m the band starts inta zowwing m vooming m she starts inta swinging her shoulders around m they matcher in sound m Miss Merriass gizzema little bump m a snicker circles the dark audience m she gizzema little grind, watch that behind, m they find that sommenta cheer over m Miss Merry she calls out a couple squeaky-high questions (surprising still to sweet Freddie but what) m back come a couple answers, accented a bit yesss, but comprehensible enow m Freddie (doesn’t this surprise?) actually blushes there backstage m Miss Merriass:
:gr-r-r-r-i-i-n-n-d-sem another grind, swinging those hips around m around, knees bent m spread m hands out somehow managing to gamma-little titshow simultaneous m:
:w-h-a-m!:
:comes the bump you can see the heads jerk back like she smackedem every one square between the eyes with that old precious thump m before they recover Miss Merriass is turned around m doin something m splook that halter’s gone m she’s facingem again somehow bedecked m doing the ancient tassel trick a swinging m a swirling m the old tassels a twirling m up goes a big cheer (generous these tourists, with their praise; their money’s another matter) m Miss Merriass keeps doing that trick for a while m then she somehow slips outen the tassels m tosses m to a couple front row Pierres clearly making do with local talent m lights off m music up m Merriass offstage m emcee on m intermission m trine sell some cazzappie booze m make a few rupees.
Nabackinna room behind patrons tables Miss Merriass spots as she’s headed offstage one of them bloodcurdling weirdoes you see nowna gain since the New Thing began: standing silent, lankblank hair hanging down, pasty-faced with dead-looking eyes m one hand, she can see, black as the space of aides and the other like the face m a spot of chest another shade, is this thing even a spade? It don’ talk, it don’ spend. But the New Visitors (to euphemize not excessively) have made it known, leave em lone.
She does.
* * *
Ch’en-Gordon slowly turned hir head, causing hir Gordon eyes to scan the room. Se moved slowly now, carefully: hir seams were sore, sore, movement was difficult, Gordon parts were slow to obey Ch’en commands, lying at times almost as if dead. At times Ch’en-Gordon had to swing a shoulder to move an arm and hand, flailing them as virtually inanimate extensions of hirself.
In the dimness and wafting smoke se saw tables of black men and women, those farthest to the front of the room, and couples mixed, the white, whether man or woman, seeming subservient, eager to curry favor of the other, and in the back, farthest from the show space, a few, few tables of N’Alabamian natives nervously darting glances at the backs of the blacks.
At one table in the front row a N’Haitian in casual dress leisurely draws a small pipe from one pocket, a small glassine envelope from another and begins to pack the bowl of the pipe with fine greenish shreds from the glassine envelope.
His companion, a black girl in fashionable striped trousers, a rough leathern bag hanging between her glistening breasts, reaches forward and touches his hand. He spurts a flame into the bowl of his pipe, in a moment Ch’en-Gordon sees gray-blue cloudlets rise; the man holds the pipe for the black girl who bends to draw on it, her naked breasts resting on his arm.
She leans back smiling; both looking around the room, expressions of scorn appearing as their eyes encounter the N’Alabamians in the rear.
Ch’en-Gordon, pain and weakness in every seam, locks eyes for an instant with the man. Transfers attention to the girl. Back to the man. Something se sees, something se recognizes.
Pain crying from every part, Ch’en-Gordon lurches between tables, falls to macroknees, elbows resting on the table of the two blacks. Se looks into eyes of the man, hir mouth opens and shuts trying to cry for aid, for aid from him who alone can provide it. He looks pityingly, uncomprehendingly. Se turns to the girl, mutely appealing. She draws back.
Se falls forward, hir head lolls on the fakewood table. Se moans, hir mouth falling open, tongue lolling, spiremes emerging, writhing, screaming mutely to speak, to be understood, to be aided.
Rejection antibodies dance, swirl, rush joyously.
Ch’en-Gordon falls from the fakewood table, clatters onto the floor, seams opening, dark fluids rushing out and spreading under the table.
The man shoves his pipe into his pocket, takes his companion, her face buried in his coat, quickly from the room.
