Even deep in the forest, the witch had visitors. People came, bringing gifts and problems that required magic. Most of the problems involved health, though there were also romantic problems, people who wanted potions to attract someone or make someone lose interest.
The witch told Plot that she did her best with curing potions. “Most people are worth saving.” When she made a love potion, it would work, but only so far as creating a mild interest. “The lover must do most of the work himself or herself,” the witch said. “I will not force anyone into love.” She felt differently about indifference potions. These always worked. “No one should be troubled by an unwanted lover.”
Remembering how much her family had worried about Orna, Plot sent messages home. Some of the witch’s clients went into the city and were willing to stuff a note under the scrivener’s door. Don’t worry, dear father. I have found the witch and am staying with her. I am safe, and everything is fine. But they would do no more, since they were mostly poor folk and did not want to attract the attention of the authorities. Witches were not respectable, being relics of a former time.
Plot kept the hut clean and made meals. Over time – through the long, cold, snowy winter – she learned enough to help the witch with potions. The hut took care of the snow in the clearing by stamping it down with its big ostrich feet. In addition, it broke the ice that formed on the stream. All the stamping and breaking made the hut jerk and shake. This was fine with Plot. If the hut had not done the work, she would have had to shovel and chop ice. She knew the witch well enough to know this.
You might think that people wouldn’t come in the winter. But sickness and love are strong drivers. There were fewer visitors after the snow fell, but they did not stop. Instead they came wrapped in heavy coats and wearing high boots. The ostrich legs knelt down for them and the witch listened to their stories, as did Plot. Life was not simple, the scrivener’s daughter learned. She could see that the witch’s potions were not enough to solve every problem.
Most of the clients were peasants. At best, their lives were precarious, dependent on the weather, which was often capricious. The witch could help them with illness and love, but there was no charm that would make the weather reliable or people rich. Money had its own magic, the witch said, which was different from the magic of witches; and weather systems were too large for anyone to control. In spite of everything the witch did, her clients still worried about harvests and taxes, their own futures and the fates of their animals and children.
She did make charms that called rain and drove away pests. These helped some. “Though bugs can learn to resist the magic used against them,” the witch said. “And there is no way to make the rain consistent. At best, I nudge it a little.”
“Are you going to help me?” Plot asked the witch from time to time.
“You are a better house cleaner than you were when you came, a better cook and a better maker of potions. All this is useful. In addition, you know more about the world and the lives of other people.”
“My father wants me to be a writer of stories.”
“What do you want?” the witch replied.
Plot could not say.
Spring came finally. Plot said, “I need to go. My father will be worrying.”
The witch gave her a considering look. She knew that Plot could not be distracted, but would always go directly to her goal. This was a virtue in an ordinary person, though not in a storyteller or a story.
“Go, then,” the witch said. “But come back. I need an assistant.”
So Plot packed her bag and walked to the road at the edge of the forest. Everything around her was fresh and tender and green. The trees were full of migrating birds. She waited at the coach stop. The coach appeared and carried her back to the city through spring fields.
When she got home, the house was empty, except for her father, sitting in his study and writing out contracts.
“Where are my sisters?” she asked.
“Ima had a visitor who came again and again,” her father said. “A woodsman she had met in the forest. He was one of those who promised to look for Orna. First he came to report on his searching, but it was soon evident that he came to see Ima, and he kept coming even after Orna returned.
“At first, she was nervous around him. No one had courted her before, and young girls are always nervous in this situation. But he kept coming through the worst of the winter, always courteous and obviously in love. He brought her gifts, rabbit pelts and deerskins and venison. A good provider – and a good son. He always spoke warmly of his mother, and he always treated me with respect. A good son is likely to be a good husband.
“In the end, Ima agreed to marry him and move to his cabin in the forest. So that is what happened to her.”
“What about Orna?” Plot asked.
“She met some women during her stay in the forest. Once spring came, she wanted to visit them again. I could tell she wouldn’t be happy till she saw them, so I told her to go and stay as long as she wanted. A good parent must let go of his children in the end, and I know now that neither of them will be an author. What about you, my darling? I got your notes, but they were all brief and stuck under my door.”
“I found the witch, but she gave me nothing that will make me a teller of stories. She asked me to become her assistant. I think I will.”
“Ah,” said the scrivener. “Well, Ima found a husband in the forest, and Orna found friends. A job may be equally good.”
“Yes,” said Plot. “But it isn’t right that you are alone, dear father.”
“I have hired a housekeeper. I could afford to, since Ima left me all the skins that the woodcutter gave her. I sold them in the marketplace for good money, and he has promised to bring me more. As I said before, the lad is a good provider.
“I don’t know if Orna will bring anything back from her visit, though she mentioned honey and berries and hard-to-find mushrooms. I will get by, dear Plot.”
“Well, then,” said Plot.
They had dinner, made by the housekeeper, who was an excellent cook. Afterward they sat by a fire. The evenings were still cool. Plot told her father about the witch and her customers. Their stories were not large and grand, like the stories told in the marketplace. They were small tales of illness, romance, family quarrels, good or bad weather. The great twentieth century Icelandic novelist Halldór Laxness told stories like these, except that he wrote novels. You ought to read his Independent People.
