Asimov's SF, August 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

There was a story about a magical salmon. Rebekah had told him about it, after her trip to Ireland, where she'd met Lorrie. There once was a wise salmon that lived in a pool, and ate magic nuts, and some great Irish hero caught the fish, and roasted it, and that was a pretty good deal, because whoever ate the fish would gain its wisdom.

  What would happen if Graydon ate Shiteater? Would he gain wisdom? Or magic? The ability to call the dead, speak to the dead? Or the ability to forget the dead? There was supposed to be a river in Hell whose waters made you forget, and Graydon suspected that, if such a river were real, it would be inhabited by fat brown channel cats, just like Shiteater. What better fish to have the flesh of forgetfulness than a bland catfish, fed on garbage?

  Hadn't Rebekah said the fish was also called Sineater?

  It didn't matter. He'd never catch it anyway.

  Graydon lay under the willow tree, and looked up at the sky, and after a while he fell asleep.

  Someone nudged Graydon in the ribs. He opened his eyes, and there was his brother Alton, standing over him, wearing his motorcycle jacket, boots, and jeans. His hair was wet, even his stupid little goatee. “You're more full of shit than that fish, bro,” he said.

  "Alton?” Graydon said. The tree was making a low noise, like weeping, and the branches were moving despite the lack of wind.

  Alton squatted down beside Graydon. “Oh, don't get up,” he said ironically. “I'm not offended. I'm dead, after all. But you're not."

  "Alton, I don't understand,” Graydon said. That was the simple truth, and it almost made him burst out crying—he didn't understand why his mother had lost her mind, why Rebekah had fallen in love with a woman, why his brother had died, why grad school had been so difficult, why Shiteater was eating the physical reminders of his loss without taking the memories themselves away.

  "Nobody understands,” Alton said. “Maybe that's for the best. Listen. You don't want to eat that fish. I don't know what would happen if you did, but it's a big monster that eats dead things, it's not shiny and silver and full of magic nuts. Let it go. Quit wallowing. Get your life back together, while you still have one."

  Alton had never been so blunt in life—he'd always been very live-and-let-live, but maybe death had changed that. “Shit, Alton, it's hard, you don't know what it's like."

  "Nobody knows what it's like. And just because it hurts your feelings when I say you're wallowing, that doesn't mean it isn't true. You can't go on like this.” The tree was moaning more loudly now, and night was falling quickly. “I have to go,” Alton said. “It's getting late."

  "Alton, no, I still don't—"

  Someone nudged Graydon in the ribs. He opened his eyes. Rebekah stood over him, the sun behind her and a bottle of wine in her hand, looking down at him with a grin. “Have a nice nap? Shall I assume dinner isn't ready?"

  Graydon groaned and sat up. “I had a dream...."

  "I bet,” Rebekah said. “Did it involve me and Lorrie and warm oil?"

  Graydon grimaced. “Lorrie isn't my type."

  "I thought all you guys got off on the idea of two women together."

  "I like it better when the women are interested in me, too."

  "Well, hey, it's your dream,” she said. “Come on. I brought steaks."

  "I was supposed to cook for you."

  "Knock yourself out. I don't mind if you do the cooking. I just brought the food."

  "Does Lorrie know you're eating steak?"

  "What Lorrie doesn't know...” Rebekah said airily, and Graydon wondered what that meant, if Rebekah had other things in mind for tonight, more things Lorrie didn't need to know about.

  He went back to the house with her, and for the first time in days, he didn't think about Shiteater at all.

  Graydon made steaks while Rebekah good-naturedly insulted his housekeeping.

  "You never used to care so much about tidiness,” Graydon said, standing at the stove, sautéing mushrooms.

  "You try living with Lorrie, you'll start to care about tidy, too. One of us has to, and it's not going to be her."

  "Sounds like you guys are going through a tough time."

  "Yeah, but I don't think Lorrie realizes it. She can be pretty clueless sometimes.” Rebekah had opened the wine right away, and now she sipped from a full glass. “Her newest thing? She says I drink too much. I have a few beers on the weekends, maybe a glass of wine at night, and she says I'm an ‘incipient alcoholic.’”

