InterGalactic Medicine Show Awards Anthology, Vol. I
Page 14
“I’m going,” Grant said.
Evan caught up with him at the tent. Grant was shucking off his shoes and jeans. He was wearing his swimming trunks underneath. He’d been planning this, planning to dive into the pool all along. Grant found his flashlight, flicked it on, off, on again. Off at last.
“That water is really disgusting,” Evan ventured.
“I’ll keep my mouth closed.”
It wouldn’t matter. Evan knew. The water would creep into Grant through his ears, through the ends of his blonde hair, through his skin. It would seep and creep into Grant, and when whatever-it-was touched him, it would steal summer out of him, too. And how could there be another birthday dare if there was no summer ever again, in either of them?
Evan stood in front of the tent flap. “No.”
“Get out of the way,” said Grant. The tent was too small for him to stand up in, but he moved forward, pushing his arms against Evan’s chest.
Evan shoved him back into the tent.
“Stop it,” Grant said. A bit of a whine flickered in his voice. He tried to stand, but Evan grabbed him by his shoulders and pushed him back.
And this time Grant didn’t try to stand. He crouched, and lunged at Evan, catching him around the midsection. Evan wheeled back and lost his balance. Grant fell with him, and, in a moment, they were scraping and scratching at each other, rolling in the grass and hot sun. Grant slammed the butt of the flashlight into the small of Evan’s back once, twice, before Evan clipped the side of Grant’s face with his elbow. But somehow, Evan wound up beneath Grant, covering his face while Grant aimed punches at him.
Grant stopped trying to hit him. He got up, and Evan uncovered his face. A dark bruise was forming beneath Grant’s left eye. He wiped some grit off his face and turned to the pool. Like that was all, like this was over, and in the past it would have been. That’s the way it was, and sometimes in the past, it had been Evan on top, to get up and walk off silently. In a couple of hours, Grant would come back and apologize, and . . .
Not this time. There’d be no apology if Grant kissed that water. So Evan didn’t let him walk off. He rushed forward and tackled Grant from behind. Evan ploughed forward, squeezing with his arms, pushing with his legs, jerking Grant viciously to the side to try and throw him off his feet.
Grant cried out as he fell. The sound of it broke across Evan’s ears—he was hurting Grant; Grant his best friend since they’d been babies, Grant his cousin, Grant who knew about the cigar he’d stolen from Dad’s boss, Grant who meant summer to Evan. Grant who had never cried like this before. And yet, and yet, if Evan didn’t stop him, the water, the darkness, and the end of the world!
Evan had jumped Grant from behind, and now he was going to betray him worse, as he brought up his knee like a girl would, right between Grant’s legs. It was the end of the world already, this fighting with Grant, hurting him like this, but at least Grant wouldn’t breathe that water through his ears, through his skin.
Evan’s knee caught Grant’s thigh. Grant slipped back, pushing with his arms and digging with his feet to get away from him. Evan scrambled after, trying to pin him, but he was too fast. Evan saw Grant’s fist curl, and the hard glint in his eyes. Pain exploded in Evan’s groin. He sagged to the ground.
Grant panted, “Stay down this time.” His flip-flops popped and smacked as he turned and walked away from Evan. Toward the pool.
Evan wanted to stay down. The pain between his legs crept slowly into his stomach and lower back. Stay down, stay down, three minutes and forty two seconds is all it should take to satisfy Grant’s curiosity. Evan held his crotch and rolled and watched the ground dip away to blue sky and clouds and gnats wheeling above him.
He heard a splash from the direction of the pool. Start counting now, he thought, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three . . .
Evan got to his knees. His balls felt as big as grapefruits as he walked, as he waddled, to the stinking hole, the end-of-the-world pool. Sepulchre by the sea, Annabel Lee.
Without bothering to strip off his jeans or his shirt, Evan dropped through the scum on the top of the pool. The water was as slick and warm as it had been yesterday. Darkness was just beyond his fingertips, and somewhere below that, Grant.
And something else, something with fingers, and lips, and if it touched him, he’d scream his lungs out.
