Beneath an Oil-Dark Sea © Copyright 2015 by Caitlín R. Kiernan.
All rights reserved.
Dust jacket illustration © Copyright 2015 by Lee Moyer.
All rights reserved.
Author photograph © Copyright 2014 by Kathryn A. Pollnac.
All rights reserved.
Black Helicopters illustration © Copyright 2013 by Vince Locke.
All rights reserved.
Print version interior design © Copyright 2015 by Desert Isle Design, LLC.
All rights reserved.
Electronic Edition
ISBN
978-1-59606-707-3
Subterranean Press
PO Box 190106
Burton, MI 48519
subterraneanpress.com
Table of Contents
Introduction by S. T. Joshi
PART ONE (Atlanta, 2004-2008)
Bradbury Weather
Pony
Untitled 17
A Child's Guide to the Hollow Hills
The Cryomancer's Daughter (Murder Ballad No. 3)
The Ammonite Violin (Murder Ballad No. 4)
A Season of Broken Dolls
In View of Nothing
The Ape's Wife
The Steam Dancer
In the Dreamtime of Lady Resurrection
Pickman's Other Model (1929)
PART TWO (Providence, 2008-2012)
Galápagos
The Melusine
As Red as Red
Fish Bride (1970)
The Mermaid of the Concrete Ocean
The Sea Troll's Daughter
Hydrarguros
Houndwife
The Maltese Unicorn
Tidal Forces
And the Cloud That Took the Form
The Prayer of Ninety Cats
Daughter Dear Desmodus
Goggles (c. 1910)
One Tree Hill (The World as Cataclysm)
Black Helicopters
Epilogue: Atlantis
Publication History
Appendix: Bibliography (1985-2015)
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Font
For my mother, Susan Ramey Cleveland,
and for my sister, Angela Wright Osborn.
And for William K. Schafer, who gets the word out.
And, lastly, for Papavar somniferum, the only vampire I’ll ever need.
In memory of Elizabeth Tilman Aldridge
(1970 – 1995)
There’s always a siren,
Singing you to shipwreck.
Radiohead,
“There There (The Boney
King of Nowhere)”
I don’t like work – no man does – but I like what is in work – the chance to find yourself. Your own reality – for yourself, not for others – what no other man can ever know.
Joseph Conrad,
The Heart of Darkness
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.
Norman Maclean,
“A River Runs Through It”
INTRODUCTION
If I were a creative writer (which, mercifully, I am not) and stumbled upon this volume, I would be inclined simply to give up and find another line of work. Caitlín R. Kiernan is so much better than anyone writing imaginative fiction today that it has become something of an embarrassment. She is the best in her field at so many things – best in the exquisite modulation of her prose; best in the sensitive portrayal of the complex and at times contradictory motivations of humans, quasi-humans, and non-humans; and, most of all, best in the compelling evocation of fear, terror, loneliness, pain, tragedy, and heartbreak. In little over two decades of writing she has generated ten or eleven novels and thirteen short story collections, along with several separately published short novels. So she combines a gratifying productivity along with an impeccable standard of merit, and we can expect her to maintain that fusion of quality and quantity for many years to come.
One of the many distinctive qualities of her work – perhaps more readily visible in her story collections than in her novels – is her effortless mastery of a multiplicity of genres. In this book we have stories of supernatural horror, science fiction, fantasy, even some noir or hard-boiled crime tales – and, more provocatively, a melding of these and other genres into something beyond description or classification. This wide range again distinguishes her from her peers. Who can match it? Strangely enough, the only writer I can think of is the venerable William F. Nolan, who in every other regard is about as antipodal to Kiernan as any writer can possibly be. Or perhaps we have to go all the way back to the fons et origo of weird fiction, Edgar Allan Poe, who revolutionised the tale of supernatural and psychological horror, who all but founded the detective story, and who even engaged in cosmic fantasy (if his nonfiction treatise Eureka can be so classified).
There is, in addition to a diversity of genres, a matching diversity of tone and ambiance. It may be true that, in general, an overriding atmosphere of melancholy pervades all her narratives, but she is eminently able to vary the mood when the opportunity arises. In part, this variation is the product of the shifting or blending of genres Kiernan effects. Who would have expected her to write in the tough, hard-boiled manner of Hammett and Chandler? But in “The Maltese Unicorn” she brilliantly turns the trick; and noir elements are also present, along with much else besides, in the short novel Black Helicopters and the noir/cyberpunk hybrid “Hydrarguros.”
But it is those tales that touch on heartbreak and the regret for lost lives, lost loves, and lost happiness that most move us. “Pony” is a vignette dedicated to love, sex, apple orchards, and stone walls. It was later incorporated into what I still regard as her most accomplished and evocative novel, The Red Tree (2009), although the award-winning The Drowning Girl: A Memoir (2012) is a close second. A prose poem like “A Child’s Guide to the Hollow Hills” can be contrasted with the brooding stream-of-consciousness of the science fiction tale “A Season of Broken Dolls,” which in turn is contrasted with the steampunk mode of “The Steam Dancer (1896).”
