Year's Best SF 8

by David G. Hartwell

  I had reached the age when fertile eggs were increasingly unlikely. In spite of my best efforts, I had gained neither fame nor money. What respectable goxhat would mate with a vagabond like me? What crèche would offer to care for my offspring? Surely this fragment of a child was better than nothing.

  “No!” said my males and neuters. “This is not a person! One body alone can never know togetherness or integration!”

  But my female selves edged slowly toward the scout’s opinion. Defective the child certainly was. Still, she was alive and goxhat, her darling little limbs waving fiercely and her darling mouth making noises that would shame a monster.

  Most likely, she would die. The rest of her had. Better that she die in someone’s arms, warm and comfortable, than in the toothy mouth of a prowling predator. The scout rewrapped the child in the blanket.

  It was too late to ford the river. I made camp under a cliff, huddling together for warmth, my arms around myself, the baby in the middle of the heap I made.

  When morning came, the sky was clear. Snow sparkled everywhere. I rose, brushed myself off, gathered my gear, and crossed the river. The water was low, as I expected this time of year, but ice-cold. My feet were numb by the time I reached the far side. My teeth chattered on every side like castanets. The baby, awakened by the noise, began to cry. The scout gave her a sweet cake. That stopped the crying for a while.

  At mid-day, I came in sight of a keep. My hearts lifted with hope. Alas! Approaching it, I saw the walls were broken.

  The ruination was recent. I walked through one of the gaps and found a courtyard, full of snowy heaps. My scouts spread out and investigated. The snow hid bodies, as I expected. Their eyes were gone, but most of the rest remained, preserved by cold and the season’s lack of bugs.

  “This happened a day or two ago,” my scouts said. “Before the last snow, but not by much. Wishik found them and took what they could, but didn’t have time—before the storm—to find other predators and lead them here. This is why the bodies are still intact. The wishik can pluck out eyes, but skin is too thick for them to penetrate. They need the help of other animals, such as hirg.” One of the scouts crouched by a body and brushed its rusty back hair. “I won’t be able to bury these. There are too many.”

  “How many goxhat are here?” asked my scribe, taking notes.

  “It’s difficult to say for certain. Three or four, I suspect, all good-sized. A parent and children would be my guess.”

  I entered the keep building and found more bodies. Not many. Most of the inhabitants had fallen in the courtyard. There was a nursery with scattered toys, but no children.

  “Ah! Ah!” I cried, reflecting on the briefness of life and the frequency with which one encounters violence and sorrow.

  My poet said:

  “Broken halls

  and scattered wooden words.

  How will the children

  learn to read and write?” 2

  Finally I found a room with no bodies or toys, nothing to remind me of mortality. I lit a fire and settled for the night. The baby fussed. My scout cleaned her, then held her against a nursing bud—for comfort only; the scout had no milk. The baby sucked. I ate my meager rations. Darkness fell. My thirty-two eyes reflected firelight. After a while, a ghost arrived. Glancing up, I saw it in the doorway. It looked quite ordinary: three goxhat bodies with rusty hair.

  “Who are you?” one of my scouts asked.

  “The former owner of this keep, or parts of her. My name was Content-in-Solitude; and I lived here with three children, all lusty and numerous.—Don’t worry.”

  My cudgel-carriers had risen, cudgels in hand.

  “I’m a good ghost. I’m still in this world because my death was so recent and traumatic. As soon as I’ve gathered myself together, and my children have done the same, we’ll be off to a better place.3

  “I stopped here to tell you our names, so they will be remembered.”

  “Content-in-Solitude,” muttered my scribe, writing.

  “My children were Virtue, Vigor, and Ferric Oxide. Fine offspring! They should have outlived me. Our killer is Bent Foot, a bandit in these mountains. He took my grandchildren to raise as his own, since his female parts—all dead now—produced nothing satisfactory. Mutant children with twisted feet and nasty dispositions! No good will come of them; and their ghosts will make these mountains worse than ever. Tell my story, so others may be warned.”

  “Yes,” my poet said in agreement. The rest of me hummed.

