The Apex Book of World SF

by Mahvesh Murad

  When Sarama The Old One, our ancestor, finally reached Surpanakha, she was holding her bloodied breasts, trembling. There were tears. Sarama also realized flies had laid eggs in her open wounds, and the larvae would soon hatch. Samara reached out to touch her. Gently. Surpanakha seized the gnarled hand, ready to tear it off the person who dared disturb her. When she saw who it was, she calmed down a little, but still spitting in Sarama’s face, screamed “Not pity, old hag, not pity!”

  Sarama, understanding, knelt low, pressed her palms to Surpanakha’s feet and whispered, “It isn’t pity, child, your wounds must be tended to. Let me. Let the old one through. I knew Tataka, I knew Tataka.”

  At the mention of her grandmother’s name, Surpanakha relented, allowing herself to be touched and held. And there they sat, the two of them, Sarama tenderly washing Surpanakha’s wounds and picking out larvae, as Surpanakha, tired and overwhelmed, fell asleep. The following morning, when the two armies rode out to battle, the beginning of war, Sarama searched for Surpanakha. She had slipped away. The two would never meet again.

  When Ravana was finally slain, the war over, our ancestor Sarama stepped out of the palace grounds and walked toward the battlefield, followed by concerned wives and children, family of the missing soldiers in Ravana’s army.

  The battlefield reeked of the dead, stinking of dried blood, piss, shit, men, demons, monkeys, bears, pachyderms, horses, and giant birds. The wounded lay everywhere, waiting to die or be rescued—rakshashas called out for help, dying monkeys and bears pleaded for water, while other beasts of war, elephants with no trunks and crushed legs, the horses with broken backs, the raptors with torn beaks and burnt wings, squirmed, struggling to breathe. And amidst the wreckage were anxious wives and children, picking through the rubble, calling out and hunting for loved ones, frantic to find bodies to burn or salvage, as the four-eyed dogs of Yama prowled the dead zone with ease.

  Into this mayhem walked victorious Rama, followed by his brother Lakshmana, the new king of Lanka, Vibhishana, the Monkey King Sugriva, and Hanuman, whose tail lit Lanka for days.

  Grateful for their support and relieved with victory, a visibly tired Rama, close to tears, invited the bears and giant vultures who participated in battle to feast on the carrion, their deserved spoils of war.

  “As the soldiers celebrated,” said Muthassi, “Rama and the others started making their way to the palace gates. For Sita.”

  “But all is never as it seems,” warned Muthassi. “Behind the scenes lived the uglier underbelly of war, unscrupulous soldiers from Rama’s army who scoured the conquered land like parasites, interested in loot and women, the dirtier spoils of war.”

  But virtuous warriors also fought on Rama’s side. Many, although injured themselves, offered to help set pyres for the dead, finding sages and priests to perform the last rites quickly. Some opted to sit with the children of dead rakshashas, while their mothers searched for their fathers. Others, they didn’t care, they pillaged, raped.

  Even Sarama became prey to such wanton feasting, grabbed by a soldier from Sugriva’s camp, bent with rage, The Male, our ancestor, ferociously and brutally violating her on the very battlefield where moments ago, Ravana’s ten heads scanned for Rama, his heart still healthy with life and blood.

  Sarama watched the creature forcing himself on her, dirtied from war, raging because of it. She paid attention to his hands, callused from bridge building, tired of killing, tired from killing. She felt pity. And then she remembered the war, of Surpanakha’s mutilation, of Ravana’s insistence on punishing the brothers by punishing the young princess instead, of how after the loss of so much life, one hoped the war was won by a just lord, his virtuous army. And right there, as the creature shuddered inside her, spilling his seed into her old womb, she howled with rage, screaming with such force that she tore a hole in the monkey’s chest, exposing his heart. Sarama reached in, and held his beating red organ in the palm of her hand as it continued to pump blood. The monkey, The Male, our ancestor, alarmed, looked at Sarama, his body still trembling.

  Looking him in the eye, Sarama slowly crushed his heart.

  In the celebratory din, no one noticed. Nearby, giant vultures tore through an elephant as it waited to die.

