Asimov's SF, October-November 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Aw. You're perfect, too, Trav.”

  They kissed. “Hey,” Vina said, pulling back. “You are crying. Travis, where's the dog?”

  * * * *

  Larson couldn't sleep. He stared at Vina's face on the pillow beside his. For all her dieting and exercise her features were still thick and plain; she was still Vina. Which is all he wanted. He remembered lying next to Kristine and how calm it felt to be with her sleeping body after all the stress and tension of their waking conflicts—Kristine's sleeping face presenting her absence. But Larson was tired of absence.

  He slipped from the bed and into the hallway, pulling the bedroom door shut behind him. In the living room he called Beverman's office and left a message, keeping his voice down so he wouldn't wake Vina.

  “I'm dropping it. We're not going to sue Kristine.”

  Larson fixed himself a drink and sat in the living room, listening to the rain. The bourbon helped Larson keep his fear at bay. That's what Kristine used to do for him. She used to keep the fear at bay by her presence. But presence wasn't always enough. Eventually you had to be there all the way, and you had to let somebody else be there all the way, too. Without that, little comforts counted all out of proportion. Even the comfort of a virtual dog you couldn't really touch. Some people needed that. It was a small thing and you were petty to begrudge it. The world only went around so many times in a person's life. If you made it harder than it already was, you were really just this gloomy person—this shouter.

  Rain blew against the windows. Larson poured another bourbon and stood looking out at the city, at the world moving around through one dark night and already on the way toward the next one. Around and around and around.

  Copyright © 2011 by Jack Skillingstead

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  * * *

  Poetry: GALILEO'S INKSPOTS FADE INTO TWILIGHT

  by Geoffrey A. Landis

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Galileo's Inkspots Fade into Twilight

  Monks and madmen announce the end is near

  and in the half-light auroras flare by day.

  We look up at the mottled Sun in fear,

  while from the north, the ice moves down to stay.

  —

  Solar variation, we are told.

  Pressure oscillations in the core.

  Stars sometimes do that as they get old.

  A normal thing for a middle-aged star.

  —

  Just a short time, a million years or two

  a magnitude dimmer, rarely much more,

  not long to wait until it glows anew,

  barely a blink in the life of a star

  —

  Inkspots now spatter the disk of the sun,

  and brightness fades: our last days are begun.

  —Geoffrey A. Landis

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  * * *

  Novelette: MY HUSBAND STEINN

  by Eleanor Arnason

  Eleanor Arnason has published six novels, thirty-plus short stories, and some poems. She has won the Tiptree, Mythopoeic, and Spectrum Awards, and has been a finalist for the Nebula and Hugo. Eleanor recently retired from making a living, but continues to write. After too long an absence from our pages, she returns with a perfect tale for our slightly spooky October/November issue. Set in a desolate corner of Iceland, it tells the modern consequences of an ancient monster's peculiar attempts to woo a twenty-first century woman.

  * * * *

  I.

  There was a woman named Signy, who was a journalist in Reykjavik. Her favorite work was writing about the environment, but she also did articles about art and fine dining. One does what one has to do in order to get by. In her spare time, she was working on a magical realist novel about Iceland in the twentieth century. She had read all the great Latin American writers, the Icelandic family sagas, and the novels of Haldor Laxness. But she hadn't found an approach to the novel that satisfied her.

  She had a summer house in the East Fjords. This is a desolate area. The young people leave, because there is no longer any work. The fishing villages along the coast are empty or mostly empty, and there are abandoned farms in the mountains. Signy didn't mind this. She liked solitude and the landscape, and the house had been cheap, because most people wanted vacation homes closer to the capital.

  Every chance she got, she drove to her house, taking Highway One into the East Fjords and then an unpaved road up to the house. It stood on a high slope. Behind it was a cliff of black stone; and in front was a long expanse of uncut grass that ended suddenly in a drop off. Beyond the drop off was a headland, an island, and the glimmering ocean. It seemed she ought to be able to see all the way to Norway.

  Although it was isolated, the house had all the comforts Signy wanted: a generator, a well, an inside bathroom, a living room furnished with comfortable furniture and a tiny bedroom with a bed and a down coverlet. She spent most weekends there and often entire weeks.

  She especially enjoyed getting up in the morning, making coffee, and going out her front door to look at the ocean, while she drank the piping hot coffee.

  One morning when she did this, she found a wild swan on the ground in front of her door. It was dead, its neck broken. She looked at it for some time and then called the police.

  “That's strange,” the voice on her cell phone said. “We have someone who lives not too far from you. We'll ask him to stop by.”

  She left the swan where it was and went inside. But she couldn't work on her novel. As the voice on the phone had said, the incident was strange and not in a way she liked.

  Early in the afternoon a police car climbed the road to her summer house. It stopped. A big man got out and introduced himself. His name was Hrafn, which means Raven, but there was nothing raven-like about him. His hair was blond, and his eyes pale blue. He looked solid and not especially clever.

  He examined the dead swan. “I can't find any tooth marks, which means it wasn't a fox or a dog. In any case, I don't think a fox could kill a bird this big. In my opinion, a human strangled it and left it for you. Can you think of any reason why?”