  For a moment, the three bodies remained in the doorway. Then they drew together and merged into one. “You see! It’s happening! I am becoming a single ghost! Well, then. I’d better be off to find the rest of me, and my children, and a better home for all of us.”

  The rest of the night was uneventful. I slept well, gathered around the fire, warmed by its embers and my bodies’ heat. If I had dreams, I don’t remember them. At dawn, I woke. By sunrise, I was ready to leave. Going out of the building, I discovered three hirg in the courtyard: huge predators with shaggy, dull-brown fur. Wishik fluttered around them as they tore into the bodies of Content and her children. I took one look, then retreated, leaving the keep by another route.

  That day passed in quiet travel. My poet spoke no poetry. The rest of me was equally silent, brooding on the ruined keep and its ghost.

  I found no keep to shelter me that night or the next or the next. Instead, I camped out. My scout fed the baby on thin porridge. It ate and kept the food down, but was becoming increasingly fretful and would not sleep unless the scout held it to a nursing bud. Sucking on the dry knob of flesh, it fell asleep.

  “I don’t mind,” said the scout. “Though I’m beginning to worry. The child needs proper food.”

  “Better to leave it by the way,” a male said. “Death by cold isn’t a bad ending.”

  “Nor death by dehydration,” my other male added.

  The scout looked stubborn and held the child close.

  Four days after I left the ruined keep, I came to another building, this one solid and undamaged.

  My scribe said, “I know the lord here by reputation. She is entirely female and friendly to the womanly aspects of a person. The neuter parts she tolerates. But she doesn’t like males. Her name is The Testicle Straightener.”

  My cudgel-carriers shuddered. The scribe and poet looked aloof, as they inevitably did in such situations. Cleareyed and rational, free from sexual urges, they found the rest of me a bit odd.

  The scout carrying the baby said, “The child needs good food and warmth and a bath. For that matter, so do I.”

  Gathering myself together, I strode to the gate and knocked. After several moments, it swung open. Soldiers looked out. There were two of them: one tall and gray, the other squat and brown. Their bodies filled the entrance, holding spears and axes. Their eyes gleamed green and yellow.

  “I am a wandering poet, seeking shelter for the night. I bring news from the south, which your lord might find useful.”

  The eyes peered closely, then the soldiers parted—gray to the left, brown to the right—and let me in.

  Beyond the gate was a snowy courtyard. This one held no

  bodies. Instead, the snow was trampled and urine-marked. A living place! Though empty at the moment, except for the two soldiers who guarded the gate.

  I waited in an anxious cluster. At length, a servant arrived and looked me over. “You need a bath and clean clothes. Our lord is fastidious and dislikes guests who stink. Come with me.”

  I followed the servant into the keep and down a flight of stairs. Metal lamps were fastened to the walls. Most were dark, but a few shone, casting a dim light. The servant had three sturdy bodies, all covered with black hair.

  Down and down. The air grew warm and moist. A faint, distinctive aroma filled it.

  “There are hot springs in this part of Ibri,” the servant said. “This keep was built on top of one; and there is a pool in the basement, which always steams and smells.
”

  Now I recognized the aroma: rotten eggs.

  We came to a large room, paved with stone and covered by a broad, barrel vault. Metal lanterns hung from the ceiling on chains. As was the case with the lamps on the stairway, most were dark. But a few flickered dimly. I could see the bathing pool: round and carved from bedrock. Steps went down into it. Wisps of steam rose.

  “Undress,” said the servant. “I’ll bring soap and towels.”

  I complied eagerly. Only my scout hesitated, holding the baby.

  “I’ll help you with the mite,” said my scribe, standing knee-deep in hot water.

  The scout handed the baby over and undressed.

  Soon I was frolicking in the pool, diving and spouting. Cries of joy rang in the damp, warm room. Is anything better than a hot bath after a journey?

  The scout took the baby back and moved to the far side of the pool. When the servant returned, the scout sank down, holding the baby closely, hiding it in shadow. Wise mite, it did not cry!

  The rest of me got busy, scrubbing shoulders and backs. Ah, the pleasure of warm lather!