  She picked herself up quickly, forgetting in her haste to wipe the mud, spittle, and blood off her body. She would deal with the shock later. For now, she headed for the palace gates. She needed to be there. In the garden. When Rama received Sita. She needed to see the end to all this madness.

  Sarama felt a sense of dread when Rama didn’t meet Sita immediately. Even Vibhishana seemed embarrassed when he greeted the lady on Rama’s behalf, requesting her to bathe and be bedecked in her finery. Her lord would see her then.

  And when they walked her out, and Rama stood in front of his wife like a guest, a stranger, Sarama sighed. Surpanakha’s revenge was complete. Rama had shunned Sita publicly. Neither would fully recover from the hurt. Ayodhya would never let them forget it.

  Sarama understood quite well why Rama did what he did. As she waited for Sita to appear in public, even she heard and recoiled from the spite with which soldiers from Rama’s own army, men, monkeys, bears, and other half-beasts he had commanded only a few hours ago, discussed the young princess’ lost virtue. When a group of them were shushed, the gossiping would stop, only for the cackling to resume soon after. In Ayodhya, too, it would be the same. Yet when Sita stepped into the lit pyre, not a sound was made. You could only hear burning. The crackle of embers. The burning of virtue and the fury it brings.

  And as Sarama stared at Sita, she spied tears of rage through the flames, fire which refused to touch the sullied princess of Ayodhya, as though afraid. She, Sita, burnt harder than fire, swallowing fire itself, her rage burning through fire, scorching even Agni, who pleaded with Rama to accept his virtuous queen, whose purity, if questioned further, would burn every living thing into oblivion.

  When Rama was appeased, and the test, the public trial, over, the fire extinguished, the young couple faced each other once more, as husband and wife, Crown Prince and Princess of Ayodhya. Sarama did not wait to see Rama walk toward his absolved wife.

  Sarama, our ancestor, didn’t wait at all. She started to walk. Even as shouts of Long Live! burst across Lanka, as garlands rained down from the gods.

  She walked, disgusted, walking away from Lanka, refusing to stop. She could have used her powers to transport herself elsewhere. She could still fly. But she decided against it. She wanted to walk, inhaling the mayhem, recalling the egos that helped mutilate two women and burn Lanka.

  She stopped only when she started approaching the bridge the creature who raped her helped build, The Male, our ancestor, the father of the child she would conceive. She stared long and hard at the beach.

  The water was calm but red, the shore quiet, yet stinking of decomposing flesh. Seagulls circled the shoreline, rats started to surface. Sarama stepped forward, didn’t look back. Not even once. The war was over, but she believed little that was worthwhile had been salvaged. She began to walk across the bridge. The salty wind would ravage her face but she didn’t care. The sound of the sea kept her company until she reached the end.

  “And when she reached the other side,” Muthassi ended, “Sarama, our ancestor, her belly was swollen.”

  A Cup of Salt Tears

  Isabel Yap

  Isabel Yap was born and raised in Manila, and has since lived in California and London. Her stories have been published in The Year's Best Weird Fiction Volume 2, Tor.com, Interfictions Online, Shimmer, and elsewhere.

  SOMEONE ONCE TOLD Makino that women in grief are more beautiful. So I must be the most beautiful woman in the world right now, she thinks, as she shucks off her boots and leaves them by the door. The warm air of the onsen’s changing room makes her skin tingle. She slips off her stockings, skirt, and blouse; folds her underwear and tucks her glasses into her clean clothes; picks up her bucket of toiletries, and enters the washing area. The th
ick, hot air is difficult to breathe. She lifts a stool from the stack by the door, walks to her favorite spot, and squats down, resting for a few beats.

  Kappa kapparatta.

  Kappa rappa kapparatta.

  She holds the shower nozzle and douses herself in warm water, trying to get the smell of sickness off her skin.

  Tottechitteta.

  She soaps and shampoos with great deliberation, repeating the rhyme in her head: kappa snatched; kappa snatched a trumpet. The trumpet blares. It is welcomed nonsense, an empty refrain to keep her mind clear. She rinses off, running her fingers through her sopping hair, before standing and padding over to the edge of the hot bath. It is a blessing this onsen keeps late hours; she can only come once she knows Tetsuya’s doctors won’t call her. She tests the water with one foot, shuddering at the heat, then slips in completely.

