Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #217

by TTA Press Authors

  Jeffrey says, “Hi, Veronica!” between giggles.

  "Hi."

  Mom stops the swing. She says, “Jeffrey, you can swing by yourself, as long as you promise not to go too high. Promise?” If she was crying before, there is no sign of it now.

  Jeffrey puffs out his chest, “I promise."

  I want to ask how Jeffrey is going to manage this with his withered arm. But he hops right on the swing, tucks the left chain of the swing under his armpit, grabs the other chain with his good arm and starts pumping. We watch him swing for a few minutes and Abigail has become someone else but I haven't bothered to look and see who it is.

  Mom says, “We'll be right back, Jeffrey. I need to talk to Veronica for a bit. Keep pumping, kid.” She puts a hand on my shoulder and guides me to the house. After a few paces, she says, “What?” like I've been staring at her expectantly, but I haven't. Then she says, “I need someone on that swing today. I need the juice to vacuum the floors later."

  * * * *

  We're in the kitchen. I sit down. Mom stands and paces. She doesn't wait for me to say anything and starts right in with a simple declarative.

  "You and I came home early one afternoon and I found more than the expected amount of heads in my bedroom."

  I say, “How old was I?"

  "One."

  My other head is Mom. Mom when she was my age. Despite her pigtails, she manages older-Mom's fierce, intimidating look. I don't know what she's thinking, and I'm tired of trying to figure out who's thinking what.

  I ask, “Who was he with?"

  "Does it matter?” Mom doesn't waver, doesn't get all choked up or anything like that, not that I expected her to.

  "I don't know if it matters, Mom. That's why I'm asking."

  "The woman was the middle school science teacher that Mr Bob replaced. She doesn't live in town anymore."

  I imagine a woman who looks like Mr Bob. She wears baggy clothes that have chemical stains and Bunsen burner singe marks. She has short, straight hair, mousey brown, wears thick glasses, and no make up. Pretty in a smart way, maybe. I imagine Mom finding her in the bedroom with my father, who I can't describe in such physical detail, no matter how hard I try to conjure him.

  Young-Mom doesn't say anything but just stares at her older self. Is this look of hers studied observation or soul-deep sadness?

  "Did he leave after you caught him?"

  "The very next morning."

  "Did you tell him he had to leave?"

  "No."

  Young-Mom says, “Do you really need to know any more of this?” which I don't think is a very fair question. And it's not fair to be double-teamed by Mom like this, even though I know that I can't always blame everything on Mom. I fight the urge to tell the Young-Mom to shut up.

  I say, “That's terrible. I'm sorry that happened, Mom. I really am."

  "Thank you.” Mom says it like she's accepting a throwaway compliment about her shoes. Young-Mom pouts. They are both so intimidating but I stand up and stutter-walk to Mom and give her a hug. She doesn't uncross her arms off her chest so the hug isn't soft and comfortable. I make contact mostly with the angles of her bones and the points of her elbows and the sweater wool scratches my face, but Mom does kiss the top of my head, twice. That's something, maybe even enough.

  "Thanks again, sweetie."

  I break the one-sided hug and say, “What did he look like?"

  "You."

  "Can I ask where he lives?"

  Young-Mom sighs and shakes her head. Her pigtails tickle my neck, feeling eerily similar to Medusa's snakes, but I don't mind them as much.

  "I thought I was ready to tell you, Veronica. But I'm not."

  I want to ask if she knows who my other head is. I want to ask if she knows what it means. I want to ask if she knows that most days I dream about becoming her.

  She continues, “It's not you anymore. I know you can handle it now. But you'll just have to give me more time.” Mom uncrosses her arms and looks around the kitchen, at the cluttered counter and the sewing machine, looking for something to do.

  Young-Mom turns, whispers directly into my ear, “Are you happy now?"

  I unroll the neck of the sweater and pull it up over her mouth and nose. She doesn't stop me or say anything else.

