The Big Book of Modern Fantasy

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

  And then they were so close that looking up into their faces I could see how pale their skins were, how delicate, even a little raw around their nostrils, their eyes, and at the corners of their lips, as though they had been weeping or, perhaps, just recently recovered from a malady, or had been out in the cold.

  “You have summoned us,” the first one said.

  “I, never!”

  “You dreamed the cipher,” said the second. “The cipher that, in our world, is an open sesame.” And he laughed.

  “What cipher?” I whispered. They were both so beautiful I could not tear my eyes from their faces, their throbbing necks, their shoulders—which were powerful, supporting as they did the greater weight of those terrible wings.

  “The cipher of sexual longing.” With his fingers he traced the contours of my aging face lovingly, a tenderness that flooded me with sweetness. Yet I thought his touch sinister, too. I stepped back, and forcing myself to speak—for I was mesmerized by his touch and the heat in his eyes—

  “There is no such thing as men with wings. What are you doing in Mrs. Livesday’s garden? I suppose you are burglars,” I said then, simultaneously fascinated and aghast, “and furthermore,” I continued, fighting to get my ire up—for I was so drowsy, so submerged in something I can only—to speak clearly—describe as longing—“who gave you leave to touch me?”

  “You gave me, gave us leave,” he said. “Can you deny it?” He stepped behind me so that I was standing between the two of them, the moonlight pouring down upon us like an inverted fountain.

  The closeness of those two male bodies was an astonishing thing. I felt as though I were encompassed by a halo that caused an intense lethargy to invade my soul. I attempted to disengage myself from what seemed to be an illicit embrace although they did not touch me. But when I attempted to flee from the charmed circle, the two—with the clatter of a sailboat in a high wind—spread their wings and I was held in the deviant space they made. Then, as I stood there in the curious orbit of their wings, they began to touch me with their fingers, to insinuate their warm fingers into my hair. It fell to my shoulders like water once they had loosened it from its nets and pins. Next they began to worry the buttons of my blouse. Whatever way I turned I could not escape their many hands—captive as I was between those wings. I felt a compelling ease of spirit, a vibrancy, a fluidity I had never known, and imagined this was a species of dancing. I would have succumbed to them; I was about to swoon with pleasure, their many hands on my neck, my breasts, when I realized the danger, the terrible danger I was in, the impossible danger of what I was about to do. Indeed, the one was whispering in my ear scandalously, outrageously: “I shall penetrate your cunt and my brother your ass, simultaneously as you have wished.” It was the unforgivable heresy of these words that brought me to my senses and I cried out with rage: “Begone! Begone! Never to return! For I hate you! I hate you both with all my heart! I loathe your caresses! How dare you touch me!” And I screamed as loud as I was able: “Burglars! Burglars in the night!” Cobb came running—it was absurd—with a broom, and Mrs. Livesday—dressed in white, in a dressing gown that looked like white silk, the dressing gown of a bride—came running too. The fearless soul! Brandishing a poker! How I loved her at that instant, running so unafraid. Already I was in Cobb’s frail arms, sobbing.

  “There were two,” I cried, “two burglars! Two burglars with black wings!”

  “Black wings!” Mrs. Livesday began to laugh. “Black wings! Gertrude! Think what you are saying.” I ceased to sob and, pulling away from Cobb, stared at Mrs. Livesday with astonishment.

  “That is impossible,” I said.

  “Are you certain they were burglars?” Taking me by the arm she steered me back to the house as Cobb led the way with his broom. “Your hair is lovely,” she said, “the color of wheat. I’ve never seen it down.”

  “I don’t want to sleep in that wretched room,” I blurted out, “with all those damned toys, Mrs. Livesday, as though I were, as though I were a mere, a mere child!”

  “Well, you won’t.” She soothed me, her own brow deeply furrowed. “What a peculiar thing. Had I known…it’s not as though I’m lacking in rooms. It’s the view,” she babbled now—I had succeeded in ruffling the calmest of women—“it’s because it’s the room with the best view. Especially now when the moon is full. That night garden! Bathed in tender light!”

  I was sobbing again, uncontrollably.

  “Were you harmed?” She was once more alarmed.

