"Thanks, Dad.” The exceedingly short young lady coughed as her eyes appeared over the rim of the table. “This word is deep, so think about it and weep.” A murmur sneaked around the table. Angelina coughed again. “Are we ready?” Silence.
"Asinine!"
Anderson's claps were small explosions of delight. Jenny and the guests followed suit. Smith merely gulped with relief. Not a new old word. Not even a rare word. She'd gone for a just right word. Undeniably deep ... and poignant, with the memory of her mother's refusal to learn the offworlders’ tongue, and her subsequent incarceration, still fresh and painful. He had to admire the little gnome.
"Bird-brained!” came a call from amongst the guests.
Angelina aimed a sour look at the culprit.
Another voice announced, “Muleish."
"Follyology,” someone else suggested.
And so Angelina's moment was lost in a tangle of bitter, and increasingly inappropriate, words from a scrum of inebriated invitees who should have known better. The in-crowd loved a good squabble.
Not the best moment for optimal output, Smith realized. His word would have to wait.
When all had gorged to the max and the servants were clearing the table, Smith sidled over to Jenny, who had wedged herself into a corner.
He took her clammy hand. “Overdrunk?"
She smiled without conviction. “I never want to hear another synonym for aging.” A tear tracked down her powdered cheek.
"You need a new guest list."
She shrugged and stared at the snowflake wallpaper.
He released her hand. “Perhaps, then, this is not the right time for a word...."
Jenny burst into weeping.
Smith took a used napkin from a windowledge and handed it to his host.
Then he collected his hat and overcoat and left without saying cheerio.
* * * *
He took his word home by way of the riverside walk. No point rushing back to an empty apartment. So he strolled and mulled and soon found himself upon a rusted iron bench watching the undulating reflections of the few remaining farside lanterns. In front of him the uneven cracked flagstones were all but defeated, submitting to centuries of frost and feet. He gazed up through his misted breath to the sky, where lights tracked between the stars.
At times like this he often succumbed to thinking. And the subject that, today, had never quite slipped off the edge of his awareness was time-fishing.
He was struck by the wonder of this technology that could listen to the sounds of the past—the words of the street people ... words never documented. New, old words. Put to other uses, what else could a technology such as that achieve? But before he could begin to imagine the possibilities ... the changes that could result from a redirected common will—a will concerned with other than oneupmanship through salvaging the scraps of a dying language—he was distracted by nearby voices.
Some way down the riverside path, the Holy Anderson and Angelina were talking. The discussion appeared heated and Smith quieted his breathing in order to hear.
They were having words. Stated words. Exclaimed words. Questioning words. Heartfelt words....
After a time, they both turned to survey the river in silence, then hurried away together.
Smith found himself unsettled. It had been an odd day. Unique perhaps, with Nicola and Mary and his frustrated dinner party plans and Jenny's uncomfortable emotionality. And now this overheard father/daughter conversation. So many words, so many interesting and educated and unusual words, and yet nothing—nothing at all that mattered—had been said.
* * * *
That night Smith dreamed of Nicola, the bicycle girl. She rode down from an overcast sky with her long, sun-colored hair flowing around her head. Smith stood upon soft moist grass that made him feel unsteady, unconnected to the world. The girl stopped her bicycle and put one bare foot to the ground. She adjusted her scarlet bikini top.
"I have another new old word for you,” she said.
He noted the paleness of her skin, the breathtaking blue globes of her eyes.
"Guaranteed eleventh century,” she told him. “My boyfriend overheard it in the babble of a York market."
Smith heard his own mouth say, “I'm not interested."
Nicola stumbled and fought to keep the bicycle upright. “But...."
He no longer wanted words. He needed something else. Something he could feel, but not explain.
He watched the sway of the girl's hips as she cycled away.
Something he had not yet bought the word for....
He awoke bemused and strangely sad.
* * * *
The morning was chilled and frosted, the blue sky traced with the intertwined tracks of the offworlders’ space freighters. Under this laced canopy, Smith made his way to Jenny's house. A servant admitted him and he found Jenny spread upon a settee, dressed in pink pajamas and browsing through a fine art catalog.
She brightened. “Andrew."
He glanced around and then remembered that Andrew was his own, little-used, name.
She pointed at his head. “No hat?"
He ran a hand over his smooth scalp. “I didn't realize...."
"I trust you enjoyed yourself last night,” she said.
"Without a doubt."
"Isn't it wonderful to meet so many sparkling, interesting, educated people!"
"So you think it went well?"
She dropped the catalog onto the lacquered teak floor. “Oh yes, I had a wonderful time."
He examined her eyes, but they were one-way glass. He sat next to her on the settee.
"Did you leave something behind at the party?” she said.
"In a way, yes.” He took her hand. She returned his grip with a gentle squeeze. “And I've brought something for you,” he said.
"Oh good!” She sat upright. “What is it?"
"It's a new old word, from 1236 London."
"Wonderful!” She freed her hand and raised her fingertip terminals. “Don't worry about the price. I trust you."
Gently, he lowered her hand. “No charge. I just want you to have it."
And with that, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear.
