by Jean Rabe
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Introduction
THE GIANT
PROTECTION
LAKE PEOPLE
CAT PEOPLE
THE HORNED MAN
THE FEUD
THE DEVIL IS A GENTLEMAN
ETERNAL VIGILANCE
THE TASTE OF STRAWBERRY JAM
THE STORYTELLER
BEING NEIGHBORLY
MARFA
AWARE
SULLY’S SOLUTION
TROPHY WIFE
FAIRIES WEEP NOT
SIREN TEARS
JEFFERSON’S WEST
BLACK RIDER
RURAL ROUTE
ABOUT THE EDITORS
“Wherefore come ye here?”
Smiling, he snapped a picture of the black rock, one that showed both paths clearly. The one to the right was narrow, and in places faint, but he followed it without much difficulty.
A rabbit darted in front of him and disappeared into a clump of bushes. For a moment it seemed to the writer of children’s books that he heard the small, sweet notes of a tiny bell.
Ahead . . . this seemed strange. On a limb not far above the ground someone had placed a plastic owl like the one in Martha’s garden.
“Who comes?”
The words were plain, the voice uttering them plainly not human.
“Who comes?”
He advanced, looking for the speaker. This owl’s head was turned slightly to its right. Martha’s owl had stared straight ahead. He advanced toward the owl, which spread enormous wings and flew off as silently as a shadow.
On this side of the stream stood a tall and narrow wooden building wholly innocent of paint. From it protruded, motionless, a great wooden wheel. Water from the stream filled it and flowed noisily over it. He took pictures, shifting his location left and right, zooming in and out.
Two windows, windows on what was surely the uppermost floor of the narrow structure, seemed to watch him like eyes—the dark and empty eyes of a skull. A moment later he retracted the thought. Someone or something small had passed behind one of those windows.
—from “The Giant” by Gene Wolfe
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Cthulhu’s Reign edited by Darrell Schweitzer
Some of the darkest hints in all of H.P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos relate to what will happen after the Old Ones return and take over the Earth. What happens when the Stars Are Right, the sunken city of R’lyeh rises from beneath the waves, and Cthulhu is unleashed upon the world for the last time? What happens when the other Old Ones, long since banished from our universe, break through and descend from the stars? What would the reign of Cthulhu be like, on a totally transformed planet where mankind is no longer the master? It won’t be simply the end of everything. It will be a time of new horrors and of utter strangeness. It will be a time when humans with a “taint” of unearthly blood in their ancestry may come into their own. It will be a time foreseen only by authors with the kind of finely honed imaginative visions as Ian Watson, Brian Stableford, Wil Murray, Gregory Frost, Richard Lupoff, and the others of Cthulhu’s Reign.
Steampunk’d edited by Jean Rabe and Martin H. Greenberg
Science fiction is the literature of what if, and steampunk takes the what if along a particular time stream. What if steam power was the prime force in the Victorian era? How would that era change, and how would it change the future? From a Franco-British race for Kentucky coal to one woman’s determination to let no man come between her and her inventions . . . from “machine whisperers” to a Thomas Edison experiment gone awry, here are fourteen original tales of what might have been had steam powered the world in an earlier age, from Michael A. Stackpole, Donald J., Bingle, Robert Vardeman, Paul Genesse, Jody Lynn Nye, and others.
Copyright © 2011 by Jean Rabe and Tekno Books.
All Rights Reserved.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1534.
DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA).
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
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First Printing, January 2011
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eISBN : 978-1-101-47669-7
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Introduction, copyright © 2011 by Jean Rabe
“The Giant,” copyright © 2011 by Gene Wolfe
“Protection,” copyright © 2011 by Timothy Zahn
“Lake People,” copyright © 2011 by Chris Pierson
“Cat People,” copyright © 2011 by Mickey Zucker Reichert
“The Horned Man,” copyright © 2011 by Steven Savile
“The Feud,” copyright © 2011 by Patrick McGilligan
“The Devil Is a Gentleman,” copyright © 2011 by Raymond Benson
“Eternal Vigilance,” copyright © 2011 by Dylan Birtolo
“The Taste of Strawberry Jam,” copyright © 2011 by Elizabeth A. Vaughan
“The Storyteller,” copyright © 2011 by D.L. Stever
“Being Neighborly,” copyright © 2011 by Jeanne Cook
“Marfa,” copyright © 2011 by Anton Strout
“Aware,” copyright © 2011 by C.J. Henderson
“Sully’s Solution,” copyright © 2011 by Kelly Swails
“Trophy Wife,” copyright © 2011 by Vicki Johnson-Steger
“Fairies Weep Not,” copyright © 2011 by Linda P. Baker
“Siren Tears,” copyright © 2011 by John Lambshead
“Jefferson’s West,” copyright © 2011 by Joseph E. Lake, Jr.