It was harder to swim down this time. He couldn’t kick at all, and had to rely on his arms. He was tired from fighting Grant, and from working all morning long in the pool-house. The darkness seemed always out of reach, and the taste of the pool was in his mouth this time, really there, not just somehow-seeped through his ears. Down, and down, and down!
Something hard bumped against his fingertips and spun away. Grant’s flashlight. Evan chased after it, caught it. Its beam seemed diffuse and weak—but still. Hope against the darkness. Evan swung the beam toward the bottom of the pool.
The darkness no longer moved away. It surged up and over him in a rush. The flashlight’s beam guttered and ceased. Nothing, nothing but deepness and darkness and silence, and no wonder Grant had let go of it, it was so useless. Worse, it was like the bait that those deep sea fish used to lure other fish into their mouths, a little bit of hope, a little bit of bouncing light, hello, goodbye!
A hand on his chest, soft and cool. It slid upward, to his throat, and though Evan screamed like he’d known he would, he never ran out of air, and those fingers traced his open lips, his eyes, his ears, and the back of his neck.
Two!
The voice thumped through the pool, and as it spoke, Evan felt the fingers on the back of his neck give a little stroke, teasing the hair there.
Two boys!
Evan wasn’t floating any longer. He wasn’t buoyant. He was sinking. He flailed and kicked, but the hand drew him down delicately, softly, until he felt sand. But it wasn’t sand, couldn’t be, because his toes were passing through it too easily.
Quiet, quiet!
The sand sucked at Evan’s waist, climbing his lower back now, colder than the water, slick and gritty all at once. The hand on his neck drifted up to play with the hair on the top of his head, and to press him ever-so-gently deeper in. Evan struck and writhed in the silence.
And felt his open palm slap someone. Flesh! His fingers knew what flesh felt like. Evan could feel Grant’s short hair, soft as rabbit fur in the water. He was up to his chest in the sand.
Two boys! Sweet playmates, for me, for me, under the waves, under the sea!
The voice giggled and rhymed as Evan struggled. Be, sea, me, lee, free, on and on. Evan locked his arms around Grant’s chest and pulled. He didn’t succeed in doing anything but forcing himself farther down. And Grant didn’t move, he just hung limp and placid in the sand. Evan tugged on him again, kicking his legs in the sand for purchase, yanking on Grant’s torso until his back burned with the effort.
Hush! Hush!
He wouldn’t hush. This wasn’t the ocean, this wasn’t a cave, this was a scummy pool filled with algae and stagnant water and mosquito larva, and there were no waves, and Annabel Lee was dead in Poe’s poem. She didn’t hunt after the boy she’d loved in childhood, she didn’t try to drown him, and anyway, what girl had Grant or Evan ever loved?
Alone! Alone!
The hand on Evan’s head withdrew, and with it, the darkness. For a moment, Evan caught sight of something swimming in the water. A long, naked body; a slender woman with pale hair that spread over Evan and threatened to touch his face. A bulbous mass hung beneath her waist, something obscenely chubby and . . . clutching. She was gone in a flicker of whiteness, down to the sand.
And Evan was drowning in the murk, buried up to his ribs. All the aches of the day, his crotch and lungs, doubled into him. Evan gagged and surged, struggling out of the gripping, greedy sand. Grant’s limbs were as limp as ever, jouncing idly at Evan’s movements. A little, clear bubble of air hung in Grant’s open mouth. Evan watched it, even as he fought up, fought against t
he burning in his chest, the ominous pop-pop-pop in his brain. That bubble of air, that was Grant’s soul, and if it fled into this foul water, Grant would be gone, deader than dead, with no more sense or will than a blob of green algae.
The bubble trembled against the edge of Grant’s teeth. It was slipping, slipping . . .
Evan did the only thing he could think of. He put his mouth over Grant’s, and held it there. Grant’s soul would be safe, summer would be safe, closed up in the space between their mouths, protected against the end of the world, and the hostile water.
