"Simon! How are you doing, old man? I haven't seen you in ... well, I don't know how long it's been."
"Since you went to the doctor after last year's convention, I'd think."
"The doctor? I don't recall that." He looked to the pale old man whose glazed expression had not altered. Still, those staring eyes continued to unnerve me. Gahan shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I'm glad you're here now, and just in time to help me celebrate."
"Celebrate?"
"Haven't you heard? I just made the New York Times best-seller list! After WeirdCon last year I rewrote my novel; it started a bidding war, if you can believe it. HarperCollins picked it up and sent an advance with so many zeroes I almost fainted. The thing came out earlier this month to stellar reviews both here and overseas. I'm amazed you didn't know about it."
"I'm horribly ill-informed when it comes to that sort of thing. Still, you must be proud," I said. "How did you manage to solve the issues you were having? I recall last year you were ready to destroy it."
"Like I said in the panel: it was easier than I expected. I just dumped the 'arty' stuff -- it got in the way of the storytelling -- and I also realized it wasn't scary enough."
"Really?" It was all I could think to say.
We stood there staring at each other, the convention moving around us as though we were trapped in amber. Neither of us spoke, not until the silence was broken by the wet gurgle of the little fat man sniffling. I glanced at him but not for long; from his upturned nose a line of mucus was crawling down his placid face. It was clear Gahan hadn't noticed.
"You know my friend, don't you?"
"I don't think we've had the pleasure." I slightly bowed out of sheer formality and extended my hand. He didn't look at it but rather continued to stare ahead, his large wet nostrils flared. Then just as I was about to retract my hand he reached out quickly with his own small claw and took it. I wished dearly at that moment he had not. His grip was clammy, cold, and those tiny fingers lay limply among my own.
"His name is Mr. Kneale," Gahan said. "He's been a big boon to me, helping me fix the mistakes in the book and get it in publishable condition. He really knows the field and how it works. I owe all my recent success to him -- he's really helped push my career forward."
"Maybe he could help with mine," I offered -- without a hint of mockery, I assure you -- and Gahan smiled wide enough that I couldn't help but notice his yellowing teeth and the grey color of the gums around them. He did not look healthful, regardless of how energetic he'd appeared during the panel. He took off his glasses and wiped them on the front of his shirt, and the sight of his small bloodshot eyes was enough to startle me. I grew increasingly concerned, and looked toward his small friend who had not stopped staring straight ahead.
"Anyway, Mr. Kneale and I ought to get going; we're running late for a lunch meeting with my agent. Apparently, there's been interest in optioning the entire series of books. I didn't even know it was going to be a series," he laughed, and fussed with the tightly tied cravat, pulling at it only enough to flash a glimpse of something beneath, something wet. "It really should be quite fun. I'll catch up with you some other time. I promise."
He took Mr. Kneale by his tiny hand and led him out as though he were a small child. Too dumbstruck to do anything but watch, I did not move until Gahan called back to the crowd around me, "Enjoy the rest of the convention, everyone!" before the two, like father and child, disappeared from WeirdCon. His circle of young fans appeared unfocused and confused, devoid of their star they stared at each other and then at me. I smiled nervously. They scowled, then one at a time dispersed, leaving me to wonder just what I had witnessed. Whatever it was, it was strange, and it gave me something I hadn't had in some time. It gave me a good idea.
Ideas are mercurial. Sometimes they are at the center of a maze, and you must navigate twists and turns and dead ends until you find the right way to them. Sometimes, they appear like magic fruit on a tree, but when you pluck them you find they do not taste as sweet as you thought. The worst kind of idea is the one that appears from out of nowhere and promises to be grand, but no matter how many times you try to make something of it the thing never gels. By contrast, the best ideas are those you aren't even aware you've had. You just sit down and write a sentence, which begets another, and then another, until you have written pages upon pages and you're signing your name to a cover letter and mailing it off to some major publication. When you've followed through with an idea like that, you feel the need to celebrate, and me? I uncorked a bottle of wine when I was done and enjoyed a relaxing evening at the back of the house where the garden grew tall and I could hear the insects buzzing.
The novella, "Velvet Death,” was the first piece of work I'd been able to finish since "The Howling Faces" all those years ago, and though it did not compare in length I think I may have experienced a sense of joie de vivre that I hadn't when the novel was done, when there was still an uncertain future before me. Older, wiser, with a beard to stroke, I was better able to appreciate the act of creation, and better still I discovered the delirious high had not diminished. "Velvet Death" sold to a British anthology and then went on to win the World Fantasy Award the next year, but even before that honor the thrill of the work inspired me to keep going, and over the next few months I did not leave my house, I did not travel -- I did little beyond write when I was waking and read while on my way to sleep. It was the most prolific period of my life, that year, and in many ways I think all that has happened since has its roots in that span of time. It touches everything I do.