This volume, perhaps more than many of its predecessors, also displays the dynamic and imaginative manner in which its author engages with the work of her predecessors. A critic once chastised H. P. Lovecraft for being “too well read,” by which he meant that Lovecraft had absorbed so many of the great writers of weird fiction before and during his lifetime that it sometimes became difficult to know what was Lovecraft’s own imaginative creation and what was some conscious or unconscious recollection of something he had read. The criticism is, to my mind, unjust; for, like Shakespeare, Handel, and so many other creative artists, Lovecraft almost always transmuted what he borrowed from others, so that it became distinctively his own.
And we can say very much the same, to an amplified degree, for Kiernan’s work. The very title of this book looks back to Homer and his “wine-dark sea,” perhaps by way of Robert Aickman, who used that phrase for the title of one of his more memorable stories. The opening story, “Bradbury Weather,” trumpets itself as a homage to Ray Bradbury, but it is so much more than that. Even the author of The Martian Chronicles might have been challenged to feature the extraordinary union of clutching horror and inexpressible poignancy that we find in this slowly building narrative. A later story, “The Melusine (1898),” may also betray a Bradbury influence in its use of the carnival theme – but of course that theme is not owned by Bradbury, and this tale is more an echo of Kiernan
’s own fascination with the figure of the mermaid and analogous entities.
Other tales make nods to other writers – but only as a way of acknowledging their work as a springboard for the release of Kiernan’s own imagination. Are we to think of “In the Dreamtime of Lady Resurrection,” with its vivid second-person narration, as an evocation of the Frankenstein motif? The author candidly acknowledges “Untitled 17” as a tribute to Angela Carter’s The Company of Wolves, while “The Sea Troll’s Daughter” harks all the way back to Beowulf – an offshoot of her writing the novelization of that ancient text following the 2007 film. “One Tree Hill,” although vividly summoning up the spectral depths of New England history and topography, is a nod to T. E. D. Klein’s expansive novel The Ceremonies (1984), itself an homage to Machen, Lovecraft, and other classic weird fictionists.
Lovecraft, indeed, is a writer to whom Kiernan has returned time and again – and her imaginative elaborations of this writer far predate her relocation from the South to Lovecraft’s native city of Providence, R.I., in 2008, as attested by several short stories and the novel The Daughter of Hounds (2007), a riff on Lovecraft’s concept of ghouls.
Pickman himself is the focus (even though he never actually appears in the narrative) of “Pickman’s Other Model,” whose deliberately old-fashioned prose and manner of narration, using Lovecraft’s patented method of the documentary style, paradoxically reveals Kiernan’s own sophistication – her awareness of the ambiguities inherent in the historical record and the mysteries that may lurk beyond and behind bland newspaper reports and film reviews.
There is a vaguely Lovecraftian air to “As Red as Red,” a rumination on certain historical features found in “The Shunned House” (1924), while “Fish Bride” and “Houndwife” infuse Lovecraft’s “The Shadow over Innsmouth” and “The Hound” with a plangency those narratives consciously lack, as Kiernan teases out the emotive ramifications of their horrific scenarios. But her tales are by no means lacking in terror; the single sentence “The hound bays.” toward the end of the latter is balefully potent.
Literature is not the only fount of inspiration that Kiernan has drawn upon. “The Ape’s Wife” is a half-parodic, half-touching tribute to the film King Kong – but here the inherent absurdity of that scenario is shorn away and the implacable plangency of the interspecies love story is brought to the fore. “In View of Nothing” is a science fiction tale that presents a tip of the hat to the music of David Bowie.
Kiernan’s well-known scientific training – she was trained in vertebrate palaeontology and has written learned papers on the subject – infuses much of her work, but she is careful not to let pure science overwhelm any narrative, even those science fiction tales set in the far future where scientific advance has perhaps rendered the distinction between human and non-human ambiguous at best and meaningless at worst. In this sense, “The Ammonite Violin (Murder Ballad No. 4)” is representative. It is not, indeed, a science fiction tale – far from it. Instead, it features a complex interplay of science (ammonites – a kind of extinct mollusc – are inlaid into the wood of a violin), crime, loss, and art.
But, more than any other feature of her work, it is Kiernan’s prose that keeps us coming back to her over and over again, like a crazed drug addict desperate for his daily fix. Her prose is sensuous in the best sense of the much-abused term. By this I do not refer to the frequent erotic episodes in Kiernan’s work – episodes whose languorous panache make her one of the more stimulating sex writers of our time. Many of her sexual scenarios involve lesbianism, although there is some token heterosexual sex here and there; and Kiernan’s penchant for depicting sexual congress with aliens, androids, and other anomalous entities adds a distinctive flavour to much of her writing.
But that is not what I mean by calling her prose sensuous. Even in those passages whose subject-matter is perfectly chaste, her prose beckons us with a lapidary manipulation of rhythm and sense that conveys so much more than what is written on the page. Consider a paragraph chosen almost at random from “Pony”:
A thousand variations on a single moment. It doesn’t matter which one’s for real, or at least it doesn’t matter to me. I’m not even sure that I can remember anymore, not for certain. They’ve all bled together through days and nights and repetition, like sepia ink and cheap wine, and by the time I’ve finally caught up with you (because I always catch up with you, sooner or later), you’re standing at the low stone wall dividing the orchard from the field. You’re leaning forward against the wall, one leg up and your knee pressed to the granite and slate as if you were about to climb over it but then forgot what you were doing. The field is wide, and I think it might go on forever, that the wall might be here to keep apart more than an old orchard and a fallow plot of land.