Plot’s narratives were brief and to the point. Some were happy. An illness was cured. In other cases, the witch could not solve the problem. A lover came back and complained that a love potion had not worked. Families continued to quarrel. The harvest was not good.
Plot lacked Laxness’s humor and sense of irony, which can be seen as a failing. But she had his clear vision and his respect for ordinary people, which she had learned in the hut atop ostrich legs. Life was hard, and people did the best they could. Their lives did not become epic, unless a writer as good as Laxness was writing. But they were worth hearing about – and worth helping, as the witch did, though she was not always successful. Even a witch can only do so much.
When she was done, her father said, “You are certainly a better storyteller than before. But these stories will not sell in the marketplace. People want to hear about heroes and dragons and fair maidens in distress. Maybe it would be a good idea for you to rejoin the witch – or stay at home and do accounting.”
“I will rejoin the witch,” Plot said.
Her father felt a little unhappy, but he was not going to stand in the way of any child. Ima and Orna had taught him a lesson. We cannot determine how our children turn out. They cannot live our dreams.
“Good enough,” he said. “Please come back to visit, and if you ever decide to tell stories about heroes and dragons, I would be happy to hear them.”
The next day, Plot packed a new bag and set out for the forest. On the way, she passed the café where the critic sa
t.
“You are the girl with the ridiculous name,” the critic said, a cigarette in her hand and a cloud of smoke twisting around her. A glass of wine stood in front of her. Plot had no idea how she could taste it through the tobacco. “What was it?”
“Plot,” the scrivener’s daughter said. “But I’m thinking of changing it to Amelia.”
“A good idea,” the critic said in the firm and considered tone that critics often use. She drew on her cigarette and puffed out smoke. “Did you ever learn to write?”
“No,” Amelia answered. “But your sister has offered me an apprenticeship.” She set down her bag and considered the critic. She could see the resemblance between the two sisters clearly now, both of them tall and wide, with arrogant faces and beaky noses. They had the same eyes: sharp and knowing under heavy lids. “I don’t know what I want to be yet. I’ll study with your sister, and think about my future.”
“Good enough,” the critic said. “There are too many writers in the world already. I try to cut them down, but they spring back up. On the other hand, there are too few good witches. Always remember, no matter what you end up doing, stay away from stories about heroes and dragons. They have been done to death.”
Amelia went on, carrying her bag, feeling happy at the thought of returning to the hut with ostrich legs. Maybe that job would not work out. If so, she could always go back to accounting. And maybe she would write a few stories down for her own pleasure. Or maybe not.
For Patrick
SOMEDAY
James Patrick Kelly
James Patrick Kelly (www.jimkelly.net) has written novels, short stories, essays, reviews, poetry, plays and planetarium shows. His most recent book is a collection of stories entitled The Wreck Of The Godspeed. His short novel Burn won the Nebula Award in 2007. He has won Hugo Awards for his novelettes “Think Like A Dinosaur” and “Ten to the Sixteenth to One.” With John Kessel he is co-editor of five anthologies, most recently Digital Rapture: The Singularity Anthology. He is on the faculty of the Stonecoast Creative Writing MFA Program at the University of Southern Maine and on the Board of Directors of the Clarion Foundation.
DAYA HAD BEEN IN NO HURRY to become a mother. In the two years since she’d reached childbearing age, she’d built a modular from parts she’d fabbed herself, thrown her boots into the volcano, and served as blood judge. The village elders all said she was one of the quickest girls they had ever seen – except when it came to choosing fathers for her firstborn. Maybe that was because she was too quick for a sleepy village like Third Landing. When her mother, Tajana, had come of age, she’d left for the blue city to find fathers for her baby. Everyone expected Tajana would stay in Halfway, but she had surprised them and returned home to raise Daya. So once Daya had grown up, everyone assumed that someday she would leave for the city like her mother, especially after Tajana had been killed in the avalanche last winter. What did Third Landing have to hold such a fierce and able woman? Daya could easily build a glittering new life in Halfway. Do great things for the colony.
But everything had changed after the scientists from space had landed on the old site across the river, and Daya had changed most of all. She kept her own counsel and was often hard to find. That spring she had told the elders that she didn’t need to travel to gather the right semen. Her village was happy and prosperous. The scientists had chosen it to study and they had attracted tourists from all over the colony. There were plenty of beautiful and convenient local fathers to take to bed. Daya had sampled the ones she considered best, but never opened herself to blend their sperm. Now she would, here in the place where she had been born.
She chose just three fathers for her baby. She wanted Ganth because he was her brother and because he loved her above all others. Latif because he was a leader and would say what was true when everyone else was afraid. And Bakti because he was a master of stories and because she wanted him to tell hers someday.
She informed each of her intentions to make a love feast, although she kept the identities of the other fathers a secret, as was her right. Ganth demanded to know, of course, but she refused him. She was not asking for a favor. It would be her baby, her responsibility. The three fathers, in turn, kept her request to themselves, as was custom, in case she changed her mind about any or all of them. A real possibility – when she contemplated what she was about to do, she felt separated from herself.