At the time of the next WeirdCon, I had only just received my award nomination, but nevertheless I was amazed to find the book in which my story had appeared had been read and my contribution in particular had drawn commentary. I wouldn't go so far as to say I was mobbed on arrival -- compared to the treatment I had seen Gahan McKaye receive the year before I was virtually ignored -- but it was probably first time since the publication of "The Howling Faces" that the number of people who were interested in talking to me was on the increase. During one panel I was referred to as "the ultimate author's author" -- which I assume was meant as a compliment. (I took it as such, at any rate.) I have to admit, the moment I enjoyed most was being approached by the young and by-then-familiar dark-haired woman, no longer much of a girl, and congratulated on my nomination.
"That's very kind of you," I said.
"It was touching to see you'd dedicated the story to Gahan McKaye."
I suppose I ought to explain what happened to Gahan McKaye after he left me at WeirdCon. I've been trying to avoid it because -- well, because I don't fully understand it. But the story needs to be told and since I've finished my latest novel earlier than I expected, and since I have this Spanish villa rented for at least another week, I suspect now is the time to do it before age or infirmity preclude me from doing so. And the way things are headed, I fear both will arrive rather earlier than I'd like.
After Gahan left WeirdCon things turned sour for him. At this point I was deep in my own writing, and experiencing a sensation unlike any I'd had before. It was as though all fiction was drawn from some glorious central source, some well of creativity, and through my writing I had managed to tap a vein. Through this connection, I could (for moments) see that each aspect of writing -- the words on the page, their publication, their being read -- was a facet of the whole, and that sight allowed me to draw even further power from it. Without knowing how, I knew not only that Gahan's second novel had been released, but also how it was received.
The reviews were terrible. Those critics that called it "trash" were perhaps the kindest. I suspect any book called "Killer Bones" must fight an uphill battle, but when the plot of said book revolves around giant mutant animals that read, intentionally or not, as sexual metaphors... well, that sort of book has a target on it from the beginning. Good writing can often save such a project -- or if not save it then at least mitigate the damage -- but "Killer Bones" was not so graced. I eventuall
y bought the book out of a sense of nostalgic obligation and made a valiant effort to read it, but the sheer terribleness of the prose made it impossible to continue. Even the plot, what there was of one, was hackneyed and weak. Where, I wondered, had the Gahan I'd known gone? The Gahan who had once written with such heart-breaking eloquence that I was sure his work would outlast us all? In his place was an author incapable of penning anything redeeming. The prose lay dead on the page, drained of any life. Where the old Gahan McKaye would have written with a flourish, with a style that begged for attention, what replaced him was simply a shell. Needless to say, I was disappointed, and I think his fans felt the same way. At least, a good number of them came to tell me so in person later, conspiratorially, after what had happened to him, as though I wasn't already aware of the book's failings. The full story of his death remains unclear, but the police surmised at the time that Gahan, despondent over the book's reception, and most likely in a state of confusion exacerbated by an ongoing and undiagnosed illness, had decided to slit his own throat. He was found dead in his home long after he'd bled out.
Needless to say, I was shocked when I heard. No one seemed to know for certain what was truth and what was simply the conjecture of writers devoted to sublimating their fears in impossible fiction. The death hadn't been widely reported in the papers, which I've always thought was a fair indicator that there was nothing scandalous about it, though there are some who argue quite the opposite. I heard from those few mutual friends that still had some sort of contact with him near the end that the police reports described a great number of lacerations all over his body, the oldest and greatest number being concentrated beneath his cravat. If it were true, the question was what had caused them. For a while the thought was he'd died in flagrante delicto and his family had used the last of his money to cover it up. But if you were to believe that, wouldn't you also have to believe the rest of the story? That the wounds, upon inspection, were tears rather than cuts? There was a lot of information floating around and no one who could speak with any authority on the subject. Even the specter of AIDS was unearthed -- it always is when an artist dies in such poor physical condition -- but most I knew shrugged it off without merit. "McKaye wasn't the kind to hide that sort of thing," they said.
Well, I think it was obvious he was hiding something.
The WeirdCon conference committee each year organized a large "signing session" on the third day for all the panelists in the Simcoe room. Usually, the biggest-name authors and those young ones with "buzz" about them were asked to attend. The rest of us loitered in the bar or restaurant, passing time until the evening programming commenced. I'd done a few signings in my day, but I did not start visiting WeirdCon until long after those days were behind me. Thus, you can imagine my surprise to be invited to take a seat that year behind the table. I happily accepted as somehow the intervening years had convinced me that perhaps I would enjoy it more than I had remembered. Alas, as with all things in life, that was not the case, and after an hour of signing the occasional copy from my meager stack of books and making even-less-occasional small talk, I found myself instead studying the faces of the crowd, marveling at the mix. There were all types at an ostensibly "Horror" convention, from professors to laymen, from those who loved the literature of the nineteenth century to those who loved the rumble tumble of modern films, and if there was one thing they all had in common -- and shared with the likes of us behind the tables -- it was that they all loved the genre of Horror and its inherent potential. That pleased me to no end to see, and I realized that though I hadn't always seen the value in each piece of Horror fiction I'd read, when there was passion there I never came away feeling cheated.