  I say, “Okay, Mom,” but I don't know if it is okay and I don't know if I feel guilty or satisfied or sad or angry or scared. What I'm feeling no one has bothered to name or classify or dissect, or maybe this feeling has already been outed by somebody else and I just haven't stumbled across it and that seems likely but at the same time it doesn't, and then I think about all the books in my bedroom and the giant stacks of books in my Little Red Bookstore and I wonder if it is there or here or anywhere else other than inside me.

  Mom says, “Alright, back to work then.” She claps her hands and I feel my other head change but I won't look to see who it is yet. “Could you go and take over for Jeffrey on the swing? He's making me nervous. I appreciate it, honey. And don't forget about your big tests later."

  * * * *

  It's windy and cold. The temperature dropping by the minute. Jeffrey stops swinging, but stays on the seat. “Do I have to stop now?"

  "Yes, my mother wants me to take over."

  He doesn't argue, but he hasn't moved off the seat either. He releases the swing chain that was tucked under his armpit. “You and your Mom had a talk?"

  "Yes, Jeffrey.” I notice I'm standing in my Mom's pose, but I don't change it.

  "Did you ask her about your Dad?"

  "I did."

  "Did she tell you?"

  "Tell me what?"

  "Tell you where he is."

  "No, not yet."

  Jeffrey nods like he understands. Maybe he does. He says, “Maybe you should ask someone else."

  "Like who?"

  "Me?” He says it like a question, almost like he doesn't know who me is.

  I play along. Anything to keep me off the swing for another few minutes. “Okay, Jeffrey. Do you know where my father is?"

  He nearly shouts, “Yes."

  My arms wrap tighter around my chest. This isn't fun anymore. “Then where is he?"

  Jeffrey scoots off the swing and points behind him. He points at the neighbor's big wooden fence. “He lives there. Right next door."

  That's impossible. Isn't it? Wouldn't I have seen him by now? I think about who lives there and I can't come up with anyone. Is that right? Has he been this close all along and I just haven't noticed, or haven't wanted to notice?

  Jeffrey says, “I'm not lying, Veronica. I've seen him."

  "I didn't say you were lying."

  He says, “I think he's even out in the yard right now. Go and see."

  I look at the fence, seven-feet high, completely wrapping around the property. “How?"

  "There's a knothole in the fence behind your bushes. You know, I usually hide in your bushes."

  I snort, ready to charge. “Okay. Jeffrey, go home please."

  He reacts like I hit him, and tears well up.

  I soften. “You can come back over later, but I need to do this by myself."

  Jeffrey nods, still fighting those tears, then sprints home, this time gripping the empty arm of his sweater. I walk to the bushes, to where Jeffrey hides, the same bushes I hid in earlier. There is a knothole in the fence, the size of a quarter, plenty big to see through. I should've seen this earlier, but I guess I wasn't looking for it.

  I remember my second head. The turtle neck is still rolled over her nose and mouth. I roll it down and find Anne again. Only this Anne is older, older than me, even older than the one in her diary. Her skin has sores and is sallow and tight on her face, deepening and widening her already big eyes. Her hair has thinned and I see white scalp in too many places. This Anne doesn't ask any questions. This Anne isn't chatty. This is the Anne that no one dares imagine after reading her diary. I want to help her, take care of her somehow, and I think she senses this, because she points
at the knothole with my left hand and nods. Before I look into the hole, I think, selfishly, that this might be the right Anne for the question I've always wanted to ask.

  There's a man in the back yard. He's wearing jeans and a moth-worn, olive-green sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He's raking leaves with his back turned to me. When he stops raking, he walks over to a tire-swing tied to a thick branch of an oak tree. The branch has an axle and generator set-up similar to my swing set, but no one is riding the tire-swing. There are rocks duct-taped to the bottom of the tire. He pushes the tire-swing a few times, to get the pendulum moving, then goes back to raking leaves. This man has two heads.