  "Sounds like she's worrying about all the wrong things,” Graydon said.

  "I didn't come here to talk about Lorrie, Gray,” Rebekah said. “No offense, but it's a subject I'm a little tired of, having to live with it every day."

  "Sorry. What did you come here to talk about?"

  "Honestly? I'd hoped we could talk a little bit about you, Gray."

  He kept cooking, unsure how to take that. Rebekah always favored the direct approach—she would just ask, in his position—but Graydon was not so comfortable. So he said, “I've been trying to catch that fish. I see it, all the time, but I can't get it."

  "Try a speargun,” she said. “They're pretty accurate over short distances. If you really see it that often, you can probably get it."

  "Yeah? Nothing I've read suggested a speargun."

  She shrugged. “Well, you could try dynamite, but I figure you want to get the fish out in one piece. Should I take this change of subject to mean you don't want to talk about you? Because I'm worried about you, Gray. I think you're sinking here, and I'm trying to throw you a rope."

  Graydon turned off the heat under the mushrooms. “Oh,” he said. “And here I'd hoped you were planning to confess your love.” He said it lightly, but he could tell from her expression that she saw past that. She'd always been able to look straight through him.

  "I wish I could, Gray. I know you've carried a candle for me all this time, but...” She shook her head. “I've got to stick things out with Lorrie. We've been in it too long to just give up."

  "But if things don't work out..."

  Rebekah looked into her wine, then shook her head, her braids swaying. “No, Gray."

  "I thought you always said you were bisexual?"

  She half-smiled. “It's not about the sex. It's ... I don't know. I just don't see you that way anymore. Romantically. I'm not sure I did even when we were dating. You were the nicest guy I knew—you still are—and that's what attracted me, but as for any real spark, chemistry ... I don't think it was there. I wanted it to be."

  Graydon poured a glass of wine for himself, trying to keep his hands steady. “That's great, Rebekah,” he said. “Telling me you never loved me at all."

  "I always loved you. I still do. Just ... not that way. And I think you needed to hear that, so you'd stop holding out hope, if that's what you've been doing. The way you look when I tell you I'm having problems with Lorrie, you try to hide how happy it makes you, but I can see it, and I don't like it. Maybe it's my own fault, for not saying this before."

  "Understood,” Graydon said, turning back to the stove. “I'm going to make salad."

  "Do you want me to leave?” she said.

  Graydon stood stiffly for a moment, then slumped. He sighed. “No. I like having you here. Obviously. You can't blame a guy for hoping, can you?"

  "I guess not,” she said.

  Dinner was subdued, but after a few more glasses of wine Graydon began to relax. He felt oddly burned-out inside, hollow, but not tense. The reason for the tension was gone. Besides, maybe Rebekah was just fooling herself, maybe in time she'd see how good he was for her.... He thought of his dream of Alton, his dead brother telling him to move on. But he wanted to move on with Rebekah. What else did he have left?

  Midnight came, and went, as they talked about books, movies, old memories. They didn't talk about Lorrie, and Rebekah didn't bring up whatever she'd wanted to say about Graydon wasting his life and his time. Finally Rebekah stretched and said, “So where do I sleep?"

  "You can take my bed. I'll take th
e couch."

  She nodded, then looked down at her hands in her lap, uncharacteristically shy. “Listen, Gray, I know you must be feeling very isolated and cut off ... if you wanted, you could come to bed with me. I know how hard it is to be alone, to crave intimacy and not find it. Things haven't exactly been warm between me and Lorrie lately, and I could use some comfort, too. It wouldn't mean anything, except that you're my friend and I love you, but, if you want..."

  In that moment, Graydon realized that Rebekah didn't know him, not really; or if she did, she was deluding herself now, or just using him for her own needs. If Graydon made love to Rebekah, he wanted it to mean something. He wanted it to mean that she was coming back to him, that they would be lovers, that they would be together. To have sex together, without any of that ... it would be a killing thing. He would hate himself tomorrow, and this hollow feeling might never go away. He should say no.

  But how could he say no to the chance to make love to Rebekah?

  "Yes,” he said. “I'd like that."