“Black Rider,” copyright © 2011 by Brian A. Hopkins
“Rural Route,” copyright © 2011 by Donald J. Bingle
INTRODUCTION
It seems to be traditional to have an introduction for an anthology. But I’ll keep this one brief, as you should be spending your time instead reading these amazing and wonderful tales my friends have offered up for your enjoyment.
The notion for this anthology came from Doris, a member of my writers’ group in Kenosha. Doris (D.L. Stever in this collection) doesn’t think she’s capable of writing fantasy or science fiction. And yet she populates her folksy Appalachian yarns with leprechauns, ghosts, and sentient, magical mountains. All of her stories are set in the “sticks,” and I thought it would be a great idea to have a bunch of urban fantasy stories set where there is no big city in sight. I spent most of my life in the boondocks. I kind of liked it there.
There was something enchanting about the topic. Gene Wolfe, whom I’ve invited to several anthologies (and who always turned me down before), said yes this time. Hugo-Award-winning Timothy Zahn found a gap in his busy, busy schedule so he could pen a marvelous tale. A gentleman from England somehow heard I was gathering stories and e-mailed me, asking if he could participate. James Bond veteran Raymond Benson wondrously had a tale in his computer that fit the proverbial bill. The list goes on.
See? Magic.
Dive in, the reading’s fine.
—Jean Rabe
THE GIANT
Gene Wolfe
Author of the acclaimed multi-volume novel The Book of the New Sun, Wolfe has won almost every major award available for science fiction and fantasy writing. He has won multiple Nebula Awards from the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America; the Rhysling Award for poetry; The Illinois Arts Council Award; World Fantasy Award; Locus Award; British Science Fiction Award; British Fantasy Award; John W. Campbell Memorial Award; and the World Fantasy Award for Lifetime Achievement. He lives in Illinois with his lovely wife Rosemary and their charming dog Bobby.
The little shop with petrol pumps in front had no Players, so the writer of children’s books purchased Pall Malls. He rarely smoked these days, but it seemed prudent to purchase something before quizzing the shopkeeper.
“New around here?” the shopkeeper asked.
It was all the opening the writer of children’s books needed. “Just visiting,” he said. “The old fieldstone place up on the hill. They’re putting us up for a few days. Perhaps you know them?” It was always best to end with a question.
“Joe an’ Martha? Sure I do. Known ’em all my life. Nice folks.” The shopkeeper sighed. “Never had no sons, them two. I know Joe wanted ’em, an’ not knowin’ for sure I’d still say Martha did, too. Wasn’t never no boys, though. Five girls. I remember one time Martha told me they was goin’ to stop at four. She was carryin’ at the time an’ didn’t want to do it no more. Only they was born early, three, mebbe four months after, an’ they was twins. Mighty pretty, all them girls was. Gone now, though. Scattered all over hell, those girls is.”
The children’s book writer nodded. “I know some are. You say they’re all gone?”
“Ada’s teaching school down south, I heard. Barbra’s doin’ somethin’ in Philly. Dress designin’ is what they say. Cathy’s married to some doctor in Boston. Cathy was always my favorite. Jest a ray of sunshine, that girl was. Then the twins is split up ’bout as far as they could go. Dale’s in California doin’ somethin’ in TV, an’ Dottie’s way the hell over in England. London’s what I’ve heard, only I’ve heard different, too.”
“They certainly do sound scattered,” the writer of children’s books agreed.
“Don’t just sound that way, they are. That Dottie, well, she’s a real nice girl an’ all that, but a mite touched. Or that’s how it seems like. Oughtn’t to let her drive a car is how most of us felt, only they did. She’s gone now. Lives where the queen does.” The shopkeeper chuckled. “’Cept I reckon Dottie’s house ain’t as big.”
The writer of children’s books smiled. “You’re right, of course.”
“Always goin’ off in the woods by herself, Dottie was. That’s what they said. Smokin’ corn silk. Grass, too, when she got older. I never knowed you could. Why—”
“I’d like to go into the woods, too, today—I need to stretch my legs. I was wondering whether there were nature trails or something of the sort. Beautiful, eh? Very, now that the trees are robed for autumn. Could you direct me?”
“I wondered s’bout the camera. Walkin’ you mean?”
“Exactly.” Taking a step backward, the writer of children’s books indicated his hiking boots.