  No one else ever comes to witness her grief, her pale lips and sallow skin. Once upon a time, looking at her might have been a privilege; she spent some years smiling within the pages of Cancam and Vivi, touting crystal-encrusted fingernails and perfectly glossed lips. She never graced a cover, but she did spend a few weeks on the posters for Liz Lisa in Shibuya 109. It was different after she got married and left Tokyo, of course. She and Tetsuya decided to move back to her hometown. Rent was cheaper, and there were good jobs for doctors like him. She quickly found work at the bakery, selling melon pan and croissants. Occasionally they visited her mother, who, wanting little else from life, had grown sweet and mellow with age. Makino thought she understood that well; she had been quite content, until Tetsuya fell ill.

  She wades to her favorite corner of the bath and sinks down until only her head is above the water. She squeezes her eyes shut. How long will he live, she thinks, how long will we live together?

  She hears a soft splash and opens her eyes. Someone has entered the tub, and seems to be approaching her. She sinks deeper, letting the water cover her upper lip. As the figure nears, she sees its features through the mist: the green flesh, the webbed hands, the sara—the little bowl that forms the top of its head—filled with water that wobbles as it moves. It does not smell of rotting fish at all. Instead, it smells like a river, wet and earthy. Alive. Some things are different: it is more man-sized than child-sized, it has flesh over its ribs; but otherwise it looks just as she always imagined.

  “Good evening,” the kappa says. The words spill out of its beak, smoothly liquid.

  Makino does not scream. She does not move. Instead she looks at the closest edge of the bath, measuring how long her backside will be exposed if she runs. She won’t make it. She presses against the cold tile and thinks, Tetsuya needs me, thinks, no, that’s a lie, I can’t even help him. Her fear dissipates, replaced by helplessness, a brittle calm.

  “This is the women’s bath,” she says. “The men’s bath is on the other side.”

  “Am I a man?”

  She hears the ripples of laughter in its voice, and feels indignant, feels ashamed.

  “No. Are you going to eat me?”

  “Why should I eat you, when you are dear to me?” Its round black eyes glimmer at her in earnest.

  The water seems to turn from hot to scalding, and she stands upright, flushed and dizzy. “I don’t know who you are!” she shouts. “Go away!”

  “But you do know me. You fell into the river and I buoyed you to safety. You fell into the river and I kissed your hair.”

  “That wasn’t you,” she says, but she never did find out who it was. She thinks about certain death; thinks, is it any different from how I live now? It can’t possibly know this about her, can’t see the holes that Tetsuya’s illness has pierced through her; but then, what does it know?

  “I would not lie to you,” it says, shaking its head. The water in its sara sloshes gently. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t touch you if you don’t wish me to.”

  “And why not?” She lifts her chin.

  “Because I love you, Makino.”

  She reads to Tetsuya from the book on her lap, even when she knows he isn’t listening. He stares out the window with glassy eyes, tracing the movements of invisible birds. The falling snow is delicate, not white so much as the ghost of white, the color of his skin. Tetsuya never liked fairytales much, but she indulges herself, because the days are long, and she hates hospitals. The only things she can bear to read are the stories of her childhood, walls of words that keep back the tide of desperation when Tetsuya turns to her and says, “Excuse me, but I would like to rest now.”

  It’s still better than the times when he jerks and lifts his head, eyes crowding with tears, and says, “I’m so sorry, Makino.” Then he attempts to stand, to raise himself from the bed, but of course he can’t, and she must rush over and put her hand on his knee to keep him from moving, she must kiss his forehead and each of his wet eyes and tell him, “No, it’s all right, it’s all right.” There is a cadence to the words that makes her almost believe them.

  Tetsuya is twelve years her senior. They met just before she started her modeling career. He was not handsome. There was something monkeylike about his features, and his upper lip formed a strange peak over his lower lip. But he was gentle, careful; a doctor-in-training with the longest, most beautiful fingers she had ever seen. He was a guest at the home of her tea ceremony sensei. When she handed the cup to him, he cradled her fingers in his for a moment, so that her skin was trapped between his hands and the hot ceramic. When he raised the drink to his lips, his eyes kept darting to her face, though she pretended not to notice by busying herself with the next cup.

