The Big Book of Modern Fantasy

by The Big Book of Modern Fantasy (retail) (epub)

  When Headeye got to the top of the steps I was still makin my way up. The two jokers were gone. On each step was a number, and I couldn’t help lookin at them numbers. I don’t know what number was on the first step, but by the time I took notice I was on 1608, and they went on like that right on up to a number that made me pay attention: 1944. That was when I was born. When I got up to Headeye, he was standin on a number, 1977, and so I ain’t pay the number any more mind.

  If that ark was Noah’s, then he left all the animals on shore because I ain’t see none. I kept lookin around. All I could see was doors and cabins. While we was standin there takin in things, half scared to death, an old man come walkin toward us. He’s dressed in skins and his hair is gray and very woolly. I figured he ain’t never had a haircut all his life. But I didn’t say nothin. He walks over to Headeye and that poor boy’s eyes bout to pop out.

  Well, I’m standin there and this old man is talkin to Headeye. With the wind blowin and the moanin, I couldn’t make out what they was sayin. I got the feelin he didn’t want me to hear either, because he was leanin in on Headeye. If that old fellow was Noah, then he wasn’t like the Noah I’d seen in my Sunday School picture cards. Naw, sir. This old guy was wearin skins and sandals and he was black as Headeye and me, and he had thick features like us, too. On them pictures Noah was always white with a long beard hangin off his belly.

  I looked around to see some more people, maybe Shem, Ham, and Japheh, or wives and the rest who was suppose to be on the ark, but I ain’t see nobody. Nothin but all them doors and cabins. The ark is steady rockin like it is floatin on air. Pretty soon Headeye come over to me. The old man was goin through one of the cabin doors. Before he closed the door he turns around and points at me and Headeye. Headeye, he don’t see this, but I did. Talkin about scared. I almost ran and jumped off that boat. If it had been a regular boat, like somethin I could stomp my feet on, then I guess I just woulda done it. But I held still.

  “Fish-hound, you ready?” Headeye say to me.

  “Yeah, I’m ready to get ashore.” I meant it, too.

  “Come on. You got this far. You scared?”

  “Yeah, I’m scared. What kinda boat is this?”

  “The Ark. I told you once.”

  I could tell now that the roarin was not all the wind and voices. Some of it was engines. Could hear that chug-chug like a paddle wheel whippin up the stern.

  “When we gettin off here? You think I’m crazy like you?” I asked him. I was mad. “You know what that old man did behind your back?”

  “Fish-hound, this is a soulboat.”

  I figured by now I best play long with Headeye. He git a notion goin and there ain’t nothin mess his head up more than a notion. I stopped tryin to fake him out. I figured then maybe we both was crazy. I ain’t feel crazy, but I damn sure couldn’t make heads or tails of the situation. So I let it ride. When you hook a fish, the best thing to do is just let him get a good hold, let him swallow. Specially a catfish. You don’t go jerkin him up as soon as you get a nibble. With a catfish you let him go. I figured I’d better let things go. Pretty soon, I figured I’d catch up with somethin. And I did.

  Well, me and Headeye were kinda arguin, not loud, since you had to keep your voice down on a place like that ark out of respect. It was like that. Headeye, he tells me that when the cabin doors open we were suppose to go down the stairs. He said anybody on this boat could consider hisself called.

  “Called to do what?” I asked him. I had to ask him, cause the only kinda callin I knew about was when somebody hollered at you or when the Lord called somebody to preach. I figured it out. Maybe the Lord had called him, but I knew dog well He wasn’t callin me. I hardly ever went to church and when I did go it was only to play with the gals. I knowed I wasn’t fit to whip up no flock of people with holiness. So when I asked him, called for what, I ain’t have in my mind nothin I could be called for.

  “You’ll see,” he said, and the next thing I know we was goin down steps into the belly of that ark. The moanin jumped up into my ears loud and I could smell something funny, like the burnin of sweet wood. The churnin of a paddle wheel filled up my ears and when Headeye stopped at the foot of the steps, I stopped too. What I saw I’ll never forget as long as I live.