* * *
Backstage Miss Merriass pisses m moans a little m starts into her other costume, Freddie helping. Half-dressed Miss Merriass sits down m supplements her pills with a little body makeup m Freddie checks himself all out m he’s ready m now Miss Merriass finishes with her costume m now theykn hear the music coming up again m listen, listen, here’s Mister Emcee’s voice:<
br />
:—A dramatic interpretation ladies m gentlemen, music m drama m dance combine to present a traditional reenactment m again we prowly present Miss Emem—:
:plite plaws m a drumroll m Merriass she steps onstage again m a pure-brite spangspot spangs onta her, dark tresses swaying m shining, dark skin soft looking m ladylike in a somewhat revealing dashiki red m blue m yellow m green m out she strolls m around she rolls, music clipping m pipping m Miss Merriass she makes it look fine m then it’s Freddie’s cue m he:
:slithers onstage wearing traditional N’Alabamian dress m wivviz hairnskin a bit lightern natural m Miss Merriass she struts about m Freddie he slinks after hern suddenly:
:wham!:
:Freddie springs m Miss Merriass she shrieks m Freddie grabs m Miss Merriass struggles m Freddie he gets a hand down the backa Miss Markham’s special breakaway costume m:
:rip!:
:it does, m Miss Markham she struggles shamedly to cover up her big fat boobs but Freddie:
:(on cue) growls m slobbers m rips m suddenly, music thumping m roaring, spangspot bobbing m audience throbbing they freeze in a tableau:
:Miss Merriass Markham standing there feet apart hands on hips naked m black in the spotlight, head thrown back, black hair glistening (light roots showing just a little) here m there, wherever one wishes to point the orbs, bare ass aquivering waiting for the tableau to break while:
:Freddie, plane his role to the hilt, the N’Alabamian animan crouched m slobbering, fingers like claws reaching for the pure black flesh of that noble figure m the only sound in the deathy club is now Freddie:
:sobbing:
:m crack! goes the drummer m mrow-wow-ow the heculan headboner joins m the tableau breaks as Freddie leaps forward but Miss Merriass has something startling what is it what can that be something lookie, lookie, curling around one leg, follow with your eye bebay around, around the sweet soft fleshy thigh, making a thick underline for that classy ass of hers, around through the crotch (ooh, that’s smart!) m around the leg ontce more, looping around, ass-crotch-thigh-ass-crotch-thigh m after a certain number of revolutions coming from behind sozeta protrude horizontally forward from that delightful lady’s pubes this handle, some half a foot long give or take a couple centimeters m about as thick as a baby’s ankle m made of hard rubber m ridged, sozeta offer a good grip:
:m Miss Markham stares down that crouching beast for the few seconds as it takes to unwind that thing from around her leg m pulling forward on the handle it follows from between her legs m she raises it high in the spangspot m there’s another roll of drums m Freddie:
:yowls!:
:m the drummer gives a loud Ktakk!:
:m Miss Markham’s whip gives a crack!:
:m Freddie howls (it’s part of the act, right, but Miss Merriass do you gotta make it so real!) m grovels m:
:the whip comes m:
:Freddie writhes m:
:the whip comes m:
:Freddie screams m:
:the whip comes m:
:Freddie falls tooz knees m:
:the whip comes m:
:Freddie grovels m:
:Miss Merriass gizzin just one nice thunk wivver naked foot m:
:stagelights down, houselights up, actors off, emcee on, waiters move, business goes, music plays, money circulates m:
:life is sure not much fun for Freddie, but what the hell, the boy hasta earn a living.
Afterword
Having grown up on Heinlein, Bradbury, Clarke, Asimov, Simak, Schmitz, Pohl and Kornbluth, Kuttner and Moore, Ray Jones and the rest of the 40s-50s crowd, I found myself in an odd place starting around 1962. That Burroughs project that you already know about was then underway, and to get a better handle on Burroughs I set out to read not only his complete works but as much of the stuff that he was likely to have read as a boy back in the 1880s and 90s as I could . . . and then to read as much of the output of his contemporaries as I could, works running up in fact to the Heinlein-Bradbury-etc period but mostly concentrated in the years before 1920.
This went on for years, and even when I came up for air in 1966 and wrote my first novel, it was very much in the traditional mold. Following which I plunged back into the works of Garrett P. Serviss.
A year later Sid Coleman, Terry Carr, Carol Carr, Boyd Raeburn, Patricia Lupoff and I were savoring a bottle of St. Emilion in La Cave Henri IV on Third Avenue in New York. Terry and Sid were carrying on something awful about something called the “new wave.” After a while I made my contribution to the conversation: it was “What’s that?”
Sid and Terry exchanged glances, hemmed, hawed, offered to defer to each other, and finally said “It’s what Ballard and Disch write, and Delany and maybe Zelazny.”
“Oh,” I replied, duly illuminated, and when the opportunity next presented itself I picked up a book by Zelazny, read it, put it down, and remarked to nobody in particular, “I see what it is, he plays a few little tricks, that’s what it is.” And I sat down and started a story with a few little tricks in it.
Nobody would touch it, though, so I put the fragment away until Harlan bought the thing. For the record, I resumed work at the start of chapter four, on January 1, 1969, and finished the story on March 3, three days behind schedule due to a three-day excursion to Kansas City in February, courtesy of my then-employer. All the writing was done in the evening or on weekends. Which may be more detail than you care about.