“Got to think a minute.” The shopkeeper paused. “You like a Coke or somethin’?”
“I would, and I’ll buy you one, too.”
“Oh, that ain’t needful. Just pay for your own.”
The writer of children’s books laid money on the counter.
“Want me to open yours for you?”
He nodded. “Please.”
“Screw off, you know, only sometimes they’re pretty tight.” The shopkeeper opened both bottles and set one on the counter. “You want a nice walk?”
“Exactly.”
“Four miles. That too far?”
“Not at all.” The writer of children’s books sipped his Coke.
“All right, I’ll tell you what you do. You head out of town on County H. Go ’bout a mile, and there’s a little bit of a side road on your left. You take that, oh, might be half a mile. Go slow, and you’ll come to a real big old tree. First real big tree you’ll see, and a maple. Should be mighty pretty just now. Off to one side is a path.”
The writer of children’s books nodded thoughtfully.
“You goin’ to go there?”
“Certainly.”
“All right, then. You follow that path ’til you come to a big black rock higher ’n a man. The path you want goes off to the left. West that is. It’s easy to see and easy to follow, too. Don’t go up or down much. There’s a footbridge over Medicine River, but don’t you worry ‘’bout it. I’ve seen four, five men on it at once. Ain’t goin’ to break with one. Wouldn’t be much of a drop if it did.”
“It sounds charming,” the writer of children’s books said.
“See some nice scenery there, without no cars or phone wires or anythin’ like that. Only by an’ by you’ll come to a road. A dirt road it’ll be, only it’s the same one you parked on by the big tree. You turn left again and follow that road across the bridge and over the hill. Right about there you oughta be able to see the big tree. Mebbe your car, too.”
“Thank you.” The writer of children’s books took another token swallow from his Coke. “I’d better be going now. I’d like to get back in time for supper.”
He turned to leave, and the shopkeeper cleared his throat. “Mebbe I ought not to say this. Only I’d best. You remember ’bout the black rock?”
“Certainly. A clear path off to the left.”
The shopkeeper nodded. “That’s it. You go like that. Might be another ’un off to the right. There is sometimes, is what I hear, and sometimes there ain’t. Used to be a village up that way, they say, only everybody’s gone now.”
“A ghost town, eh?”
“Somethin’ like that. Don’t nobody go there. Don’t you go there neither. That Dottie—you recollect what I told you ’bout her?”
“Yes, vividly.”
“She went up there one time is what they say. After that, well now, she was always lookin’ out for angels or somethin’. Little people is what one lady said. Jest a mite touched. Know what I mean?”
“I should,” the writer of children’s books murmured. “She’s my collaborator. My intended, as well. We’ve come to visit her parents.”
He had worried about the maple because there were many maples, most not much taller than a man. But when he saw it, it was unmistakable, a tower of gold and flame. He parked beneath its spreading limbs, got out, and locked the Avis Ford he and Dottie had rented at the airport. The path was there, not three feet from his rear bumper. He followed it,
whistling, through a cool and colorful wood and up a hill. There a fallen log invited him, and he sat looking out through the trees for a time. There had been farms here not so long ago, or so Dottie had said. They were gone, their stony fields and short growing seasons returned to the trees.
Native Americans had hunted this land before the farmers came, he reminded himself. They had shot deer with arrows and had planted little patches of maize and beans. He searched the pockets of his Norfolk jacket for his pipe, found it, and tore open a Pall Mall to supply tobacco. Native Americans had blown smoke from their mouths, so that it might bear their prayers skyward to the Great Spirit. The white man had stolen their sacrament and made it a vice.
Another pocket yielded a folder of matches. He struck one, lit his pipe, and blew out the match. Smoking, done properly, might let a man see the spirit world . . .
There might be a book in that. The boy would use a bubble pipe, of course, and meet the rabbit spirit and the bear spirit in the bright bubbles.
He filed the idea.
The path felt holy when he resumed his hike. Who had made it, and why had its maker sent it wandering down the hill? One thing seemed certain: it had not been made by or for the boots of white men.
And here was the black rock, somewhat larger than he had expected and unmistakable. He would follow the path on the right, of course. Follow it to the lost village, then turn back. Tell Dottie and her parents at supper where he had gone, and listen to her recount childhood adventures.
Smiling, he snapped a picture of the black rock, one that showed both paths clearly. The one to the right was narrow, and in places faint, but he followed it without much difficulty.
A rabbit darted in front of him and disappeared into a clump of bushes. For a moment it seemed to the writer of children’s books that he heard the small, sweet notes of a tiny bell.