  Bones. I saw bones. They were stacked all the way to the top of the ship. I looked around. The under side of the whole ark was nothin but a great bonehouse. I looked and saw crews of black men handlin in them bones. There was crew of two or three under every cabin around that ark. Why, there must have been a million cabins. They were doin it very carefully, like they were holdin onto babies or somethin precious. Standin like a captain was the old man we had seen top deck. He was holdin a long piece of leather up to a fire that was burnin near the edge of an opening which showed outward to the water. He was readin that piece of leather.

  On the other side of the fire, just at the edge of the ark, a crew of men was windin up a rope. They were chantin every time they pulled. I couldn’t understand what they was sayin. It was a foreign talk, and I never learned any kind of foreign talk. In front of us was a fence so as to keep anybody comm n down the steps from bargin right in. We just stood there. The old man knew we was there, but he was busy readin. Then he rolls up this long scroll and starts to walk in a crooked path through the bones laid out on the floor. It was like he was walkin frontwards, backwards, sidewards and every which a way. He was bein careful not to step on them bones. Headeye, he looked like he knew what was goin on, but when I see all this I just about popped my eyes out.

  Just about the time I figure I done put things together, somethin happens. I bout come to figure them bones were the bones of dead animals and all the men wearin skin clothes, well, they was the skins of them animals, but just about time I think I got it figured out, one of the men haulin that rope up from the water starts to holler. They all stop and let him moan on and on.

  I could make out a bit of what he was sayin, but like I said, I never was good at foreign talk.

  Aba aba, al ham dilaba

  aba aba, mtu brotha

  aba aba, al ham dilaba

  aba aba, bretha brotha

  aba aba, djuka brotha

  aba aba, il ham dilaba

  Then he stopped. The others begin to chant in the back of him, real low, and the old man, he stop where he was, unroll that scroll and read it, and then he holler out: “Nineteen hundred and twenty-three!” Then he close up the scroll and continue his comm n towards me and Headeye. On his way he had to stop and do the same thing about four times. All along the side of the ark them great black men were haulin up bones from that river. It was the craziest thing I ever saw. Knowed then it wasn’t no animal bones. I took a look at them and they was all laid out in different ways, all making some kind of body and there was big bones and little bones, parts of bones, chips, tid-bits, skulls, fingers, and everything. I shut my mouth then. I knowed I was onto somethin. I had fished out somethin.

  I comest to think about a sermon I heard about Ezekiel in the valley of dry bones. The old man was lookin at me now. He look like he was sizing me up.

  Then he reach out and open the fence. Headeye, he walks through and the old man closes it. I keeps still. You best to let things run their course, in a situation like this.

  “Son, you are in the house of generations. Every African who lives in America has a part of his soul in this ark. God has called you, and I shall anoint you.”

  He raised the scroll over Headeye’s head and began to squeeze like he was tryin to draw the wetness out. He closed his eyes and talked very low.

  “Do you have your shield?”

  Headeye, he then brings out this funny cloth I see him with, and puts it over his head and it flops all the way over his shoulder like a hood.

  “Repeat after me,” he said. I figured that old man must be some kind of minister because he was ordainin
g Headeye right there before my eyes. Everythin he say, Headeye, he sayin behind him.

  Aba, I consecrate my bones.

  Take my soul up and plant it again.

  Your will shall be my hand.

  When I strike you strike.

  My eyes shall see only thee.

  I shall set my brother free.

  Aba, this bone is thy sea.

  I’m steady watchin. The priest is holdin a scroll over his head and I see some oil fallin from it. It’s black oil and it soaks into Headeye’s shield and the shield turns dark green. Headeye ain’t movin. Then the priest pulls it off.

  “Do you have your witness?”

  Headeye, he is tremblin. “Yes, my brother, Fish-hound.”

  The priest points at me then like he did before.

  “With the eyes of your brother Fish-hound, so be it?”

  He was askin me. I nodded my head. Then he turns and walks away just like he come.

  Headeye, he goes over to one of the fires, walkin through the bones like he been doin it all his life, and he holds the shield in till it catch fire. It don’t burn with a flame, but with a smoke. He puts it down on a place which looks like an altar or somethin, and he sits in front of the smoke cross-legged, and I can hear him moanin. When the shield it all burnt up, Headeye takes out that little piece of mojo bone and rakes the ashes inside. Then he zig-walks over to me, opens up that fence and goes up the steps. I have to follow, and he ain’t say nothin to me. He ain’t have to then.