  He thanked her then as he does now, shyly, one stranger to another.

  She has barely settled in the bath when it appears.

  “You’ve come back,” it says.

  She shrugs. Her shoulders bob out of the water. As a girl Makino was often chided for her precociousness by all except her mother, who held her own odd beliefs. Whenever they visited a temple, Makino would whisper to the statues, hoping they would give her some sign they existed—a wink, maybe, or a small utterance. Some kind of blessing. She did this even in Tokyo DisneySea, to the statue of Rajah the Tiger, the pet of her beloved Princess Jasmine. There was a period in her life when she wanted nothing more than to be a Disney Princess.

  It figures, of course, that the only yōkai that ever speaks to her is a kappa. The tips of its dark hair trail in the water, and its beaklike mouth is half-open in an expression she cannot name. The ceiling lights float gently in the water of its sara.

  She does not speak, but it does not go away. It seems content to watch her. Can’t you leave me here, with my grief?

  “Why do you love me?” she asks at last.

  It blinks slowly at her, pale green lids sliding over its eyes. She tries not to shudder, and fails.

  “Your hips are pale like the moon, yet move like the curves of ink on parchment. Your eyes are broken and delicate and your hands are empty.” It drifts closer. “Your hair is hair I’ve kissed before; I do not forget the hair of women I love.”

  I am an ugly woman now, she thinks, but looking at its gaze, she doesn’t believe that. Instead she says, “Kappa don’t save people. They drown them.”

  “Not I,” it says.

  Makino does not remember drowning in the river. She does not remember any of those days spent in bed. Her mother told her afterward that a policeman saved her, or it might have been the grocer’s son, or a teacher from the nearby elementary school. It was a different story each time. It was only after she was rescued that they finally patched the broken portion of the bridge. But that was so many years ago, a legend of her childhood that was smeared clear by time, whitewashed by age. She told Tetsuya about it once, arms wrapped around his back, one leg between his thighs. He kissed her knuckles and told her she was lucky, it was a good thing she didn’t die then, so that he could meet her and marry her and make love to her, the most beautiful girl in the world.

  She blinks back tears and holds her tongue.

&nb
sp; “I will tell you a fairytale,” the kappa says, “Because I know you love fairytales. A girl falls into a river—”

  “Stop,” she says, “I don’t want to hear it.” She holds out her hands, to keep it from moving closer. “My husband is dying.”

  Tetsuya is asleep during her next visit. She cradles his hand in hers, running her thumb over his bony fingers—so wizened now, unable to heal anyone. She recalls the first time she noticed her love for him. She was making koicha, tea to be shared among close companions, under her teacher’s watchful gaze. Tetsuya wasn’t even present, but she found herself thinking of his teeth, his strange nervous laughter, the last time he took her out for dinner. The rainbow lights of Roppongi made zebra stripes across his skin, but he never dared kiss her, not even when she turned as the train was coming, looking at him expectantly. He never dared look her in the eye, not until she told him she would like to see him again, fingers resting on his sleeve.

  She looked down at the tea she was whisking and thought, this tastes like earth, like the bone marrow of beautiful spirits, like the first love I’ve yet to have. It is green like the color of spring leaves and my mother’s favorite skirt and the skin of a kappa. I’m in love with him. She whisked the tea too forcefully, some of it splashing over the edge of the cup.

  “Makino!” her sensei cried.

  She stood, heart drumming in her chest, bowed, apologized, bowed again. The tea had formed a butterfly-shaped splotch on the tatami mats.

  Tetsuya’s sudden moan jolts her from her thoughts—a broken sound that sets her heart beating as it did that moment, long ago. She spreads her palm over his brow.

  Does a kappa grant wishes? Is it a water god? Will it grant my wish if I let it touch me? Will I let it touch me?

  She gives Tetusya’s forehead a kiss. “Don’t leave me before the New Year,” she says. She really means don’t leave me.