While I pondered those things my eyes causally drifted to the table across from me, about ten feet away, that had been swamped with so many bodies I could not see who sat behind it. It was only by chance that I looked over at the right moment, and saw through a fleeting gap a sight that chilled my bones. It was him. He was small and misshapen, his hair gone and flesh turned a pasty white, but he sat there signing books with his pudgy left hand -- a hand shaped like a claw -- and handing them back wordlessly to the young people around him. From the crowd emerged the dark-haired girl and when my waving caught her eye I beckoned her over.
"Did you just buy a book from Mr. Kneale?"
She glanced back.
"Of course."
"Do you mind?" I asked, pointing at the volume in her hand. "I'd just like to see what all the fuss is about."
She seemed hesitant, but eventually handed it over. I read portions of the first page, and then flipped to a few random paragraphs throughout. The prose read familiar, and it took me a moment to understand why. It read much like Gahan McKaye's work once had, a number of years before, back in his "arty" phase (as he might have called it). It wasn't the same, of course, but similar enough to McKaye's work that what I saw bore more than a strong influence. I stood up, the book still in my hand, and looked across the distance at the little man behind the opposite table. His misshapen head did not move, but his little hands did with a flourish I shall never forget, even when all other memories have left me. So intently was I staring that I don’t recall the young woman pulling her book from my no-doubt clenched fingers and leaving. I was mesmerized by the strange contours of Mr. Kneale's head and the flat, doe-like look on his face. Or perhaps it was by those dull black eyes that had turned toward Martin Stemmel in the chair beside him. I saw Mr. Kneale look him up and down, then a tiny grey tongue poked out and rested in the cleft of his bifurcated lip.
In hindsight, perhaps it's that image that will never leave me. God, how I desperately wish that it would.
time Natalie recovered, solidly blocking all further sound from inside. She tried the handle but it would not budge, nor was there any place at the side of the building she could gain re-entry -- even the topiary was hidden behind an impenetrable wall of vegetation. She had no choice but to leave. It then took almost an hour of stumbling through the maze of streets to find a cab that was willing to stop for someone who walked through the darkness alone.
EVERYTHING FLOATS
"Jenn? Are you awake, Jenn?"
She wasn't, which meant it was once more Doyle's turn to pick up his baby angel, his little crying cherub. He left his wife sleeping in their bed and rose to navigate the dark hallway toward the nursery. Unpacked boxes cluttered his journey and he stubbed his toe on one, his dream-addled brain still at their old apartment and not in their new house. The pain was startling, and he stifled the scream that floated up to his mouth for fear he'd further frighten little Angella. He had to be strong for her. Once the blinding stars cleared from his sight, he tentatively put his weight back on his foot and continued with a shuffling limp to the baby's room.
Jenn and he had decided to make the master bedroom the nursery; it was the one room in the house with an east-facing window, and Jenn had insisted that there be morning light for Angella. "I want my baby to see the sun first thing every day," she said as Doyle held her in their old apartment, her belly so swollen with child he worried for weeks that she might go into labor at any moment. As it was, their baby waited until the last of the boxes was packed and the movers on their way before deciding it was time to join her parents in the outside world. Between labor pains the soon-to-be parents arranged for Jenn's father to meet the movers on the other end, so by the time Angella was ushered forth into the world, Jenn and Doyle had a house for their new child. No, not a house, Doyle thought. A home.
From the door of the nursery, Angella's cry sounded more like a shriek of panic and it proved somewhat unnerving, though Doyle imagined a screaming voice in the dead of night would have that effect on anyone. The moon was at its lowest point in the sky, and it reflected no light of any kind into the room. There was nothing to guide Doyle but the sound of his screaming child. Jenn had warned against turning on the overhead lamp, her voice trembling slightly beneath her dark eyes, as she explained in rush breaths the damag
e it might do. Instead, he blindly navigated across the room to the door opposite the entrance, the door that led to the en-suite master washroom. He could turn on the light there and use the door to keep all but the barest amount of illumination from the room. Locating the doorknob in the pitch darkness proved a challenge, and as he turned it he opened the door only enough to slip his arm through. His hand danced along the wall as he fumbled for the lamp switch while Angella continued to tirelessly wail. Doyle wondered how long it would take before Jenn awoke and came to see what was wrong, and the thought only added to his urgency. He continued reaching for the switch, his outstretched arm growing colder, and he recoiled as his fingers brushed along something -- something that wasn't there when he reached back for it, something that felt nothing like the lamp switch that his fingers finally discovered.
As though by magic, Angella's cries subsided. Nonetheless, he used the sliver of light to check upon her. Angella was already fast asleep on her side, a soft toy ring gripped in her tiny hand. Doyle could not stop smiling at the sight of her, even in his swollen-eyed exhaustion. She was perfect, his perfect little Angella, and the mere sight of her made his heart feel as though it might burst. He felt something else too, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, something no doubt caused by the mixture of eerie quiet and his own exhaustion. Then it was gone and whatever it was he felt it no longer.
Nightingale Songs Page 18