Copyright (c) 2007 Colin P. Davies
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CHAINSAW ON HAND by Deborah Coates
It's no coincidence that this is a winter issue, since March may be the perfect time to experience the chill and the warmth of having a “Chainsaw on Hand” during sub-zero South Dakota weather. Deborah Coates lives in Ames, Iowa, where she writes, trains dogs, and works at the university in information technology. Her most recent publications include works in Strange Horizons, Scifiction, Year's Best Fantasy 6, Best New Paranormal Romance, and Asimov's.
This is what winter's like in South Dakota on the plains—you wake up and it's full dark still, maybe five o'clock in the morning and you know without ever throwing the covers off, without ever getting up, that it's at least twenty below zero outside. You can tell by the clean-edged sound of the wind as it hits the corner of the house, as if there's never been a drop of moisture in it, like knives would slice themselves to shreds on a wind like that. You can tell, too, by the feel of the air in the room, the way the frail warmth of the over-stressed furnace is more illusory than real.
It's not possible to be warm on that kind of morning on the plains. Even if you ran the furnace up to eighty. Even if the furnace could get the air up to eighty, it wouldn't be warm—the fragility of surviving on electricity and propane, the understanding that the shiny new wood stove in the kitchen can only really heat a hundred square feet or so in an emergency. All that, the darkness and the cold and the thin edge of knowledge of how close it all is to failure, makes the world close in and makes you hunch your shoulders right on down into your chest as low as you can go.
What you want, on a dark morning like that, with the wind and the cold and the knowledge that you'll never be warm again, is to pull the blankets way up ov
er your head and never come out until spring. But this is South Dakota on the plains in winter. There are cattle waiting to be fed, counting on you as their single source of, well, everything. And because you have to get up anyway, you do.
You sit down in a kitchen chair and adjust automatically as it tips sideways where one of the dogs chewed on the leg when he was a puppy. Your work boots are sitting on the mat by the door and you pull them on, yanking the laces tight before tying them. You add a fleece vest, a barn coat, and a knit hat with flaps to your flannel shirt, T-shirt, two layers of long underwear, and jeans two sizes too big. Before you put your gloves on, you look at the coffee pot and think about starting coffee, but the day is already too cold and too cruel, doing something human will only make you suffer more when you step outside the door.
The wind sucks your breath and half the brain cells out of your head when you step outside. The thin layer of snow on the ground is so cold and so dry that the soles of your boots squeak when you walk. You check the young stock in the barn and move feed to the pastures and break ice from the heated water troughs that aren't supposed to freeze. The cattle huddle together with their backs to the wind, all shaggy and icy. The dogs are grateful to be allowed in the truck on the ride back to the house and you are grateful for the extra warmth in the cab.
There are two messages on the answering machine when you get back to the house, even though it's only seven o'clock. You call your mother first.
"I'm going to Pierre,” she says when she answers.
"Today?"
"Yes, today. Do you want to come?"
"I don't know. Let me think about it."
"Oh, just come.” You can almost see her roll her eyes. “No one's going to point and laugh. They don't even know who you are."
"Okay, fine. I'll come."
You shed boots and jackets and hats and gloves. You stand in the kitchen under the fluorescent lights and take off your jeans and your shirts and your medium-weight long underwear. Then you pull the jeans back on and the flannel shirt. You start coffee brewing in the pot; you take the clothes you shed back upstairs to the bedroom; you pull a town pair of jeans—never been worn for chores—and a white turtleneck and a patchwork knit sweater from the closet for later when you go to town. You make the bed and you put all your things away and you go back down to the kitchen and feed the dogs and pour yourself a cup of coffee. You stare at the phone, then the clock, then the phone again. And then you sigh and pick up the phone and call your ex-husband back.
"Chel?” His voice sounds so normal, deep and certain.
"Bobby."
"There's something I want to show you."
"Now?"
"Well, whenever.” There is a sharp flatness in his voice that says yes, he was expecting you to come now.
"I'm going to town,” you tell him. “I should be back around three."
"Okay, fine.” And he hangs up. There was once a time when Bobby could talk birds out of the trees and mad dogs out of biting and you into marrying him, but that was long-ago Bobby from another life. Present-day Bobby never says more than two words at a time.
By the time you've showered, dressed, and fed the dogs, it's time to leave. Even with the sun well up, the cold still hits you like a wall when you leave the house. Your father used to call this religious weather because, he said, you couldn't walk out the door without taking the Lord's name in vain. In Boston where you lived for four years out of college, the snow was wet, but in South Dakota, it's always dry. You can walk all day in the snow in South Dakota and only get wet when you go inside.
When you drive by Bobby's house on your way to your mother's, you notice that he has a new sign on his lawn. Right next to “Rabbits for Sale” and “Fresh Eggs” there is now one that simply reads, “Chainsaw on Hand."
You don't have much time to think about it before arriving at your mother's. She is, as always, waiting, and comes outside as you pull into the driveway. When you drive back by Bobby's with her in the car, she draws your attention to the sign. “Chainsaw on Hand? What does that mean?"
"Dunno."