Soon as I finished I ground out an afterword about science fiction saving the world (with me in the vanguard) but when I saw galley proofs almost three years later I chucked that afterword in the garbage. It’s just a story, pals.
And as for the style, what I guess is going on is an attempt to get away from the notion of “using” the language to “tell” the story, and instead to make the language the story. I don’t know that I’d ever write another one this way: I try never to write two books the same: it’s a lot more fun when you don’t know what’s coming.
But I’m a little bit upset by the new wave-old wave struggle, not because I’m against any particular style or attitude in fiction, but because I don’t like to see people attempting to suppress styles or attitudes. I suppose this story will get me labelled as a “new waver” or whatever they’re called these days, and that’s all right because my favorite science fiction writer these days is J. G. Ballard and my favorite writer who writes science fiction is Tom Disch, and I’m very fond of the works of Moorcock (when he tries) and Delany and Zelazny (most of the time).
But I’m also pleasured by the works of Doc Smith and Edmond Hamilton and Otto Binder and Jack Williamson . . . and Larry Niven, by the way, who is indeed fit for that company.
But what the hell, gang, that guy from Stratford was the greatest of us all, and what we’re all striving to do is just write a good one this time out.
I sure do wish that something would happen to unfreeze that book that Harlan mentioned, Thintwhistle, that’s in inventory up at Dell. (All together now, “Come on, Dell, publish the damned thing already!”) See, it’s set in 1884 and the plot is a little like that of the boys’ books of that era, so it’s written in the style of the boys’ books of that era.
The style is not something that the author has lying around, that he sticks onto the work at whim; the style is an organic part of the story, as much an aspect of the whole as the characterization or the plot itself. John Brunner knows this, Brian Aldiss knows it, maybe Doc Smith knew it. Hmmm.
To get back to The Bentfin Boomer Boys for a moment, I should mention that the vodu, or voodoo, lore in the story is reasonably authentic. The sources for it are The Magic Island by W. B. Seabrook, Voodoo Fire in Haiti by Richard A. Loederer, and Voodoo in New Orleans by Robert Tallant. In places I did compress and combine various beliefs and practices, but the elements themselves are all based on the reference works, including the vodu hymns and their translations.
As for all the fuss that Harlan talks about, concerning this story . . . well, I don’t want to g
et into raking that stuff up in here. I just wish that I could write my stories and ship ‘em off, and get back a little money for them (not greedy, hungry) and with reasonable dispatch see ‘em in print.
The opposite has proved so consistently to be the case—hassle, hassle, hassle with agents, editors, publishers, accountants, what have you—that I wondered if maybe there was a plot against me, or if I was just being paranoid about things (which was hardly a perferable choice).
Then just the other day Paul Williams the critic/essayist/founder-of-rock-journalism dropped in and . . . (In fact he’s still here, he’s sitting in the living room listening to Dylan while I’m stuck in here typing.) . . . in the course of catching up on recent events began telling the story of his several books.
Nope, it isn’t paranoia.
LAMIA MUTABLE
M. John Harrison
Introduction
I’ve never been to England—a trip I lust to make—and hence have never met M. (for Michael) John Harrison. Further hence, I won’t trouble you with conjectures or maunderings about Mike, save to note that he writes lovely stories of considerable muscularity, sensitivity and impact, not to mention some of the friendliest letters an editor could conceive of receiving. This year I will be going to England for the first time—thereby making Moorcock and Brunner and Aldiss wish they had never extended the invite—and I will make it a point to meet Mike Harrison. For those of you concerned by the lack of Ellisonian viewpoint on this author, along about 1973 a self-addressed, stamped envelope sent to me via Doubleday, asking for the minute précis on Harrison, will net you a dandy typewritten insert for this volume.
Moving right along, folks, here is Harrison:
“Born 25 years ago in Rugby, a place where aristocratic children are educated. Nobody else ever goes there. I was educated with unbelievable ineptitude at a meat-factory of a school that guaranteed to turn a teenager into a horn-rimmed research chemist in no less than eight years. Nobody aristocratic went there. I loathed it. I was a failure. I spent a short time working with horses in a fox-hunting stable, where I learned that a feudal system still operates in rural England, and that the New Peasantry like it. Or maybe they’re the Old Peasantry, still dizzy from learning that the world is round and that Jesus has pretty much had it. I spent an even shorter time at a teacher-training college, where I learned that 90% of all teachers are dedicated to producing clean, short-haired adding-machines, using children for raw material. I got sick of the whole glossy educational machine and came to London, simultaneously robbing the college of its best female student. I’ve been here ever since, learning to write and getting progressively hungrier.
