FSF, May 2008

by Spilogale Authors

Billy shook his head so violently he almost fell. Think, damn it. The issue wasn't that Vanguard was building here. There'd been a parking garage or a department store or—something. Didn't really matter what, did it? That wasn't what pissed the spirits off. Were its toes webbed, too? Focus! What had the spirit said? “They know and just don't care."

  Then he had an idea. He turned it over in his soggy mind for a moment. He took a swig of the flat, warm dregs of his drink and told the spirit his plan.

  * * * *

  Billy woke to a pounding head, a mouth that tasted like an old welder's glove, and a stiff neck. He looked around for a long moment before he remembered where he was. After he and the spirit had reached an agreement—how the hell had he climbed down the ladder?—he'd kicked in the door of Adler's trailer, made a few scrawls on the back of an envelope, and passed out on the floor. A stack of manila folders had served as his pillow.

  He took a few moments to gather his notes and went outside. The heat and pressure of the sunlight made him throw up. He sagged against the trailer for a moment, gathering his strength. I'm earning Vanguard's money, he thought. He stumbled away from the smell of his vomit and snuck out the gate when the first of the day's shift came in. Through the black curtain of his hangover he could see the workers looked, if not cheerful, at least not frightened. Resigned to the day's work in the brutal heat. Joking with one another in Spanish, grinning.

  He found his pickup and burned his hands on the steering wheel. He needed time to gather his thoughts and—he sniffed—take a shower before he saw Vanguard again.

  "Hell is this?” Vanguard said, his thick finger prodding a square on Billy's diagram.

  "That—ah,” Billy glanced down at his notes, “is the altar stone."

  Vanguard grumbled and his assistant Lourdes jotted something on her clipboard. Billy wondered if she'd ever written the phrase “altar stone” before.

  "The hell am I going to get all the, the bones and knives and that altar stone?” Vanguard said, glaring at Billy. It wasn't personal—at least Billy didn't think it was. Vanguard had the look of a man who'd been told that his five-dollar lunch special was going to cost him two grand, and that he needed to pay in cash, right now, please.

  "Most of the artifacts are at the University of Miami. I'm sure a few judicious donations to the right departments would do the trick.” Billy showed him a confident smile. “Especially once they know what you're going to do with them."

  Vanguard frowned at Adler, who sat slumped staring at the diagram on the conference table. Billy took a moment to savor the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows. On a clear day, it was said, you could see the Bahamas from the top of Vanguard's Brickell tower.

  "Ridiculous!” Vanguard said and slammed a hand like a gunshot against the marble tabletop. “No way I'll turn my lobby into a museum!"

  "Mr. Adler,” Billy said, “in the last week, have there been any difficulties at the construction site? Complications? How many suicides?"

  Adler shifted in his chair. “No. Everything's going smoothly. Except some bum snuck in, made a big mess in my trailer."

  "And there won't be any.” Billy nodded.

  "Because you bribed the—spirits,” Vanguard said.

  "No, Mr. Vanguard, you did. I paid them in promises. In these promises.” He tapped the diagram. “Because you told me how important this whole thing was. But it's up to you to keep those promises."

  "Most ridiculous thing I ever heard of,” Vanguard said.

  "Or it could be a public relations coup,” Billy said. “Think about it. What other projects can claim to have their own spiritual advisor? Claim to be in tune with the Earth itself? You're already calling the building Circle. Now we're giving it a real identity."

  "He's right,” Adler said. “It's a lot more interesting than reiki massage.” Maybe he wasn't such a putz after all.

  Vanguard grimaced and rubbed his eyes. “These wall hangings?"

  "Traditional Seminole designs. I can put you in touch with some local artisans—"

  "Lourdes! Courier this over to the architect. Copy to the design firm. Go, go!"

  The woman scurried out of the room, leaving only a waft of floral perfume and the receding echo of spike heels.

  "Adler. Back to the site. No more complications."

  "There won't be,” Adler said. He stood and, to Billy's surprise, gave his hand a firm shake before strolling out the door.

  "There's more you need to know,” Billy told Vanguard. He wasn't sure if he was going too far. “I need to be there. On-site. Make sure it's all done right, you know, manage the process."

  Vanguard closed his eyes for a moment and gave a small nod. “'Course. How much?"