  Now and then, I gave a little yip of happiness. The servant watched with satisfaction, his/her/its arms piled high with towels.

  On the far side of the pool, my best scout crouched, nursing the babe on a dry bud and watching the servant with hooded eyes.

  At last, I climbed out, dried off, and dressed. In the confusion—there was a lot of me—the scout managed to keep the baby concealed. Why, I did not know, but the scout was prudent and usually had a good reason for every action, though parts of me still doubted the wisdom of keeping the baby. There would be time to talk all of this over, when the servant was gone.

  He/she/it led me up a new set of stairs. The climb was long. The servant entertained me with the following story.

  The keep had a pulley system, which had been built by an ingenious traveling plumber. This lifted buckets of hot water from the spring to a tank on top of the keep. From there the water descended through metal pipes, carried by the downward propensity that is innate in water. The pipes heated every room.

  “What powers the pulley system?” my scribe asked, notebook in hand.

  “A treadmill,” said the servant.

  “And what powers the treadmill?”

  “Criminals and other people who have offended the lord. No keep in Ibri is more comfortable,” the servant continued with pride. “This is what happens when a lord is largely or entirely female. As the old proverb says, male bodies give a person forcefulness. Neuter bodies give thoughtfulness and clarity of vision. But nurture and comfort come from a person’s female selves.”

  Maybe, I thought. But were the people in the treadmill comfortable?

  The servant continued the story. The plumber had gone east to Ib and built other heated buildings: palaces, public baths, hotels, hospitals, and crèches. In payment for this work, several of the local lords mated with the plumber; and the local crèches vied to raise the plumber’s children, who were numerous and healthy.

  “A fine story, with a happy ending,” I said, thinking of my fragment of a child, nursing on the scout’s dry bud. Envy, the curse of all artists and artisans, roiled in my hearts. Why had I never won the right to lay fertile eggs? Why were my purses empty? Why did I have to struggle to protect my testes and to stay off treadmills, while this plumber—surely not a better person than I—enjoyed fame, honor, and fertility?

  The guest room was large and handsome, with a modern wonder next to it: a defecating closet. Inside the closet, water came from the wall in two metal pipes, which ended in faucets. “Hot and cold,” said the servant, pointing. Below the faucets was a metal basin, decorated with reliefs of frolicking goxhat. Two empty buckets stood next to the basin.

  The servant said, “If you need to wash something, your hands or feet or any other part, fill the basin with water. Use the buckets to empty the basin; and after you use the defecating throne, empty the buckets down it. This reduces the smell and gets rid of the dirty water. As I said, our lord is fastidious; and we have learned from her example. The plumber helped, by providing us with so much water.

  “I’ll wait in the hall. When you’re ready to meet the lord, I’ll guide you to her.”

  “Thank you,” said my scribe, always courteous.

  I changed into clean clothing, the last I had, and put bardic crowns on my heads.4 Each crown came from a different contest, though all were minor. I had never won a really big contest. Woven of fine wool, with brightly colored tassels hanging down, the crowns gave me an appearance of dignity. My nimble-fingered scouts unpacked my instruments: a set of chimes, a pair of castanets and a bagpipe. Now I was ready to meet the lord.

  All except my best scout, who climbed into the middle of a wide soft bed, child in arms.

  “Why did you hide the mite?” asked my scholar.

  “This keep seems full of rigid thinkers, overly satisfied with themselves and their behavior. If they saw the child they would demand an explanation. ‘Why do you keep it? Can’t you see how fragmentary it is? Can’t you see that it’s barely alive? Don’t you know how to cut your losses?’ I don’t want to argue or explain.”

  “What is meant by ‘I’?” my male parts asked. “What is meant by ‘my’ reasons?”

  “This is no time for an argument,” said the poet.

  All of me except the scout went to meet the keep’s famous lord.

  The Straightener sat at one end of large hall: an elderly goxhat with frosted hair. Four parts of her remained, all sturdy, though missing a few pieces here and there: a foot, a hand, an eye or finger. Along the edges of the hall sat her retainers on long benches: powerful males, females, and neuters, adorned with iron and gold.