  I wait and watch. He rakes and pushes, but he doesn't turn around so I can see either of his faces. His hair is brown and short on each head, and now I wish I never looked through the hole.

  Anne says, “Why has he never contacted you? Why does he hide so close to home? Does he do this so he can see you when he wants? Or is he just being cruel, mocking you, mocking your mother?"

  I want to stay crouched in this spot and let leaves and snow gather on me and never stop watching, but I do pull my eye away from the knot. Anne and I scan the length and height of the fence. I don't know the answer to Anne's questions and I know the likelihood is that I may never know.

  I decide to ask Anne the question. I hope it doesn't seem callous or even cruel to her. I understand how it could be interpreted that way, but I hope she understands me and why I do what I do. I still hope.

  I say, “Anne, in your last diary entry, you wrote something that ... that I need to ask you about. This you in particular. Do you know what I mean by this you?"

  "Yes."

  I say it. “Do you still believe that people are really good at heart?"

  Anne sighs and closes her eyes and it's terrible because it makes her look dead. She holds my left hand, the fingers suddenly and dangerously skinny, over her mouth and chin. She's thinking and I know she will give me an answer. But now that I've asked, the answer isn't as important to me as it was a few days ago, or even a few seconds ago. Because no matter what she says, I'll go back to my swing-set and to feeding my house what it needs and I won't tell Mom that I know where he is and I'll take my tests tonight and try my best and help her with the dishes and then talk to her about Mrs Dalloway and the women in my book club and maybe even convince Mom to become an official member. Because, maybe foolishly, I still hope.

  But I'll sit in the bushes and wait as long as is necessary to hear what Anne has to say. I owe us that much.

  Copyright © 2008 Paul G. Tremblay

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  THE SHIPS LIKE CLOUDS, RISEN BY THEIR RAIN—Jason Sanford

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Illustrated by Vincent Chong

  * * * *

  Jason Sanford has had stories published in Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show, Tales of the Unanticipated, The Mississippi Review and other places. He has a story forthcoming in Analog: Science Fiction and Fact, and another—'When Thorns Are The Tips Of Trees'—in Interzone. His website is jasonsanford.com.

  * * * *

  Mares’ tails blew in from the west, clear sign that a big storm was heading our way. As I watched the hundreds of small, wispy ships float silently by on the breeze, I was tempted to keep quiet. After all, I'd warned for years about our town becoming overbuilt, making all of us vulnerable to the flash floods created by big storms. But with memories of the last flood fading, people had ignored me. The mayor even called me a nervous old woman, afraid of my own shadow. It would be just desserts for everyone to be washed away when the big ship's rains hit.

  But wishing for revenge is one thing; actually having people hurt over it, quite another. I grabbed my wooden mallet and rang the alarm bell long and hard, taking pride in a moment when my sworn duty actually mattered.

  By the time I climbed down from the weather tower, the mayor was waiting impatiently for me. “What is it this time, Tem?” he asked. “Water or shit?"

  I smiled in irritation. Despite my continual corrections—the ships dropped a highly refined organic material, not excrement—too many townsfolk called it just that. While they knew how vital the ships were to our world, that didn't stop their agitation when salvation splattered across their houses and streets.

  "Water,” I said. “But it'll be a big blow, based on the number of mares’ tails running from the ship. Maybe as big as that storm fifty years ago.” I winced at that memory. My little sister had been killed by those floods, sucked into a vortex which opened right in front of our house.

  The mayor glared angrily at the sky. “You sure this isn't another wrong prediction?"

  I restrained the urge to throttle this loathsome, worthless man. “I've done my duty and warned the town. It's now up to you."

  The mayor cussed, not believing me, but also afraid of what the townsfolk would do if he ignored a valid warning. “People aren't going to like this. The harvest festival started this morning. All the vegetables and fruits are out in the open."

  I glanced at the horizon. Already a dark shape—bigger than anything I'd ever seen—grew from the world's curve. “They don't have to like it,” I said. “Tell them we have an hour, at most."