  “Yes! I believe. I believe they wanted to”—we were in the music room now—“to invade my privacy.” I had bewildered her, utterly.

  “But they…how many were there?”

  “Two.”

  “Did not manage to…‘invade your privacy’?” (“Whatever that means!” she added as an aside to Cobb.)

  “No.” I ceased to cry. I was ashamed of myself but I could not have said why. Because I shouted out. And Cobb came, bless him! With a broom! I laughed out loud. “And you—dear Mrs. Livesday—I have caused you so much trouble. You must think me mad.”

  “Not at all.”

  “And now asking for another room in the middle of the night when the little room is so delightful. What could have gotten into me?”

  “I can easily put you in another room. Cobb, could you make up Puffy’s old room? We call it that,” she explained, “because that’s where old Mrs. Notus used to stay. The children called her Puffy because of her asthma or whatever it was that plagued her. Poor thing. Emphysema. Plagued her constantly. Now she’s so old. Older than I! Fit to be stuffed! Put on display!”

  We had reached the room. It was stuffy, had not been aired since Puffy’s last visit. I stood blinking stupidly as a moth discovered the bedside lamp and stormed the shade. Cobb bustled in with my few belongings in a jumble and wondered: Would I be needing tea? He would bring up a vase of fresh flowers in the morning. Would I be wanting breakfast in bed? Mrs. Livesday told him to stop treating me like an invalid. At last they were gone.

  The room had an outsized mirror—a thing I was not accustomed to. As I disrobed I caught sight of my naked body. In the lamplight it seemed surprisingly lovely to me: full, rosy, and youthful still. Unlike my face—how it had aged! As though it had been shut away, forgotten at the back of a closet. And my eyes. My eyes were not kind at all. And they were haunted.

  Rhys Hughes (1966– ) is a Welsh writer whose work is influenced, often overtly, by such writers as Jorge Luis Borges, Italo Calvino, Stanislaw Lem, Vladimir Nabokov, Milorad Pavić, and Georges Perec. He has aspired to write one thousand interlinked stories, a project that is now nearing completion. His novels include Engelbrecht Again!, a sequel to Maurice Richardson’s Exploits of Engelbrecht (1950), and Captains Stupendous; Or, the Fantastical Family Faraway (2014). “The Darktree Wheel,” first published in an expanded version in Leviathan 2 (1998), is the first of three linked parts of the still-incomplete novel The Clown of the New Eternities. (The second part, Eyelidiad, appeared as a book from Tanjen, Ltd. in 1996. The third part, Ghoulysses, has yet to be published.)

  THE DARKTREE WHEEL

  Rhys Hughes

  WHEN ROBIN DARKTREE takes to the road, he carries two flintlock pistols, a blunderbuss, a rapier and a bag of ginger biscuits. It is best to present a formidable appearance on the road. He also carries a spare tricorne hat. It takes but a single seagull to ruin a formidable appearance.

  His mount is an elderly roan with the bumbreezes. Her name is Hannah. He is too fond of her to consider a replacement. Thus he is given to wearing a black silk handkerchief even when not travelling incognito. His cloak is sailor’s garb, filched from a Portsmouth market. His fine high boots were made by Alberto’s of Siena, Tuscany Province.

  Darktree loves the mountains, the clear streams and wild flowers. When he goes into hiding it is usually to the mountains that he flees. He distrusts the
forests—dank, horrid affairs—and positively loathes the marshes. He feels neutral about the sea, all but his wistful eye.

  When the government sends a pack of hired hands on his trail, Darktree tries to enjoy the chase. On moonless nights he alone can thunder down the roads, hooves pounding, wild laugh caught at the back of his throat.

  At such times, full of gin and confidence, he often doubles back and trots past his pursuers with a polite nod. The true art of disguise, he maintains, is more a matter of poise than looks. He has never been caught. But in his more fanciful moments, he feels he is being followed from ahead. As if it is possible!