  “Great your fame,

  Gold-despoiler,

  Bold straightener of scrota,

  Wise lord of Ibri.

  “Hearing of it,

  I’ve crossed high mountains,

  Anxious to praise

  Your princely virtues.”

  My poet stopped. Straightener leaned forward. “Well? Go on! I want to hear about my princely virtues.”

  “Give me a day to speak with your retainers and get exact details of your many achievements,” the poet said. “Then I will be able to praise you properly.”

  The goxhat leaned back. “Never heard of me, have you? Drat! I was hoping for undying fame.”

  “I will give it to you,” my poet said calmly.

  “Very well,” the lord said. “I’ll give you a day, and if I like what you compose, I’ll leave your male parts alone.”

  All of me thanked her. Then I told the hall about my stay at the ruined keep. The retainers listened intently. When I had finished, the lord said, “My long-time neighbor! Dead by murder! Well, death comes to all of us. When I was born, I had twenty parts. A truly large number! That is what I’m famous for, as well as my dislike of men, which is mere envy. My male bodies died in childhood, and my neuter parts did not survive early adulthood. By thirty, I was down to ten bodies, all female. The neuters were not much of a loss. Supercilious twits, I always thought. But I miss my male parts. They were so feisty and full of piss! When travelers come here, I set them difficult tasks. If they fail, I have my soldiers hold them, while I unfold their delicate, coiled testicles. No permanent damage is done, but the screaming makes me briefly happy.”

  My male bodies looked uneasy and shifted back and forth on their feet, as if ready to run. But the two neuters remained calm. My poet thanked the lord a second time, sounding confident. Then I split up and went in all directions through the hall, seeking information.

  The drinking went on till dawn, and the lord’s retainers were happy to tell me stories about the Straightener. She had a female love of comfort and fondness for children, but could not be called tender in any other way. Rather, she was a fierce leader in battle and a strict ruler, as exact as a balance or a straight-edge.

  “She’ll lead us against Bent Foot,” one drunk
soldier said. “We’ll kill him and bring the children here. The stolen children, at least. I don’t know about Bent Foot’s spawn. It might be better for them to die. Not my problem. I let the lord make all the decisions, except whether or not I’m going to fart.”

  Finally, I went up to my room. My scout lay asleep, the baby in her arms. My male parts began to pace nervously. The rest of me settled to compose a poem.

  As the sky brightened, the world outside began to wake and make noise. Most of the noise could be ignored, but there was a wishik under the eaves directly outside my room’s window. Its shrill, repeating cry drove my poet to distraction. I could not concentrate on the poem.

  Desperate, I threw things at the animal: buttons from my sewing kit, spare pens, an antique paperweight I found in the room. Nothing worked. The wishik fluttered away briefly, then returned and resumed its irritating cry.

  At last my scout woke. I explained the problem. She nodded and listened to the wishik for a while. Then she fastened a string to an arrow and shot the arrow out the window. It hit the wishik. The animal gave a final cry. Grabbing the string, my scout pulled the beast inside.

  “Why did you do that?” I asked.

  “Because I didn’t want the body to fall in the courtyard.”

  “Why not?”

  Before she could answer, the body at her feet expanded and changed its shape. Instead of the body of a dead wishik, I saw a gray goxhat-body, pierced by the scout’s arrow, dead.

  My males swore. The rest of me exclaimed in surprise.

  My scout said, “This is part of a wizard, no doubt employed by the keep’s lord, who must really want to unroll my testicles, since she is willing to be unfair and play tricks. The wishik cry was magical, designed to bother me so much that I could not concentrate on my composition. If this body had fallen to the ground, the rest of the wizard would have seen it and known the trick had failed. As things are, I may have time to finish the poem.” The scout looked at the rest of me severely. “Get to work.”

  My poet went back to composing, my scribe to writing. The poem went smoothly now. As the stanzas grew in number, I grew increasingly happy and pleased. Soon I noticed the pleasure was sexual. This sometimes happened, though usually when a poem was erotic. The god of poetry and the god of sex are siblings, though they share only one parent, who is called the All-Mother-Father.