  It was several days later that I see him again. We got back that night late, and everybody wanted to know where we was. People from town said the white folks had lynched a nigger and threw him in the river. I wasn’t doin no talkin till I see Headeye. Thas why he picked me for his witness. I keep my word.

  Then that evenin, whilst I’m in the house with my ragged sisters and brothers and my old papa, here come Headeye. He had a funny look in his eye. I knowed some notion was whippin his head. He must’ve been runnin. He was out of breath.

  “Fish-hound, broh, you know what?”

  “Yeah,” I said. Headeye, he know he could count on me to do my part, so I ain’t mind showin him that I like to keep my feet on the ground. You can’t never tell what you get yourself into by messin with mojo bones.

  “I’m leavin.” Headeye, he come up and stand on the porch. We got a no-count rabbit dog, named Heyboy, and when Headeye come up on the porch Heyboy, he jump up and come sniffin at him.

  “Git,” I say to Heyboy, and he jump away like somebody kick him. We hadn’t seen that dog in about a week. No tellin what kind of devilment he been into.

  Headeye, he ain’t say nothin. The dog, he stand up on the edge of the porch with his two front feet lookin at Headeye like he was goin to get piece bread chunked out at him. I watch all this and I see who been takin care that no-count dog.

  “A dog ain’t worth a mouth of bad wine if he can’t hunt,” I tell Headeye, but he is steppin off the porch.

  “Broh, I come to tell you I’m leavin.”

  “We all be leavin if the Sippi keep risin,” I say.

  “Naw,” he say.

  Then he walk off. I come down off that porch.

  “Man, you need another witness?” I had to say somethin.

  Headeye, he droop when he walk. He turned around, but he ain’t droop in.

  “I’m goin, but someday I be back. You is my witness.”

  We shook hands and Headeye, he was gone, moving fast with that no-count dog runnin long side him.

  He stopped once and waved. I got a notion when he did that. But I been keep in it to myself.

  People been askin me where’d he go. But I only tell em a little somethin I learned in church. And I tell em bout Ezekiel in the valley of dry bones.

  Sometimes they say, “Boy, you gone crazy?” and then sometimes they’d say, “Boy, you gonna be a preacher yet,” or then they’d look at me and nod their heads as if they knew what I was talkin bout.

  I never told em about the Ark and them bones. It would make no sense. They think me crazy then for sure. Probably say I was gettin to be as crazy as Headeye, and then they’d turn around and ask me again:

  “Boy, where you say Headeye went?”

  Sylvia Townsend Warner (1893–1978) was a British writer whose long career spanned a wide range of genres and styles, including seven novels, fourteen collections of stories (some posthumous), seven poetry collections, a translation of Proust, a study of Jane Austen, and a biography of T. H. White. (She was also the niece of the fantasy writer Arthur Machen.) Her popular first novel, Lolly Willowes (1926), tells the story of a woman who moves from London to the country and, to escape the burdens and expectations imposed on women, becomes a witch. Her work was rarely overtly fantastic, but also not exactly realism, as even her most slice-of-life work often feels as if the world it depicts is somehow a world of its own. She was one of the most prolific fiction writers for The New Yorker, publishing more than 150 stories in the magazine. The last book Warner published during her lifetime, The Kingdoms of Elfin (1977), brought together related fantasy stories, including “Winged Creatures,” which first appeared in The New Yorker in 1974. These were some of the last stories Warner wrote, and she wrote them a few years after the death of the great love of her life, Valentine Ackland. Submitting the first of the stories to her friend and editor William Maxwell, Warner explained, “I suddenly looked round on my career and thought, ‘Good God, I’ve been understanding the human heart for all these decades. Bother the human heart, I’m tired of the human heart. I’m tired of the human race. I want to write about something entirely different.’ ”

