by Greg Bear
“I don’t know,” he said. He found the word he was looking for, reached into his mouth with one finger and scraped his inner cheek. Smeared the wetness on the page.
“No,” she said. Then, “Why… ?”
There were tears on his cheeks. The man of dry ink was crying. Somehow that made her furious.
“I’m not even a human being,” he said.
She hated him, hated this weakness; she had never liked weak men. He adjusted his lotus position and gripped the edges of the dictionary with both hands. “Why can’t you find a human being for yourself?” he asked, looking up at her. “I’m nothing but a dream.”
She held the pistol firmly to her side. “What are you doing?”
“Need,” he said. “That’s all I am. Your hunger and your need. Do you know what I’m good for, what I can do? No. You’d be afraid if you did. You keep me here like some commodity.”
“I wanted you to go out with me,” she said tightly.
“What has the world done to you that you’d want to create me?”
“You’re going to make a woman from that thing, aren’t you?” she asked. “Nothing worthwhile has ever happened to me. Everything gets taken away the moment I …”
“Need,” he said, raising his hands over the book. “You cannot love unless you need. You cannot love the real. You must change the thing you love to please yourself, and damn anyone if he should question what hides within you.”
“You thing,” she breathed, lips curled back. Webster looked at her and at the barrel of the gun she now pointed at him and laughed.
“You don’t need that,” he told her. “You don’t need something real to kill a dream. All you need is a little sunlight.”
She lowered the gun, dropped it with a thud on the floor, then lifted her eyebrows and smiled around gritted teeth. She pointed the index finger of her left hand and her face went lax. Listlessly, she whispered, “Bang.”
The smell of printer’s ink became briefly more intense, then faded on the warm breeze passing through the apartment. She kicked the dictionary shut.
How lonely it was going to be, in the dark with only her own sweat.
The Visitation
This short mood piece appeared in Omni with a suite of stories by different authors on religious themes. Again, I’m arguing with our human conceptions of God—and suggesting that our conception of divinity is likely to be very incomplete and immature.
The Trinity arrived under a blossoming almond tree in Rebecca Sandia’s backyard in the early hours of Easter morning. She watched it appear as she sipped tea on her back porch. Because of the peace radiating from the three images—a lion, a lamb, and a dove—she did not feel alarm or even much concern. She was not an overtly religious person, but she experienced considerable relief at having a major question—the existence of a God—answered in the affirmative. The Trinity approached her table on hooves, paws, and wings; and this, she knew, expressed the ultimate assurance and humility of God—that He should not require her to approach Him.
“Good morning,” she said. The lamb nuzzled her leg affectionately. “An especially significant morning for you, is it not?” The lamb bleated and spun its tail. “I am so pleased you have chosen me, though I wonder why.”
The lion spoke with a voice like a typhoon confined in a barrel:
“Once each year on this date we reveal the Craft of Godhead to a selected human. Seldom are the humans chosen from My formal houses of worship, for I have found them almost universally unable to comprehend the Mystery. They have preconceived ideas and cannot remove the blinds from their eyes.”
Rebecca Sandia felt a brief frisson then, but the dove rubbed its breast feathers against her hand where it lay on the table. “I have never been a strong believer,” she said, “though I have always had hopes.”
“That is why you were chosen,” the dove sang, its voice as dulcet as a summer’s evening breeze. The lamb cavorted about the grass; and Rebecca’s heart was filled with gladness watching it, for she remembered it had gone through hard times not long ago.
“I have asked only one thing of My creations,” the lion said, “that once a year I find some individual capable of understanding the Mystery. Each year I have chosen the most likely individual and appeared to speak and enthuse. And each year I have chosen correctly and found understanding and allowed the world to continue. And so it will be until My creation is fulfilled.”
“But I am a scientist,” Rebecca said, concerned by the lion’s words. “I am enchanted by the creation more than the God. I am buried in the world and not the spirit.”
“I have spun the world out of My spirit,” the dove sang. “Each particle is as one of my feathers; each event, a note in my song.”
“Then I am joyful,” Rebecca said, “for that I understand. I have often thought of you as a scientist, performing experiments.”
“Then you do not understand,” the lion said. “For I seek not to comprehend My creation but to know MySelf.”
“Then is it wrong for me to be a scientist?” Rebecca asked. “Should I be a priest or a theologian, to help You understand YourSelf?”
“No, for I have made your kind as so many mirrors, that you may see each other; and there are no finer mirrors than scientists, who are so hard and bright. Priests and theologians, as I have said, shroud their brightness with mists for their own comfort and sense of well-being.”
“Then I am still concerned,” Rebecca said, “for I would like the world to be ultimately kind and nurturing. Though as a scientist I see that it is not, that it is cruel and harsh and demanding.”
“What is pain?” the lion asked, lifting one paw to show a triangle marked by thorns. “It is transitory, and suffering is the moisture of My breath.”
“I don’t understand,” Rebecca said, shivering.
“Among My names are disease and disaster, and My hand lies on every pockmark and blotch and boil, and My limbs move beneath every hurricane and earthquake. Yet you still seek to love Me. Do you not comprehend?”