  MORTAR BABY

  When Robin Darktree reaches the horizon, he dismounts from his horse and kisses the neck of the sunset. The encounter blisters his lips. The edge of the world disappoints him: more mountains, a grassy valley, a few drunken flowers in a sloping forest. Even the cows are lopsided, leaning together like milky putschists. It could be an innocent alpine landscape but Darktree is not fooled. He knows it is the Earth’s rim because, like a tablecloth’s limits, the ends are frayed.

  He has been riding, madly, for weeks: across Hungary and Austria. A romantic with a realistic backside, he thought he might continue all the way to his destination, living in the saddle, eating and sleeping on the literal hoof like a horsefly. His buttocks, the right one in particular, persuaded him otherwise and he paused to rest in a dozen towns. In Györ, he wandered the Belváros with his new weapon, looking for lawyers to rob or kill. It was a futile search: Magyars settle cases out of court, with duels involving accordions and plum brandy.

  In Sopron, he met a disguised Mexican exile called Ambrose who said beans were the weapons of the future and talked of an impending European war. “The French are experimenting with soya protein!” he warned. “It’ll be a broad conflict.” He buttered up his listener with aduki advice: “Do a runner, while there is a kidney of a chance!” Darktree, patriotic as a mung, farted and left him with a black eye.

  In Vienna, he tried out his sandbag on a little man who was hawking postcards in an alley near St. Stephen’s Cathedral. “Here are your dues!” he bellowed and the little man, mishearing the last word, became a rabid anti-Semite. But the sack held and the grains of sand, shuffling on each other like insults in a kitchen, performed the task of beating the beach of the fellow’s consciousness into the dunes of oblivion. For a dry run, this was a shore success, but in Innsbruck, Darktree learned to soak his bag in water for a heavier and quieter blow.

  Now he stands on the western border of the Habsburg homeland. There is no obvious way to cross over; a wall, translucent and chill, rears up in his face. He runs his fingers over its surface and singes the tips to the same colour as his charred lips. The sinking sun seems trapped in the blue depths, rheumy and bloated; a drowning star. Leading Hannah by the bridle, he follows the wall, looking for a fissure. He is loath to turn back; some sense lurking deep in his skull claims this cannot really be the edge of the planet. What has happened to the states on the left-hand side of Europe? Has a celestial bailiff confiscated the soil and folk of Spain, Scotland and Essex?

  A little further along, he meets a procession of men coming toward him, porters of some kind. They carry large pots strapped to their backs and forked spears in their hands. They are dressed in motley and hats as tall as castle towers. The leader somehow manages to walk with a swagger despite his burden. He bows before Darktree, his pot spilling gallons of accumulated rainwater over neck and shoulders.

  “Hail, stranger! We are looking for the door to Chaud-Mellé. Do you happen to know its present location?”

  Darktree turns up the collar of his coat. “Hail? No, sir, you are a dunce! This is most certainly sleet.”

  Flakes crumble from the wall and dust the gathering. Undaunted, the leader straightens with a damp grimace and adds: “A narrow entrance, I’m informed; the width of a single weasel.”

  Darktree squints. “Are you saying there is a gate to another world? I always suspected weasels had a supernatural origin. But not ferrets or stoats. They are honestly elongated!”

  The leader rolls his eyes at his companions. “We are merely seeking admittance to the republic of Chaud-Mellé. It is the Chiliad Festival of Cataphysical Cuisine and we are expected to enter a dish.” Puffing chest out, he announces: “We are the Warrior-Chefs of Otranto. And I am Conrad Slawkenbergius, direct descendant of the notorious Onuphrio. Perhaps you know his name? Posterity is our pickle!”

  “Onuphrio Slawkenbergius? It rings a faint chutney. What, pray, was his main achievement? I seek my own fame.”

  “Why, sir, he introduced the harpies to Chaud-Mellé!”

  Darktree frowns. He is not really sure what a harpy is but does not like to betray his ignorance. “Harpies? Ah yes, I heard them play in the Salzburg opera! Also oboists and cellists!”

  The leader, Conrad, lifts an eyebrow. He is not really sure what an opera is but does not like to betray his ignorance. “Opera? Ah yes, once had one on my knee, in a hospital in Rome!”