  WINGED CREATURES

  Sylvia Townsend Warner

  WHEN, AFTER MANY YEARS of blameless widowhood devoted to ornithology, Lady Fidès gave birth to a son, no one in the fairy Kingdom of Bourrasque held it against her. Elfin longevity is counterpoised by Elfin infertility, especially in the upper classes, where any addition to good society is welcomed with delight. Naturally, there was a certain curiosity about the father of Fidès’ child, and her intimates begged her to reveal his name so that he, too, could be congratulated on the happy event. With the best will in the world, Fidès could not comply. “My wretched memory,” she explained. “Do you know, there was one day last week—of course I can’t say which—when I had to rack my brains for three-quarters of an hour before I could remember ‘chaffinch.’ ”

  The baby’s features afforded no clue. It resembled other babies in having large eyes, pursed lips, and a quantity of fine fluff on its head. When the fluff fell out, Lady Fidès had it carefully preserved. It was exactly the shade of brown needed for the mantle of a song thrush she was embroidering at the time. As an acknowledgment, she called the baby Grive. Later on, when a growth of smooth black hair replaced the fluff, she tried to establish the child in its proper category by calling it Bouvreuil. But Grive stuck.

  In a more stirring court these incidents would have counted for nothing. Even Fidès’ lofty project of decorating a pavilion with a complete record of the indigenous birds of France in needlework, featherwork, and wax work would have been taken as something which is always there to be exhibited to visitors on a wet day. Bourrasque preferred small events: not too many of them, and not dilated on. The winds blowing over the high plains of the Massif Central provided all the stir, and more, that anyone in his senses could want.

  Indeed, Bourrasque originated in a desire for a quiet life. It was founded by an indignant fairy whose virginity had been attempted by a Cyclops. Just when this happened, and why she should have left the sheltering woodlands of the Margeride for a bare hillside of the Plomb du Cantal, is not known. Apparently, her first intention was to live as a solitary, attended only by a footman and a serving-woman, but this design was frustrated by friends coming to see how she was getting on. Some decided to join her, and
a settlement grew up. In course of time, working fairies raised a surrounding wall. A palace accumulated, a kitchen garden was planted, and terraces were set with vines. The vines flourished (it was the epoch of mild European winters); the population grew, and a group of peasants from the northward, disturbed by earthquakes, migrated with their cattle and became feudatories of the Kingdom of Bourrasque. That was its Golden Age. It ended with a total eclipse, which left the sun weak and dispirited, and filled the air with vapours and falling stars, rain and tempests. Late frosts, blight, and mildew attacked the vines. Fog crawled over the harvest before the crops could be gathered, and from within the fog came the roar and rumble of the winds, like the mustering of a hidden army. Bourrasque dwindled into what it afterward remained—a small, tight, provincial court of an unlegendary antiquity, where people talked a great deal about the weather, wore nightcaps, and never went out without first looking at the weather-cock. If it pointed steadfastly to one quarter, they adjusted their errands. If it swung hither and thither like a maniac, they stayed indoors.

  It was not really a favourable climate for an ornithologist.

  Fairies are celebrated needlewomen, and do a great deal of fancywork. From her youth up, Fidès had filled her tambour frame with a succession of birds in embroidery: birds on twigs, on nests, pecking fruit, searching white satin snow for crumbs. The subjects were conventional, the colouring fanciful, and everybody said how lifelike. On the day of her husband’s death (an excellent husband, greatly her senior) Fidès entered the death chamber for a last look at him. The window had been set open, as is customary after a death; a feather had blown in and lay on the pillow. She picked it up. And in an instant her life had a purpose: she must know about birds.

  At first she was almost in despair. There were so many different birds, and she could be sure of so few of them. Robin, blackbird, swallow, magpie, dove, cuckoo by note, the little wren, birds of the poultry yard—no others. The season helped her. It was May, the nestlings had hatched, the parent birds were feeding their young. She watched them flying back and forth, back and forth, discovered that hen blackbirds are not black, that robins nest in holes. When no one was looking, she took to her wings like any working fairy and hovered indecorously to count the fledglings and see how the nests were lined. As summer advanced she explored the countryside, and saw a flock of goldfinches take possession of a thistle patch. She picked up every feather she saw, carried it back, compared it with others, sometimes identified it. The feather on her husband’s pillow, the first of her collection, was the breast feather of a dove.