“No,” Rebecca said, her face pale, for the world’s particles seemed to lose some of their stability at that moment. “How can it be that You love us?”
“If I had made all things comfortable and sweet, then you would not be driven to examine Me and know My motives. You would dance and sing and withdraw into your pleasures. “
“Then I understand,” Rebecca said “For it is the work of a scientist to know the world and control it, and we are often driven by the urge to prevent misery. Through our knowledge we see You more clearly.”
“I see MySelves more clearly through you.”
“Then I can love You and cherish You, knowing that ultimately You are concerned for us.”
The world swayed; and Rebecca was sore afraid, for the peace of the lamb had faded, and the lion glowed red as coals. “Whom are you closest to,” the lion asked, its voice deeper than thunder, “your enemies or your lovers? Whom do you scrutinize more thoroughly?”
Rebecca thought of her enemies and her lovers, and she was not sure.
“In front of your enemies you are always watchful, and with your lovers you may relax and close your eyes.”
“Then I understand,” Rebecca said. “For this might be a kind of war; and after the war is over, we may come together, former enemies, and celebrate the peace.”
The sky became black as ink. The blossoms of the almond tree fell, and she saw, within the branches, that the almonds would be bitter this year.
“In peace the former enemies would close their eyes,” the lion said, “and sleep together peacefully.”
“Then we must be enemies forever?”
“For I am a zealous God. I am zealous of your eyes and your ears, which I gave you that you might avoid the agonies I visit upon you. I am zealous of your mind, which I made wary and facile, that you m
ight always be thinking and planning ways to improve upon this world.”
“Then I understand,” Rebecca said fearfully, her voice breaking, “that all our lives we must fight against you … but when we die?”
The lamb scampered about the yard, but the lion reached out with a paw and laid the lamb out on the grass with its back broken. “This is the Mystery,” the lion roared, consuming the lamb, leaving only a splash of blood steaming on the ground.
Rebecca leaped from her chair, horrified, and held out her hands to fend off the prowling beast. “I understand!” she screamed “You are a selfish God, and Your creation is a toy You can mangle at will! You do not love; you do not care; you are cold and cruel.”
The lion sat to lick its chops. “And?” it asked menacingly.
Rebecca’s face flushed. She felt a sudden anger. “I am better than You,” she said quietly, “for I can love and feel compassion. How wrong we have been to send our prayers to You!”
“And?” the lion asked with a growl.
“There is much we can teach You!” she said. “For You do not know how to love or respect Your creation, or YourSelf! You are a wild beast, and it is our job to tame You and train You.”
“Such dangerous knowledge,” the lion said. The dove landed among the hairs of its mane. “Catch Me if you can,” the dove sang. For an instant the Trinity shed its symbolic forms and revealed Its true Self, a thing beyond ugliness or beauty, a vast cyclic thing of no humanity whatsoever, dark and horribly young—and that truth reduced Rebecca to hysterics.
Then the Trinity vanished, and the world continued for another year.
But Rebecca was never the same again, for she had understood, and by her grace we have lived this added time.
Richie by the Sea
I enjoy monster movies, horror fiction, and stories of the supernatural—ghost stories in particular. I’ve written two novels (Psychlone and Dead Lines) and one short story that could be dropped into these categories. Here’s the story: a biological conte cruel, conceived during a jam session with my cousin, Dan Garrett, in the 1960s. Mark Laidlaw, at a party at Gregory and Joan Benford’s house in Laguna Beach, told me that Ramsey Campbell, a master of horror fiction, was looking for short stories for an original anthology he was assembling, and suggested I submit something.
I sent him “Richie.”
The storm had spent its energy the night before. A wild, scattering squall had toppled the Thompsons’ shed and the last spurt of high water had dropped dark drift across the rocks and sand. In the last light of day the debris was beginning to stink and attract flies and gulls. There were knots of seaweed, floats made of glass and cork, odd bits of boat wood, foam plastic shards—and a whale. The whale was about forty feet long. It had died during the night after its impact on the ragged rocks of the cove. It looked like a giant garden slug, draped across the still pool of water with head and tail hanging over.
Thomas Harker felt a tinge of sympathy for the whale, but his house was less than a quarter-mile south and with the wind in his direction the smell would soon be bothersome.
The sheriff’s jeep roared over the bluff road between the cove and the university grounds. Thomas waved and the sheriff waved back. There would be a lot of cleaning-up to do.
Thomas backed away from the cliff edge and returned to the path through the trees. He’d left his drafting table an hour ago to stretch his muscles and the walk had taken longer than he expected; Karen would be home by now, waiting for him, tired from the start of the new school year.
The cabin was on a broad piece of property barely thirty yards from the tideline, with nothing but grass and sand and an old picket fence between it and the water. They had worried during the storm, but there had been no flooding. The beach elevated seven feet to their property and they’d come through remarkably well.
Thomas knocked sand from his shoes and hung them on two nails next to the back door. In the service porch he removed his socks and dangled them outside, then draped them on the washer. He had soaked his shoes and socks and feet during an incautious run near the beach. Wriggling his toes, he stepped into the kitchen and sniffed. Karen had popped homemade chicken pies into the oven. Walks along the beach made him ravenous, especially after long days at the board.