  Billy named an amount equal to his mortgage downpayment. Vanguard didn't blink. “Fine."

  Billy stood and offered his hand. Vanguard took it and, for the first time Billy could remember, smiled.

  "I like you. Like your shtick. You ever think of going into marketing? Development?"

  "No,” Billy said.

  "Don't,” Vanguard said. The smile was gone. “I'd crush you. You got one over on me now, Black. PR value of having you on-site's worth a lot. But it's just marketing, get it? Just reiki massage."

  * * * *

  On the morning of the grand opening eight months later, Billy strolled through the lobby, all smiles. One wall bore a lovingly detailed mural depicting this site as it had been two thousand years ago, complete with ritual dancers spinning around the limestone altar. Other swarthy men paddled canoes in the Intracoastal (and, if you looked closely, you would see that one of the figures had distinctly webbed fingers). A blue heron soared through the clear air. The remaining walls were covered with beaded tapestries woven by Seminole craftswomen who'd worked nonstop these last months to complete the order. Tastefully lit glass cases held stone knives, incised bones, and a few reconstructed clay vessels.

  Someone, maybe Lourdes, had taken the trouble to clip and frame some of the stories the Herald and other papers had run about Circle's transformation. Vanguard was being hailed as one of the few forward-looking developers for integrating local culture and history into this project. “Most condos,” one influential columnist posited, “have all the character of a strip mall. Their much-vaunted uniqueness is only so much marketing. Circle is truly different and completely unique."

  Billy joined Vanguard, Adler, and the crowd of reporters and PR flacks on the portico. At least three gaggles of grade school kids waited patiently in the heat for the opportunity to be among the first to tour the lobby.

  With a pair of oversized gold-plated scissors, Vanguard cut the pale blue ribbon that ran across the entry to Circle. He smiled. He reached over and shook Billy's hand for the camera. “You're fired,” he said.

  * * * *

  Tales of brujeria, widespread by his former coworkers at the Circle site, prevented even the most understaffed foremen from hiring him. Billy spent the days driving from construction site to construction site. He even applied for a job working a drive-through window at a fast food establishment. With Vanguard's money he'd managed the downpayment on the Everglades lot and had a deed, sealed and buried in an ammunition box under his tent. He no longer had to worry himself with eviction. Instead, he owed monthly payments to the bank. The due date was coming fast and Billy was starting to feel desperate.

  He'd hoped his work on Circle, the technique he called either culturally specific feng shui or urban planning for the new millennium, might gain him a few other contracts. Enough for a reasonable income. He'd even updated his Yellow Pages ad. Unfortunately, like Eli Whitney's cotton gin, Billy's concept had been so simple and obvious it didn't require any special talent whatsoever to set oneself up as a practitioner. The cell phone didn't ring. The sound of falling trees grew louder and louder. In his darker moments, he imagined that twenty years from now an intrepid young reporter would track him down, the man who'd pioneered the interesting lobby, and be surprised—even heartbroken—to find him whiling
away his years, playing solitaire, perhaps, on a tiny sliver of green in an ocean of concrete and glass.

  One evening, after he'd been turned down by nine employers (apparently he wasn't qualified to be a janitor, a yard worker, or a plumber's helper), he sat beside a modest campfire and nearly fell off his camp stool when his beat-up cell phone rang. Couldn't be the bank, the payment wasn't due for five days at least—they couldn't know he didn't have the money, could they?

  "Mr. Black? Mr. Billy Black, the shaman?"

  He admitted that he was.

  "I'm Arabella Bishop, Circle unit 3311. I just moved in and I need a purification, the psychic clutter's just unbelievable.” She gave a grating giggle. “I've looked all over for you. Why aren't you on site?"

  Billy saw the green gleam of an alligator's eyes in the undergrowth. “You should speak to Mr. Vanguard about that."

  "Building management's been no help at all. Can you be here, say, Wednesday at eleven?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Vanguard didn't see fit to continue to employ my services. You should speak to him directly.” Billy snapped the phone shut and nearly threw it into the trees. But in the end he held on to it, just in case the manager at the pizza place needed another delivery driver.