  * * * *

  Here is the reason the salmon of wisdom laughed when it thought of being eaten:

  It was prophesied that the hero Finegas would catch the salmon, and cook it, and eat it, and gain all knowledge, and thus become a greater hero. Finegas caught the salmon, but, being a hero, he was not accustomed to doing his own cooking, and so he had his apprentice Fionn roast the fish instead. The apprentice would not have dreamed of eating his master's meal, but he accidentally burned his thumb while turning the fish on the fire. Without thinking, Fionn stuck his burned thumb into his mouth and sucked it.

  Thus tasting the fish. Thus gaining all its knowledge, and leaving his master, the hero, no wiser than before.

  That is why the salmon laughed.

  * * * *

  The morning after he slept with Rebekah, Graydon was perfectly charming, cooking breakfast, laughing with her, kissing her cheek. Inside, his heart was a cinder. He bid her farewell, promising to get together with her later in the week.

  When she was gone, he took four bottles of wine to the pond. He drank two, and poured the other two into the water. “Have a drink with me, Shiteater!” he shouted. “You're my only friend!"

  The catfish did not surface.

  On Sunday, Graydon didn't fish. During his research he'd learned that it was bad luck to fish on Sundays, and it seemed like a good time to be superstitious. Besides, he was hungover, and didn't wake up until midafternoon. He thought about going to Atlanta, but the stores would be closed already—nothing stayed open very late in the South on Sundays.

  On Monday he went into the city and spent most of his remaining money on a speargun. He practiced in the yard with it all afternoon, shooting his sofa cushions for practice. There was no reason to rush. He wanted to do this right.

  Tuesday he rose before dawn, took the speargun and a bag of his most precious things to the pond, and waded into the water. He scattered his bait, and called for Shiteater as it began to rain.

  The catfish came out of the water and began to eat the things Graydon had scattered. Graydon watched, not moving, rain soaking his hair and filling the pond with ripples. As Shiteater swallowed the last floating thing—Rebekah's braid—Graydon pointed the speargun at its head and fired.

  The spear sank deep into Shiteater's head, and the fish spasmed, tail flailing against the water. Graydon wrapped both hands around the shaft of the spear and began pulling Shiteater toward the bank. It was easier than he'd expected, because the water buoyed the dead fish up. Graydon climbed onto the muddy, slick bank and wrestled Shiteater's vast body onto the grass. He went back to the house and returned with a wheelbarrow and some scrap boards. After bracing the wheelbarrow's wheel with a brick, he leaned the boards against the wheelbarrow, creating a make-shift ramp. Graydon shoved Shiteater's heavy corpse up the boards until it flopped into the wheelbarrow, then wheeled it to the concrete patio behind his house. As he pushed, the rain stopped, just a brief summer shower, there and gone.

  Graydon dumped Shiteater onto the concrete and stood looking down at it, expecting some thrill of triumph, but he was still all cinders and stones inside, and felt nothing. He went inside for his knives, then set about gutting and cleaning the catfish, referring often to a book he'd bought that explained the process.

  After a while Graydon examined the contents of Shiteater's stomach, but found little of interest, not even the things he'd most recently fed the fish—just weeds and mud. That was a disappointment. Graydon had hoped there would be ... something inside. Something special.

  Well. He could still eat the catfish. That was the main thing. And it would cause something to happen—kill him, give him transcendent wisdom, make him forget, give him oblivion. Something.

  While Graydon cleaned the fish, the phone rang, but he ignored it, and eventually the caller gave up.

  Graydon was covered in blood and fishguts by the time he finished cleaning Shiteater. He wrapped the edible parts in plastic bags to keep the bugs from getting at them, then went to clean out the fireplace—Shiteater was too big for the oven, and Graydon wanted to cook him all at once.

  When the fireplace was clean, Graydon put charcoal and lighter fluid under the grate and started a fire. Once it was burning well, he put Shiteater on the grate. Soon, the fish began to roast. The smoke was strangely odorless.

  Graydon went into the bathroom and took a shower, letting the blood and guts cascade into the tub, letting the hot water pound on his over-strained muscles. After a while, afraid the fish would burn, he got out and wrapped a towel around himself.