Sand churned around them, but now Grant’s legs were coming free. Evan strained and lifted and drew him up, drew him out, and sucked a piece of his soul into his throat. It tasted like rain and woodsmoke, heavy, vibrant, and Evan breathed it back forcefully. Ram it down, that was the idea, push it so deep into Grant’s chest that it would never come free, never, never.
It wasn’t as far as he remembered to the surface. Lights glared through the water—one, two, three suns, burning through the scum. Evan dragged himself and Grant toward them.
Shadows loomed over them suddenly, and thick hands plunged through the algae to tear Grant out of Evan’s arms. Then more hands were grasping at Evan. Not Dad’s hands—not this time. A tall stranger pulled him out of the water and hauled him over to the edge. The smell of burning diesel choked the air.
Grant! Evan tried to say, but vomited dark water instead. Grant gurgled and barfed to his left, and someone murmured words of comfort and amazement. Evan heard the stomp of Uncle Hector’s heavy boots, and the pop and smack of Dad’s sandals, and then they were there, grabbing them, huddling them together so tight that Evan had to struggle to get to the edge of the pool to vomit again. Grant, too.
“We couldn’t find you under there,” Dad was babbling. He scrubbed his hands through Evan’s hair. “We heard you go in, and then . . .”
Uncle Hector said, “Next year, no pools. No water at all, I swear, it’s the Mojave Desert for us. We’ll camp at the salt flats for the whole summer.”
The pool was shallow now. A fat hose draped over the other side, drawing the water down steadily, to the thrum and buzz of a pump. Evan could see the black water gushing out of the back of the pump in a furious stream.
Someone came and put a blanket over Evan, and shined a tiny flashlight in his eyes, and coaxed them all away from the edge of the pool. And then Grant was next to him, and they sat shoulder to shoulder, sniffling, until Grant put his arm around Evan, and it was an apology, it was gratitude. It was more. It was summer. Evan had held Grant’s breath in his throat, he’d pushed life back into him, and here it came around again, warm and sweet. Straight from Grant’s skin, through Evan’s, right to his own very bloodstream, buzzing directly to his bones.
And behind them the pump droned on, sucking the black water in and spitting it out, out, out. Out into the darker night.
A Heretic by Degrees
* * *
by Marie Brennan
The king was dying, and nothing in the world could save him.
The Councilor Paramount said, “Then we must look outside the world for help.”
The suggestion was heretical, and treasonous to boot. Two years before, the king had established by sacred decree that there was only one world, and that nothing lay beyond its bounds; anything seen there was a delusion, a final torment sent to test the faithful before their eventual salvation. And for two years, his Councilors and subjects had respected his word.
Now they faced a choice. Disobey the king—or lose him. Commit treason, or let him die, and with him, the last remnant of the sacred royal line.
The Councilor Paramount’s statement met with a lengthy, embarrassed, indecisive silence.
By the standards of his predecessors, Qoress was new to the position of Councilor Paramount; he had been in service for a mere two years. The man who served before him had gone into the spaces outside the world, and only his right arm and half of his head had come back. Thus the decree, and thus the need for a new Councilor Paramount.
One might expect from this that Qoress would be the last man to suggest that something might exist outside the world, much less that help might exist in those places. But he was a thoughtful man, and moreover one who cared for his king; also, he knew that his fellow councilors were a weak-willed lot who would consider and discuss and debate and do everything in their power to avoid making a decision, for whoever brought matters to such a point could subsequently be blamed for it.
From out of the rustling of ceremonial robes and uncomfortable creaking of stools came one timid, anonymous voice. “But—we wouldn’t know where to start.”
Their lack of spine served Qoress’ purpose, for it meant they wouldn’t argue with him. He smiled down at them all, hands arranged in the gesture of Serene Confidence. “Do you really believe all of His Holiness’ subjects have obeyed that decree?”
The councilors would have gone traipsing about the capital in a vermilion-robed herd, looking for criminals who had gone outside the world, had Qoress not stopped them. They’d been chosen based on lineal tradition and priestly oracular signs, not espionage capabilities. No one outside the palace knew the king was dying, and Qoress wanted to keep it that way.