  “No.”

  “What are your relations with your neighbors?”

  “I don't have any.”

  The policeman looked around. “That's true. Have you quarreled with anyone in Iceland?”

  “Only my mother and my ex-boyfriend.”

  “This does not look like something a mother would do,” Hrafn said and asked questions about her boyfriend, writing down her answers. When he was finished taking notes, he said, “I suspect this was done by a boy or several boys. As a rule, anything that looks strange and stupid has been done by boys or drunks, and this is a long way for a drunk to come in order to cause trouble. But I'll find out what your former boyfriend has been doing recently. You might consider going back to Reykjavik for a while. This place is lonely.”

  Signy shook her head. “I like it here.”

  “Then keep your door locked and make sure your cell phone is always close at hand. What are you going to do with the swan?”

  “Bury it,” said Signy.

  “It looks fresh, and I know a butcher who will clean it. Can I have it?”

  “With gladness,” Signy replied.

  Hrafn took the dead swan and left. Nothing else happened for a week and more. Signy got back to work on her novel, though she still wasn't satisfied with it.

  One morning, ten days after she found the swan, she stepped out of her summer house and found a cod on the ground. It was as long as her arm. Its skin was copper, and so was the one eye she could see. The one visible gill moved slightly. It had not finished dying.

  This was beginning to unnerve her. It was just after sunrise. No one was in sight, and this odd gift lay in front of her. Why? Was it a threat? If so, what did it threaten? If it was a gift, why was it left so strangely?

  She called the police, then put the cod into her refrigerator. She had to take ou
t both shelves and bend the cod to make it fit.

  Midway through the afternoon, a police car drove up, and Hrafn climbed out. She showed him the cod.

  “This still might be stupid boys, though how did they get here? You saw no one and heard no cars?”

  “That's right.”

  He left her, walking a ways down the road, then back. “There are no hoof marks and no fresh tire tracks, though it rained yesterday. Of course, the boys might have come over the grass. But from where?” He glanced around at the empty countryside. “Your boyfriend is in Scotland, by the way. Are you sure you don't want to go back to Reykjavik?”

  “I need to talk with editors,” Signy said. “I will go back.”

  “A good idea,” Hrafn said. “Are you intending to eat the cod?”

  She took it out of the refrigerator and gave it to the big man. He thanked her and said, “The swan was delicious.”

  She drove back to her apartment in Reykjavik and spent three weeks there, missing her summer house every day. The city was too busy and noisy. She couldn't concentrate on her novel. Finally, she packed her car.

  It was getting toward fall, and the days were getting shorter. But the air was mild and fresh once she got out of the city, and the drive to the lonely East Fjords was pleasant. The ocean was on her right. On her left, mountains rose. Iceland's glaciers were shrinking, like glaciers all over the world. But there was still snow and ice on the mountains, and it shone in the morning sunlight. The ocean, when she could see it, flashed white flecks of foam.

  She reached the house, unlocked it, and put her groceries away, then set her laptop on the table in the living room. Beyond the front windows was the long slope of grass, the drop off, and the shining ocean. She knew there was a novel in her, a good one.

  Three days later, she found a heap of plants in front of her door, wildflowers that had been torn up by their roots. Many of the stalks were broken. Whoever had gathered them was either careless or clumsy.

  She called the police again.

  “This is getting to be a habit,” said the voice on the phone. “I'll tell Hrafn about this. He likes mysteries.”

  Once again the police car climbed up the mountain, and Hrafn got out. He looked at the heap of flowers, which were all wilted now. “Someone likes you,” he said finally. “Maybe it's a very strange schoolboy crush, but there don't seem to be any strange schoolboys around here. I've been asking. You have been private and kept your distance from everyone in the district. People around here don't know you. Usually you need to meet people or at least see them, in order to develop a fixation. So I have no suspects. I think you should consider selling the house.”

  By this time Signy was getting angry, and the flowers seemed less scary than the dead bird or the dying fish. Terrible things rarely happened in Iceland. She shook her head. She would not leave the house.

  Hrafn didn't ask for the flowers. She took them to the drop off and threw them into space, frightening some puffins, which flew off like rockets. That night she went to bed late, after making sure all the doors and windows were locked.

  In the middle of the night a voice woke her. “Signy,” it called, deep and gruff. “Pretty Signy, you have refused all my gifts. None the less, I love you.”

  She got up and crept to a window, lifting the curtain just a little. There was a half moon in the sky. By its light she saw a grotesque figure on the grass in front of her house. It was tall and awkward looking, with a big head and long nose. Its hair was a great, stiff thatch, like a patch of dry weeds. It wore ragged pants and nothing else; its bare feet were huge. Of course Signy knew what it was. Every Icelander learned about such creatures. It was a troll, though she had always thought that trolls were imaginary.

  “I live in the cliff behind your house,” the troll said. “And I have watched you since you moved in. Bit by bit, I have fallen in love with you, and I want to make you my wife, though I can't seem to find the right courting gifts. Please come out. Signy! I have a staff I want to show you. Believe me, the sight of it will make you happy. Do you see how big and thick my nose is? Well, my staff is even bigger and thicker. Imagine how much enjoyment you could get from a stick so large and fine!”