  One week later, Billy was frying his morning eggs and drinking scorched coffee when he heard the crash of a large animal in the undergrowth. His first thought was of his shotgun, now in a Hialeah pawn shop. He tensed, ready to fling sizzling grease onto whatever came out of the bushes.

  "Do you have any idea,” Vanguard shouted, “how hard it is to find this goddamn place?” He strode out of the vegetation and shook dead leaves from his pants cuff.

  "That's the whole point,” Billy said. He relaxed and flipped his eggs with a spoon.

  "So, whose idea was it to organize a harassment campaign? Half the tenants at Circle are calling my office. Last night I was accosted at dinner—at dinner!—by a woman named Bishop."

  "I can sympathize,” Billy said. “I'd offer you a seat, but—here, this ground cloth's mostly dry.” Billy started to eat his eggs.

  "How can you live like this?” Vanguard remained standing. “It's disgusting."

  Billy smiled through the mouthful of eggs. “We have different standards of disgusting. Now, explain to me how I'm supposed to keep the residents of your condo project from calling you?"

  Vanguard made a pained face. “I screwed up, Black. I screwed up by letting you on board in the first place. Now everyone associates you with Circle. Circle, shaman. Personally I think you're a complete phony, but I can't find anyone to replace you. There's one guy in Kamchatka.” Vanguard shrugged. “But his relocation expenses are astronomical."

  Billy finished the last bite of his breakfast. “I'd love to hear more, but right now that idea I came up with is red hot. Arveeta are working on a new development called Happy Hunting Grounds. They're going to need a Seminole shaman too.” Billy dumped out the dregs of his coffee. “Now I know we're in such short supply, maybe I'll wait for a bidding war to start."

  Vanguard clenched his jaw. “Here we go again,” he muttered. “What exactly would it take to bring you on board?"

  Billy reached into his back pocket and pulled out a tattered map of the Glades Free Enterprise Zone. It had been folded and unfolded so many times that the crease lines were white, marking the forest in neat pale grids. “Let me show you exactly what I want."

  * * * *

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from a Vanguard Group press release

  "Over forty percent of the Everglades Free Enterprise Zone will be preserved in its natural state in perpetuity,” explained Lourdes Garcia, spokesperson for the Vanguard Group. “This offers residents and visitors a unique opportunity to experience all the wonders of the natural environment while residing in some of the finest single-family homes ever constructed...."

  Extract from a Circle brochure given to new owners

  * * * *

  Get in Touch with the World Within

  To soothe the body and heal the mind, Circle offers an entire suite of both cutting-edge and paleolithic services. Spend some time in the Swedish dry spa before taking a swim in the Olympic pool. Indulge yourself with a reiki massage to realign your body's energies for maximum health and wellness.

  For issues of a more ethereal nature, visit our on-staff Seminole shaman, William Blackfeathers (Mezzanine level, room 311). Circle is the only community in Miami with an on-call spiritual consultant! He offers past-life regression, color counseling (when the wrong carpet choice just won't do), psychic cleansing, transformational counseling, private rituals and many more services. All complimentary to our Circle guests. Call ahead—Mr. Blackfeathers's schedule is a busy one, but he's always willing to help.

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  FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION MARKET PLACE

  * * * *

  BOOKS-MAGAZINES

  S-F FANZINES (back to 1930), pulps, books. 96 page Catalog. $5.00. Collections purchased. Robert Madle, 4406 Bestor Dr., Rockville, MD 20853.

  19-time Hugo nominee. The New York Review of Science Fiction. www.nyrsf.com Reviews and essays. $4.00 or $38 for 12 issues, checks only. Dragon Press, PO Box 78, Pleasantville, NY 10570.

  Spiffy, jammy, deluxy, bouncy—subscribe to Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet. $20/4 issues. Small Beer Press, 176 Prospect Ave., Northampton, MA 01060.

  ENEMY MINE, All books in print. Check: www.barrylongyear.net

  DREADNOUGHT: INVASION SIX—SF comic distributed by Diamond Comics. In “Previews” catalog under talcMedia Press. Ask your retailer to stock it! www.DreadnoughtSeries.com

  The Contested Earth by Jim Harmon and The Compleat Ova Hamlet, parodies of SF authors by Richard A. Lupoff. www.ramble house.com 318-865-3735

  BUYING Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror magazines and paperbacks. Will travel for large collections. Send list to: Hart Box 421013 Indianapolis, IN 46242 or email jakexhart@gmail.com

  Collected Stories by Marta Randall. 12 previously uncollected stories. Available from www.lulu.com.