He looked out the front window. Karen was at the gate, hair blowing in the evening breeze and knit sweater puffing out across her pink and white blouse. She turned, saw Thomas in the window and waved, saying something he couldn’t hear.
He shrugged expressively and went to open the door. He saw something small on the porch and jumped in surprise. Richie stood on the step, smiling up at him, eyes the color of the sunlit sea, black hair unruly.
“Did I scare you, Mr. Harker?” the boy asked.
“Not much. What are you doing here this late? You should be home for dinner.”
Karen kicked her shoes off on the porch. “Richie! When did you get here?”
“Just now. I was walking up the sand hills and wanted to say hello.” Richie pointed north of the house with his long, unchildlike fingers. “Hello.” He looked at Karen with a broad grin, head tilted.
“No dinner at home tonight?” Karen asked, totally vulnerable. “Maybe you can stay here.” Thomas winced and raised his hand.
“Can’t,” Richie said. “Everything’s just late tonight. I’ve got to be home soon. Hey, did you see the whale?”
“Yeah,” Thomas said. “Sheriff is going to have a fun time moving it.”
“Next tide’ll probably take it out,” Richie said. He looked between them, still smiling broadly. Thomas guessed his age at nine or ten but he already knew how to handle people.
“Tide won’t be that high now,” Thomas said.
“I’ve seen big things wash back before. Think the sheriff will leave it overnight?”
“Probably. It won’t start stinking until tomorrow.”
Karen wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Thanks for the invitation anyway, Mrs. Harker.” Richie put his hands in his shorts’ pockets and walked through the picket fence, turning just beyond the gate. “You got any more old clothes I can have?”
“Not now,” Thomas said. “You’ve taken all our castoffs already.”
“I need more for the rag drive,” Richie said. “Thanks anyway.”
“Where does he live?” Thomas asked after closing the door.
“I don’t think he wants us to know. Probably in town. Don’t you like him?”
“Of course I like him. He’s only a kid.”
“You don’t seem to want him around.” Karen looked at him accusingly.
“Not all the time. He’s not ours, his folks should take care of him.”
“They obviously don’t care much.”
“He’s well-fed,” Thomas said. “He looks healthy and he gets along fine.”
They sat down to dinner. Wisps of Karen’s hair still took the shape of the wind. She didn’t comb it until after the table was cleared and Thomas was doing the dishes. His eyes traced endless circuit diagrams in the suds. “Hey,” he shouted to the back bathroom. “I’ve been working too much.”
“I know,” Karen answered. “So have I. Isn’t it terrible?”
“Let’s get to bed early,” he said. She walked into the kitchen wrapped in a terry-cloth bathrobe, pulling a snarl out of her hair. “Must get your sleep,” she said.
He aimed a snapped towel at her retreating end but missed. Then he leaned over the sink, rubbed his eyes and looked at the suds again. No circuits, only a portrait of Richie. He removed the last plate and rinsed it.
The next morning Thomas awoke to the sound of hammering coming from down the beach. He sat up in bed to receive Karen’s breezy kiss as she left for the University, then hunkered down again and rolled over to snooze a little longer. His eyes flew open a few minutes later and he cursed. The rack
et was too much. He rolled out of the warmth and padded into the bathroom, wincing at the cold tiles. He turned the shower on to warm, brought his mug out to shave and examined his face in the cracked mirror. The mirror had been broken six months ago when he’d slipped and jammed his hand against it after a full night poring over the circuit diagrams in his office. Karen had been furious with him and he hadn’t worked that hard since. But there was a deadline from Peripheral Data on his freelance designs and he had to meet it if he wanted to keep up his reputation.
In a few more months, he might land an exclusive contract from Key Business Corporation, and then he’d be designing what he wanted to design—big computers, mighty beasts. Outstanding money.
The hammering continued and after dressing he looked out the bedroom window to see Thompson rebuilding his shed. The shed had gone unused for months after Thompson had lost his boat at the Del Mar trials, near San Diego. Still, Thompson was sawing and hammering and reconstructing the slope-roofed structure, possible planning on another boat. Thomas didn’t think much about it. He was already at work and he hadn’t even reached the desk in his office. There was a whole series of TTL chips he could move to solve the interference he was sure would crop up in the design as he had it now.
By nine o’clock he was deeply absorbed. He had his drafting pencils and templates and mechanic’s square spread across the paper in complete confusion. He wasn’t interrupted until ten.
He answered the door only half-aware that somebody had knocked. Sheriff Varmanian stood on the porch, sweating. The sun was out and the sky clearing for a hot, humid day.
“Hi, Tom.”
“Al,” Thomas said, nodding. “Something up?”
“I’m interrupting? Sorry—”
“Yeah, my computers won’t be able to take over your job if you keep me here much longer. How’s the whale?”
“That’s the least of my troubles right now.” Varmanian’s frizzy hair and round wire-rimmed glasses made him look more like an anarchist than a sheriff. “The whale was taken out with the night tide. We didn’t even have to bury it.” He pronounced “bury” like it was “burry” and studiously maintained a midwestern twang.