"Well, I mean, I suppose it means he has a chainsaw,” your mother continues. “But why does he feel the need to announce it to everyone?"
In South Dakota in the winter, your ex-husband is your responsibility until approximately the end of time. His parents don't talk to him anymore. They shop the next town over. His brother sits in the bar on Saturday afternoons underneath old license plates from New Jersey and Arkansas and tells anyone who'll listen that Bobby was always the crazy one. “He married Chelley Sanderson for hell's sake!” he says in a loud voice that runs scared underneath. “What was he thinking when he did that?"
"I like him, Chelley,” your mother has told you over and over and over, as if liking him makes everything all right.
"He talks to people who aren't there,” you tell her every time she says it.
"Not people, Chelley,” your mother responds as if this is the single fact that saves him.
No, not people; Bobby talks to dreams. Although that's not what he calls them.
The first time he told you they were angels.
"I wish you'd been here, Chel,” he said when you returned from three days in Rapid City at a cattle show. “They were golden, absolutely golden."
"Angels, Bobby?” you ask him.
"They stopped everything. They stopped time.” He isn't looking at you; his gaze is fixed on something you can never see. “We walked through town, just them and me. It was something."
You try logic. You try reason. You try yelling. Bobby is a sensible man—or at least he was. He knows growing seasons and pole barns and drainage patterns. Bobby is not a man who sees golden angels in time-frozen towns.
And then it happens again.
The next time, you were gone to Iowa State University with Quincy Meadows to take her gelding to the vet school. You are always gone when the angels come—except after the second time Bobby doesn't think they're angels anymore.
"Fairies maybe,” he says. “Only big, you know. Or maybe really handsome trolls."
After the fourth time, you ask Bobby to move out. People come up to you in grocery stores and put their hands on your shoulder and stand too close and ask you how Bobby is in that voice that says they might care a little, but mostly they want to be the person who knows the news.
This morning, your mother wants to go to the Pierre Mall and a couple of fabric outlets.
"I'm making Bobby a quilt,” she says.
"Why?"
"It's his turn."
"He's not your son-in-law anymore."
"You should be kinder to him,” she says while scoping out a parking place at the mall for you. “He's going through a rough patch."
You refrain from pointing out that any rough patch Bobby is going through is his own doing. No one told him to sign over his half of the farm to you, no one told him to quit his job at the mill, no one told him to raise rabbits and sell eggs and scrape an existence out of nothing. Unless the fairies did. Or maybe trolls.
"Maybe it's the devil he talks to, Mom. Did you ever think of that?” You swing into a parking space and sit for a moment with the car running. The day is rounding up on ten-thirty in the morning and it's no warmer than at five. The wind has picked up, too. Welcome to winter in South Dakota.
After the fifth—or maybe sixth—time, the local paper runs an article about the angels, or maybe trolls, with a picture of Bobby out behind the house. Four letters to the editor appear in the next week's edition, double the usual number. Carroll Biedlebaum says it's about TIME—he's been telling everyone for years that there are THINGS in this world both dangerous and hidden. We'd better listen to him and to Bobby or we'll all be sorry. Sallie and Katie Widderman write nearly identical letters pointing out that Jesus and science will determine the truth and volunteering to set up cameras and recorders and a candle-lit prayer offering the next time the angels come. The fourth letter is from your mother. “Bobby doesn't make
things up,” her letter says. “He's not creative that way. We ought to listen to him."
You and Bobby have known each other since high school. You dated once or twice back then—the junior prom and the homecoming dance Bobby's senior year. He was a year ahead of you, graduated third in his class, and went off to the University of Minnesota to major in engineering, so normal it could make your teeth hurt. Everyone knew he'd be back after graduation.
"Bobby can build damn near anything,” his father would proudly tell anyone who'd listen. “We expect he'll be doing big things one of these days."
You got a full four-year scholarship to the University of Chicago, something that stunned everyone, not least of all yourself (though you never admitted that to anyone, just took the acceptance letter to your room and read it to yourself over and over again).
You told your parents the week before you left that you were going to major in psychology because you wanted to know why anyone would voluntarily live in South Dakota in the winter. “It's like one of those prisoner syndromes,” you told them. “Or that boiling frog thing.” Your mother smiled as if you'd said something unaccountably brilliant while your father looked at you over the top of his glasses and you knew that they mostly wished you'd stop saying things like that. In Chicago, you discovered academia, research, and thinking that wasn't always interrupted by seeing to the cattle and repairing wire fences and you knew that what you wanted as much as anything was to be a research psychiatrist—medical school and graduate school—MD and PhD—learning and learning and learning until it finally filled you up completely. But then, you got to senior year and you looked $100,000 and $200,000 and maybe even bigger loans in the face and you blinked.
And now, here you are, in South Dakota in the winter.
Since you've been back, you've taken up painting. “It's just like psychology,” you tell your mother, “only not.” Your mother no longer looks at you as if you're unaccountably brilliant when you say things like that; she just rolls her eyes. You figure that the reason she still likes Bobby in spite of everything is because she half suspects you're the one who drove him around the bend.
Asimov's SF, March 2007 Page 11