What a deft intertwining of topographical description, pensive reflections on past and present, and dreamlike wistfulness! And yet, how different is this prose-poeticism from the tough-guy (or tough-gal?) style of “The Maltese Unicorn” (“It’s the sort of self-righteous bushwa so many grifters hide behind. They might stab their own mothers in the back if they see an angle in it, but, you ask them, that’s jake, cause so would anyone else”). Again, diversity of genre produces diversity of style, tone, and mood.
In “Galápagos” Kiernan has written: “There are sights and experiences to which the blunt and finite tools of human language are not equal.” This may be true, even a truism; but, just as Lovecraft, for all his use (and overuse) of words such as “unnamable” and “indescribable,” sought to portray his outré images and conceptions to the best of his considerable ability, Kiernan uses all the rhetorical tools available to her to make the reader grasp the bizarre, terrifying, at times ineffable scenes she has so carefully orchestrated. I will cite only one example and let it serve for the whole. “Tidal Forces” is an incredible fusion of cosmicism and body horror, and the almost inconceivable nature of the weirdness of this scenario is summed up in one imperishable sentence: “I think there are galaxies trapped within her eyes.”
The more we learn about Kiernan, the more we see that there is an inextricable fusion between her life and her work. This is no doubt true for any author, but in Kiernan’s case there seems to be something more going on; and that is why readers will appreciate the story notes, brief and laconic as some of them are, found in this book. We learn, for example, that “And the Cloud That Took the Form” is an expression of her ouranophobia – a fear of the wide-open sky. It becomes evident that Kiernan’s life experiences enter into, and even in some mysterious way engender, the most distinctive features of her work, and future biographers and critics will be kept busy tracing the interrelations between the two.
Caitlín R. Kiernan does not care to be called a “horror writer,” and with good reason: that term is far too crude and blunt to convey even a fraction of all the diverse elements that make her work unique. Perhaps she wishes to be a writer of what Lovecraft called “weird fiction”; or maybe she prefers Aickman’s coinage “strange stories.” These terms seem sufficiently broad and ambiguous to encompass the multiplicity of tones, moods, manners, and motifs that make up Kiernan’s short fiction, and in this volume you will find the full range of her work amply displayed. Her output to date has already placed her at the head of her field; she has nothing more to prove. Any subsequent work can only augment her achievement.
– S. T. Joshi
PART ONE
Atlanta
2004 – 2008
Bradbury Weather
1.
I still have all the old books that Sailor left behind when she finally packed up and went looking for the Fenrir temples. I keep them in a big cargo crate with most of her other things, all that shit I haven’t been able to part with. One of the books, a collection of proverbs, was written more than two hundred years ago by a Gyuto monk. It was published after his death in a Chinese prison, the manuscript smuggled out by someone or another, translated into Spanish and English, and then publishe
d in America. The monk, who did not wish to be remembered by name, wrote: “No story has a beginning, and no story has an end. Beginnings and endings may be conceived to serve a purpose, to serve a momentary and transient intent, but they are, in their truer nature, arbitrary and exist solely as a construct of the mind of man.”
Sometimes, very late at night, or very early in the morning, when I should be sleeping or meditating, I read from Sailor’s discarded books, and I’ve underlined that passage in red. If what I’m about to write down here needs an epigraph, that’s probably as good as any I’ll ever find, just as this beginning is as arbitrary and suitable as any I could ever choose. She left me. I couldn’t have stopped her, not that I ever would have tried. I’m not that sort of woman. It was her decision, and I believed then it would have been wrong for me to interfere. But six months later, after the nightmares began, and I failed a routine mental-health evaluation, I resigned my teaching post and council seat and left to chase rumors and the ghost of her across the Xanthe Terra and Lunae Planum.
In Bhopai, a pornography dealer sold me a peep stick of Sailor dancing in a brothel. And I was told that maybe the stick had been made at Hope VII, a slatternly, backdust agradome that had seen better days and then some. I’d been up there once, on council business, more than twenty years before; Hope’s Heaven, as the locals like to call the place, sits like a boil in the steep basalt hills northwest of Tharsis Tholus. The dome has been breached and patched so many times it looks more like a quilt than a habitat.
I know a woman there. We worked together a few times, but that’s ancient fucking history. These days, she runs a whorehouse, though everyone in Hope’s Heaven calls her a mechanic, and who the hell am I to argue? Her bulls let me in the front door, despite my bureaucratic pedigree and the council brands on the backs on my hands. I played the stick for her, played it straight through twice, and Jun’ko Valenzuela shrugged her narrow, tattooed shoulders, shook her head once, and then went back to stuffing the bowl of her pipe with the skunky britch weed she buys cheap off the shiks down in New Riyadh.
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