Finding the help they needed took money they did not have, and time, which was even more precious. But their investment was finally rewarded when the Holy Royal Guard brought a man to Qoress’ chambers, on the right sort of charge of treason and heresy.
“You got no proof,” were the first words out of the man’s mouth when the guards shoved him to his knees.
Qoress regarded the man for a careful moment. His stocky shoulders and barrel chest made him appear nearly as wide as he was tall; too much of one dimension, and not enough of the other. By the ancient principles of harmonious bodily proportion that governed palace life, the man was entirely displeasing, and moreover the length of his nose indicated an untrustworthy nature. But the palace inhabitants, harmonious of build though they might be, did not have the expertise he needed.
Qoress indicated with a flick of his fingers that the guards should leave.
When the two of them were alone in the room, he said, “You have been brought here for a purpose. I swear beneath the foot of the Agate God that if you help us, your crimes will be forgiven, in the eyes of both gods and men.”
The man’s dull face lit up slowly at his words.
“But,” Qoress added, before the man could speak, “this matter is one of utmost security. Therefore, I also swear beneath the foot of the Agate God that if you betray even the tiniest part of this matter to anyone in the world, your blood will boil in your veins, your eyes will roast in their sockets, and your skin will crisp from your flesh, your flesh from your bones, until nothing remains of you but a pile of ash, soon scattered by the wind. Do you understand me?”
After a frozen moment of horror, the man swallowed convulsively and nodded.
“Very well,” Qoress said. His own words left a bitter taste in his mouth. Not because he regretted the necessity of threats; he would burn a hundred men to ash if it would save the king. No, the bitterness came because it would not save the king. He could kill, but he could not heal.
He had to hope that someone else could.
Qoress stood before the man, clasping his hands in the gesture of Sorrowful Resolution. “You have been outside the world,” he said. “We have need of your experience. It is said that many wonders exist in the places we do not speak of. Is an ability to heal the sick and dying among those wonders?”
It was remarkable, Qoress reflected some time later, how quickly one adjusted to strangeness when there was need. Since becoming Councilor Paramount, he had not once been within three paces of anyone so common and vulgar as Haint, the criminal he had recruited, but now they stood side-by-side at a map table, studying the image and speaking heresy.
Haint’s blunt finger stabbed down at a town. “That ain’t there anymore. Nor that. Nor that. And the r
iver’s dried up, with the spring gone.” With one swoop, his unmanicured nail denied the existence of an entire swath of the world.
Worse than Qoress had realized, then. There had been a second decree, not long after his ascension to Paramountcy, declaring that all of the towns, rivers, fields, and other portions of the world were where they had always been. Obedient to the king’s sacred word, everyone had disregarded the lack of communication with a number of towns in the east, the disappearance of those who had lived there. But what Haint was describing went well beyond the vanished area Qoress knew had provoked the decree.
So the rumors were true. The world—what remained of it after the judgment of the gods had begun—was continuing to fade.
But that was not Qoress’ true concern. “Beyond that?”
“Beyond that,” Haint said, “there are two places. Up here—” He tapped the northern edge of the disputed area. “You don’t want to go there. Creatures there look like six-armed wolves, eat anybody who comes near them. That’s what happened to the guy before you. Lucky for us they don’t much want to leave their home. But to the southeast . . . there, we might have luck.”
Qoress stared at the southern portion of the map, the lines and letters melting away in his mind as the places they marked had melted, leaving a blank, unknown space. “What lies to the southeast?”
Haint grinned at him, showing crooked teeth. “Another world.”
The arms of the chair were tangling the sleeves of even the relatively plain robes Qoress had worn to the meeting, and the seat was too high for him to sit comfortably. He was already vexed by his inability to understand the choppy clicks that passed for language in this place; little things like awkward furniture frayed his temper still further. But he could not trust Haint to handle this without supervision, and so here he was, committing an unthinkable crime: not just speaking of a place his king had told him didn’t exist, but going there in person.