  Darktree guesses this is the cause of his swagger. He scratches his chin and confesses that he too seeks Chaud-Mellé. He tells them he is an explorer of lowlife activities, a sailor on the spectrum of criminality. Being Italian, they do not disapprove. Once a highwayman, then a pirate, and then a bandit, he wants to try his gloved hand at footpad. A leading citizen of Chaud-Mellé suggested the city-state as an ideal place for an occupation involving knocking pedestrians to the ground and robbing them of valuables. There is so much hidden malice in the grotesque metropolis that some blatant evil is sorely needed.

  Conrad nods in agreement. “In that case, sir, we will seek the door together. There are four walls, each three miles long, forming a perfect square. We’ve explored the others: the gate must lie somewhere along the length of this one. We must be close now.”

  Darktree glances upwards. “Why not climb over? Those forks of yours look sharp enough to cut holds in the ice.”

  “Ah no, sir! Chaud-Mellé is also protected by a ceiling. Besides, a trident is not a pick: it is a symbol of war. The cauldrons on our backs are symbols of supper. These are the sacred relics of our order, we bear them wherever we go. We are the Warrior-Chefs!”

  “A ceiling? I’faith, ’tis most extravagant!”

  Conrad scratches his nose with his fork. “The municipal authorities have long wanted to enclose the whole city in a gigantic room. But their earlier efforts, with bricks and girders, proved impractical, collapsing before work was finished. Then they came up with the idea of surrounding the valley with a network of tubes and pipes.”

  “But what was the use of such a conceit?”

  Conrad leads Darktree by the elbow. “Come, sir, let us proceed back the way you came. I’ll talk as we look for the door.” And he explains to his sceptical listener the newly formulated principles of refrigeration. When pipes are filled with volatile fluids such as Freon or harpy-blood, the liquid absorbs the surrounding heat, evaporates and circulates round the network, carrying the heat away and releasing it elsewhere. The area in the vicinity of the pipes grows colder.

  When the authorities of Chaud-Mellé learnt of this technology, most of their engineering problems were solved. The lattice of pipes was easy and cheap to erect; when it was in place, rainwater rapidly froze on the metal, joining up in an unbroken expanse of ice. Now the ceiling and the walls were eight feet thick and much more impervious to artillery shells than normal fortifications of stone and mortar.

  The troupe pass the point Darktree originally reached and Conrad is all breathy excitement, like a man who finds the brassière of a friend’s wife in his pocket. As they walk, Darktree and Hannah exchanging bemused glances, tutor becomes schoolboy as Conrad spies a circular hole drilled into the burnished wall. “The door at last!”

  Darktree is still curious. He restrains Conrad by wrapping his hand round one
of the loose straps which dangles from his cauldron. “ ’Sblood, sir! I wish to know more. Was this ludicrous edifice constructed for the purpose of defence alone? Cannon balls might well bounce off, but a vast mirror angled to direct sunlight on the sides will bring the whole thing a-topple in a single summer morning. To say naught of barrels of burning naphtha or phosphor! ’Tis a frigid strategy!”

  “Defence?” Conrad waves an impatient hand. “The inhabitants of this gloomy metropolis do not delude themselves. One day Austria will come to smash their homes and confiscate their strudel. Until then, they protect themselves from the hated weather. Chaud-Mellé has a roof to shelter its folk from the rain. It’s a monstrous umbrella!”

  By now, they have drawn parallel to the gate. It is small indeed; a circular tunnel in the ice which leads to a face peering out from inside the city. Darktree assumes this is the snarling visage of a dwarf guard. Amplified by the slightly flared passage, chilled to a warble on its way out, the guard’s voice demands: “State your name and business!” His skin is bluer than a twelve-string frostbite.

  Conrad places his mouth to the opening and calls: “We are the party from Otranto, arrived for the festival. We have many original recipes in our repertoire and fingers like wooden spoons!”

  Darktree adds: “And I am a footpad, come to brain your citizens and steal their watches. I have a large sandbag and a larger horse. Both can double up as bedding; former as pillow, latter as bolster. I prefer dark beer to light and my teeth resemble dominoes.”

  The guard frowns. “Cooks are welcome, but villains are not. We play draughts and are devoted to our chronometers.”

  “A jest of mine. A footpad is a type of cobbler.”