  She had never imagined that trolls used euphemisms; but “staff” must be a metaphor, and she was pretty certain she knew for what. If she was right, the troll's staff would split her in two.

  “I need some time to think about your offer,” she said.

  “I'm running out of patience,” the troll said. “And my staff is so eager to meet you that it makes me uncomfortable. It has a mind of its own, my staff. But I will give you a few more days. Decide quickly, pretty Signy.” He stumped off on his huge feet and was soon out of sight.

  Signy stayed awake for the rest of the night, thinking. She could go back to Reykjavik. She ought to be safe there. So far as she had ever heard, trolls never came into the city. But if they were real, as they seemed to be, then they were likely to be everywhere else in Iceland. She could get another summer house, in another district, though she'd lose money selling this one. But the troll might show up at the new house. If she remembered correctly, they could travel fast and far.

  Did she want to spend the rest of her life in Reykjavik? Or outside Iceland? As far as she knew Canada did not have trolls, but she didn't want to live there; the U.S. was out of the question.

  No, thought Signy. She did not want to give up without a fight. But how was she going to fight? The police were not likely to be any help. She tried to imagine telling Hrafn that her stalker was a creature out of myth. He did not seem like a person with a strong imagination.

  She knew trolls turned to stone if sunlight touched them; there were many rocks around Iceland that had once been trolls, or so tradition said. A clever woman would find a way to trick the troll into staying out after sunrise. But she couldn't think of anything, and a trick would be risky. She was pretty certain that he'd be able to crush her house with those huge hands and feet. She'd be left broken in the rubble or pulled out and torn to pieces. Trolls were dangerous.

  So, what was she going to do? Flee? Or take a risk?

  She kept thinking, until she had an idea. In the morning, she drove to Reykjavik and went shopping. Two days later, she returned to the summer house. She checked the generator and did some simple wiring. Then she ate dinner, turned out the lights, and waited for the troll.

  Around midnight, she heard his voice. “Signy, pretty Signy. I have come for your decision. Will you marry me and meet my staff?”

  “Just a minute,” Signy replied. “I need to turn on some lights and get a good look at you. I won't marry someone I have never seen properly.”

  “Don't think the lights will do anything to me,” said the troll in a warning tone. “I am immune to moonlight, starlight, firelight, and electric light. Only sunlight can do me harm.”

  The troll was suspicious. Signy hoped her plan would work. “I know that most kinds of light won't hurt you; I want to take a good look at you, before I make a decision.”

  “Oh very well,” grumbled the troll. “But give me time to comb my hair.”

  Then she heard grunts and moans, as he dragged a comb through his weedy hair. Finally he said, “I'm ready.”

  Signy turned on the new lights she had installed along the front of her house. They were the biggest full spectrum lamps she could find, and they blazed down on the troll, casting a light that was almost like sunlight.

  The troll shouted in anger or pain, Signy could not tell which, and then began to turn, as if intending to run away. But he could not run. The light was not true sunlight, so it did not turn him to stone, as she had hoped it would. Instead, it hardened his exterior. He became like lava that had cooled down and formed a crust. Inside, the lava was still molten, but the crust constrained it.

  The troll's limbs were most affected. They seemed frozen, one hand cast up, both feet planted wide. His torso was still capable of motion. It twisted slowly—oh, so slowly—away from
the light. His cry of pain or anger became a low, rumbling groan, so deep that she could barely hear it. Something must be happening to his mouth and throat.

  After a while she made coffee and sat at the window, watching the troll. He kept turning, though with increasingly slowness, until the sun came up. Then, as its long, level beams touched him, he turned entirely to stone.

  That is that, thought Signy.

  But it wasn't.

  * * * *

  II.

  Things were quiet for several weeks, and Signy got back to her novel. Then one night, when the moon was full, she heard groaning and sobbing outside. A harsh voice cried, “Oh my husband Steinn.”

  Signy looked out. There was another troll in her front yard, petting and stroking the boulder that had been the first troll. “What will I do without you, husband?” the troll wife cried. “What will happen to our children? How can I care for them and feed them, without your help?”

  Then there was more sobbing and petting.

  The lights were still up on the front of her house. Signy knew she had protection, if she needed it. “Let me tell you about your husband,” she called.

  The troll wife turned and stared at the house. She was big and gawky, with a head that looked too large for her body, and a long nose that looked too large for her head. Like the male troll, she was dressed in ragged clothing. In her case, it was a shift with many holes. “What about my husband?” she asked in a threatening tone.

  Signy told her about the troll's courtship. When she was done, the troll kicked the boulder. “Sneaking around on me again, were you? You and your bragging. That staff of yours was no larger than a knob or button! It gave me small pleasure over the years. I suppose you thought a human would be easier to please, since every part of them is undersized.

  “You gave her food that you could have bought home to your family! We would have enjoyed that swan! That cod would have made a fine dinner! You never gave me flowers, after all the years I worked my hands to the bone for you and your children!” She kicked the boulder again, this time harder, then hopped around on one foot, saying, “Ow!”