  The mayor nodded and ran toward the festival, yelling at people to save what they could. Other townsfolk ran to their homes, telling their kids to climb into the highest rooms. Everywhere I looked, people were wide-eyed and scared, rushing about as if the world was about to end.

  And perhaps it was. After all, a ship of heaven was about to unleash its floods upon our thrown-together land.

  * * * *

  Imagine a mudball, packed tight by little kid hands. The hands continually pack mud onto the ball, but the ball never grows larger. Just endless mud, packing round and round, until you wonder where it all goes.

  That's our world.

  From the weather histories, I know worlds aren't supposed to be like this. Worlds have solid crusts of metal and rock, and molten cores of fire and heat. Worlds also recycle. They create and destroy, grow and decay. The water you drink was excreted by a woman a thousand years before. Her body is the dust from which your food grows. Her bones are the clay on which you build your home.

  Not our world.

  Like new mud pushing down the old, everything sinks to the middle of our world. There are no rivers, no oceans, nothing but land continually created from our rain of organics and other materials. Our skies are always hazy. Up high, one sees a dappled, silver sheen from the small mackerel ships passing at high altitude. Down low, the speckled dots and bulges of larger ships float by, bringing the biggest extremes of weather. All the ships contribute something to our world. Oxygen and carbon dioxide. Metal hail and organic particles. Water as rain, vapor, or ice. Every day our skies are filled with a thousand ships, each one giving something before leaving again for the greater universe.

  The first thing we do upon waking is to sweep our houses of the dust which fell overnight. Eventually, though, as the land builds up around us, sweeping isn't enough. So we build our homes higher and higher. Walls ten meters above the walls your grandparents built. A floor which used to be the roof your ancestors slept under.

  Up and up, we're always moving up. But we never go any higher.

  * * * *

  By the time we'd salvaged what we could of the harvest festival's food, the ship was almost upon us. The ship was a cumulus, towering four kilometers high and stretching across the visible world. From the number of mares’ tails I'd seen earlier, I'd figured a cumulus would be chasing them, but I'd never seen one this big. It moved slowly through the atmosphere, the massive curve and sweep of its bow funneling the air into cloudy turbulence. Dark rains poured from the ship's belly, turning the horizon black except for the occasional burst of lightning.

  When I reached home my apprentice, Cres, was already at work, carrying books and weather logs to the top floors. I was glad she'd heard the bell. This mor
ning Cres had headed to the ravines south of town to check on the erosion gauges. Passing rains continually wore new gullies and ravines in our world's loose soil. Unfortunately, loose soils also made being caught in the open during a big storm extremely dangerous—flash floods would literally wash everything away.

  "Master Tem,” Cres said when she saw me, “I've discovered a new phenomenon. Come and see."

  Cres sounded excited by the coming storm, as I guessed I'd have been when I was fourteen. I tossed the food I'd lugged home in our kitchen, then followed her up the weather tower.

  The tower, the tallest structure in town, swayed ominously to the wind. I glanced around the town and saw that almost everyone had finished closing up their homes. The only person still out was Les the tailor, who hastily hammered a support beam against one wall of his house. For the last two years I'd been after Les to fix his house, telling him it would never survive a big storm. I shook my head and looked toward the oncoming ship.

  "What did you see?” I yelled at Cres over the building wind.

  "The cumulus dropped some kind of lighted sphere."

  "Most likely lightning. You aren't old enough to remember, but big ships generate massive charge differentials between themselves and the ground."

  Cres rolled her eyes. “I've read about lightning in the histories,” she shouted back. “This was different. Pay attention and see."

  I resisted the urge to slap her for being cheeky with her master. She acted like I had at that age, totally absorbed in dreams about ships, distant planets, and dimensions beyond belief. Her parents had apprenticed Cres to me because they knew her imagination marked her as someone with the potential for being taken by a passing ship. But I wasn't sure that what saved me—the burden of weather predicting I'd taken on after my sister's death—would also work for her.