  Rebekah was in the living room, kneeling before the fire, looking at the fish. “Hey, naked guy,” she said. “I tried to call, but you didn't pick up. I figured you were out fishing. I guess I was right. This thing's enormous."

  "What are you doing here?” he said, thoroughly derailed. He hadn't expected to see Rebekah again so soon, and he wasn't sure what to do—as if, having successfully captured Shiteater, he had no further inner resources, and could make no more plans.

  "God, Lorrie and I had the worst fight, you wouldn't believe it,” she said. “I had to get out of there for a while.” She leaned closer to the fire. “I think your fish is starting to crumble and fall apart,” she said, and reached out to nudge the flesh more securely onto the grate.

  "No!” Graydon shouted, stepping toward her.

  Rebekah hissed and said “Shit! I burned myself.” She stuck her thumb in her mouth and sucked.

  Graydon watched her, holding his breath.

  After a long moment, Rebekah took her thumb out of her mouth. A string of glistening saliva still connected the ball of her thumb to her lips.

  She looked up at Graydon, into his face. The string of saliva broke.

  Rebekah's eyes went wide.

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  Copyright © 2005 by Tim Pratt.

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  A Birth by Carrie Richerson

  A Short Story

  Carrie Richerson lives in Austin, Texas, that fermentation vat of SF writerly talent. She likes to set her stories under the big sky of her adopted republic where anything, even change, seems possible. She's been laboring in the short fiction field for a number of years now; this is her first story for Asimov's.

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  He is so very pink, this new father-to-be.

  So pink and scrubbed-looking, young and nervous.

  I don't know if he is more nervous because he is waiting for news of his wife and child, or if it is because I am sitting here, waiting with him, the tension of my dislike thick in the air.

  He sits rigidly upright in the worn plastic chair. His hands rest on his knees, he faces the far wall as though he were determined to be taken for a piece of furniture himself, a part of the landscape. Occasionally he will dare a look at me slideways, out of one of those large, liquid brown eyes of his, the ones that are set too far apart in his long, narrow face. He doesn't move his
head at all, but I know that his attention never wavers from me. Whenever I shift, making my chair creak, or when I uncross my legs and cross them again the other way, the tips of his too-large ears, the ones set too high on his head, twitch. The comparison is unavoidable.

  My daughter married a jackass.

  I glance at the clock, knowing it will hardly have changed since the last time I looked. 3:48 A.M. It was a long labor, and the doctors shooed us out of Diana's room and into this bleak waiting area when it looked as if she was finally ready for delivery. Most fathers these days get to be right there for the birth, hold their wives’ hands and listen to them grunt and yell, but the docs are taking no chances with this birth. Suits me just fine. There's something indecent about a man wanting to watch such women's work.

  I look down from the clock to see that my hand has clenched on the brim of my hat again, crushing the straw and mangling the rolled edge. It'll have to be re-blocked after this night, if it can be saved at all. Maybe I should just get a new one, to celebrate the birth. Get a tiny little hat for the tyke, too. Start him out right as a cowboy. Or a cowgirl.

  I watch my fingers twist and crease the brim. My hand is as brown and leathery as the rawhide band that circles the crown on my Stetson. My knuckles are lumpy with arthritis; the skin is webbed with tiny cracks grimed with dirt that no soap can remove. The south Texas sun burns all the moisture out of a man. Maybe all the softness, too. Years under that sun, in the saddle day in and out, working the ranch and trying to make it pay, struggling through droughts and market busts and high taxes to preserve something real to pass on to my children. My one child. My daughter.

  Who married this jackass.

  He rolls that eye at me again and I give him a hard predator's glare right back. The hot pink shade of his hide looks like the sun has done a job on him already, but otherwise he seems too soft, too wet, to be a rancher. What was my daughter thinking?

  The ears twitch. Jackass.

  There's no one better with the cows, though. No one faster at spotting jimson weed in a pasture, or determining the exact moment to take the herd off a pasture where rain after a long drought has made the johnson-grass form toxic levels of prussic acid. And that long nose of his is good for something besides looking ridiculous: I swear he's diagnosed a cow with haemophilus infection just by smelling its breath, and more than once he's sniffed out a bad shipment of fescue hay and saved my cows from nitrate poisoning.