  "Tonight's weather report contains some alarming material. Viewer discretion advised.” 101 Funny Things About Global Warming by Sidney Harris & colleagues. Now available www.bloomsburyusa.com

  Do you have Fourth Planet from the Sun yet? Signed hardcover copies are still available. Only $17.95 ppd from F&SF, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030.

  SLAUGHTERHOUSE 5, CATTLE 0. The first 58 F&SF contests are collected in Oi, Robot, edited by Edward L. Ferman and illustrated with cartoons. $11.95 postpaid from F&SF, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030.

  * * * *

  MISCELLANEOUS

  If stress can change the brain, all experience can change the brain. www.undoingstress.com

  Support the Octavia E. Butler Memorial Scholarship Fund. Visit www.carlbrandon.org for more information on how to contribute.

  Space Studies Masters degree. Accredited University program. Campus and distance classes. For details visit www.space.edu.

  AMAZING SPACE VENTURE—clever tile and card-playing game of intergalactic space exploration. www.amazingspaceventure.com

  Zero down payment gets you in on the ground floor of Arvida's luxurious Happy Hunting Ground development. Only 5 minutes from the Everglades. Complimentary stuffed totem animal for every resident! Estimated completion 2019.

  Witches, trolls, demons, ogres ... sometimes only evil can destroy evil! Greetmyre, a deliciously wicked gothic fantasy ... “compelling and exciting” (BookReview.com). Trade paperback at www.buybooksontheweb.com or call troll free 1-877 BUY BOOK.

  TRADE-A-BOOK: Fantasy/Sci-Fi/Horror collectibles, hard-to-find, and other used books at affordable prices. We ship worldwide. Buy at www.tradeabook.com. 408-248-7598.

  Giant Squid seeks humans to advise. Apply within. Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), www.squid.poormojo.org

  F&SF classifieds work because the cost is low: only $2.00 per word (minimum of 10 words). 10% discount for 6 consecutive insertions, 15% for 12. You'll reach 100,00
0 high-income, highly educated readers each of whom spends hundreds of dollars a year on books, magazines, games, collectibles, audio and video tapes. Send copy and remittance to: F&SF Market Place, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030.

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  Curiosities: The Stolen March, by Dornford Yates (1926)

  Dornford Yates (real name Cecil Mercer) retains a cult following for two linked fiction series, both very English: the Chandos thrillers and the Berry comedies of upper-class misadventure.

  His little-known The Stolen March has Berry connections and begins with high-spirited criminal capers on a Continental tour, bringing together two young couples who then stumble into the lost country of Etchechuria.

  This lies between France and Spain, hidden by compass-jamming magnetic mountains and by magic. It's a medieval fairyland, where visitors must outwit malign dwarfs and be equally wary of ogres and husband-hungry princesses. Further devices include shape-changing, talking animals, invisibility cloaks and the Philosopher's Stone.

  As in the Alice books, inhabitants are addicted to lunatic whimsy and logic-chopping. A manufacturing town is named Date because, naturally, “All the best stuff's out of Date.” Nursery-rhyme allusions abound.

  One visitor can out-talk the gabby natives: Pomfret, whose grumpy magniloquence is reminiscent of Yates's Berry, the English squire. Like Berry, he's fond of comparing people to “blue-based baboons"; unlike Berry, he's threatened with transformation into one....

  Eventually the country's hospitality becomes overwhelming. Unwanted honors must be accepted on pain of death. A madcap chase sequence ensues as our outlawed tourists flee through glowing rustic scenery: Yates loved descriptive ecstasies about both landscape and women. All ends idyllically, thanks to creative real-world use of the Midas touch.

  Somehow the Encyclopedia of Fantasy (1997), though mentioning Yates in passing, missed this comic fairytale.

  —David Langford

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  Coming Attractions

  Next month we'll accompany a tall man with gray eyes to America's Southwest in search of ... well, it would give away too much to say what he seeks. But you'll enjoy accompanying him on his search in “Litany” by Rand B. Lee.