That morning she climbed into the pen and spoke a kindness to her pig Bobo. The glint of the knife made him grunt with pleasure and he rolled onto his back, exposing the tumors on his belly. She hadn’t harvested him in almost a week and so carved two fist-sized maroon swellings into the meat pail. She pressed strips of sponge root onto the wounds to stanch the bleeding and when it was done, she threw them into the pail as well. When she scratched under his jowls to dismiss him, Bobo squealed approval, rolled over and trotted off for a mud bath.
She sliced the tumors thin, dipped the pieces in egg and dragged them through a mix of powdered opium, pepper, flour, and bread crumbs, then sautéed them until they were crisp. She arranged them on top of a casserole of snuro, parsnips and sweet flag, layered with garlic and three cheeses. She harvested some of the purple blooms from the petri dish on the windowsill and flicked them on top of her love feast. The aphrodisiacs produced by the bacteria would give an erection to a corpse. She slid the casserole into the oven to bake for an hour while she bathed and dressed for babymaking.
Daya had considered the order in which she would have sex with the fathers. Last was most important, followed by first. The genes of the middle father – or fathers, since some mothers made babies with six or seven for political reasons – were less reliably expressed. She thought starting with Ganth for his sunny nature and finishing with Latif for his looks and good judgment made sense. Even though Bakti was clever, he had bad posture.
Ganth sat in front of a fuzzy black and white screen with his back to her when she nudged the door to his house open with her hip. “It’s me. With a present.”
He did not glance away from his show – the colony’s daily news and gossip program about the scientists – but raised his forefinger in acknowledgment.
She carried the warming dish with oven mitts to the huge round table that served as his desk, kitchen counter and sometime closet. She pushed aside some books, a belt, an empty bottle of blueberry kefir, and a Fill Jumphigher action figure to set her love feast down. Like her own house, Ganth’s was a single room, but his was larger, shabbier, and built of some knotty softwood.
Her brother took a deep breath, his face pale in the light of the screen. “Smells delicious.” He pressed the off button; the screen winked and went dark.
“What’s the occasion?” He turned to her, smiling. “Oh.” His eyes went wide when he saw how she was dressed. “Tonight?”
“Tonight.” She grinned.
Trying to cover his surprise, he pulled out the pocket watch he’d had from their mother and then shook it as if it were broken. “Why, look at the time. I totally forgot that we were grown up.”
“You like?” She weaved her arms and her ribbon robe fluttered.
“I was wondering when you’d come. What if I had been out?”
She nodded at the screen in front of him. “You never miss that show.”
“Has anyone else seen you?” He sneaked to the window and peered out. A knot of gawkers had gathered in the street. “What, did you parade across Founders’ Square dressed like that? You’ll give every father in town a hard on.” He pulled the blinds and came back to her. He surprised her by going down on one knee. “So which am I?”
“What do you think?” She lifted the cover from the casserole to show that it was steaming and uncut.
“I’m honored.” He took her hand in his and kissed it. “Who else?” he said. “And you have to tell. Tomorrow everyone will know.”
“Bakti. Latif last.”
“Three is all a baby really needs.” He rubbed his thumb across the inside of
her wrist. “Our mother would approve.”
Of course, Ganth had no idea of what their mother had really thought of him.
Tajana had once warned Daya that if she insisted on choosing Ganth to father her baby, she should dilute his semen with that of the best men in the village. A sweet manner is fine, she’d said, but babies need brains and a spine.
“So, dear sister, it’s a sacrifice”– he said, standing – “but I’m prepared to do my duty.” He caught her in his arms.
Daya squawked in mock outrage.
“You’re not surprising the others are you?” He nuzzled her neck.
“No, they expect me.”
“Then we’d better hurry. I hear that Eldest Latif goes to bed early.” His whisper filled her ear. “Carrying the weight of the world on his back tires him out.
“I’ll give him reason to wake up.”
He slid a hand through the layers of ribbons until he found her skin. “Bakti, on the other hand, stays up late, since his stories weigh nothing at all.” The flat of his hand against her belly made her shiver. “I didn’t realize you knew him that well.”
She tugged at the hair on the back of Ganth’s head to get his attention. “Feasting first,” she said, her voice husky. Daya hadn’t expected to be this emotional. She opened her pack, removed the bottle of chardonnay and poured two glasses. They saluted each other and drank, then she used the spatula she had brought – since she knew her brother wouldn’t have one – to cut a square of her love feast. He watched her scoop it onto a plate like a man uncertain of his luck. She forked a bite into her mouth. The cheese was still melty – maybe a bit too much sweet flag. She chewed once, twice and then leaned forward to kiss him. His lips parted and she let the contents of her mouth fall into his. He groaned and swallowed. “Again.” His voice was thick. “Again and again and again.”
Afterward they lay entangled on his mattress on the floor. “I’m glad you’re not leaving us, Daya.” He blew on the ribbons at her breast and they trembled. “I’ll stay home to watch your baby,” he said. “Whenever you need me. Make life so easy, you’ll never want to go.”
The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year: Volume Nine Page 66
