Clarkesworld Magazine - Issue 20

by www. clarkesworldmagazine. com

  By 1928 Maldonado was in complete isolation. He was not allowed visits from his wife, or perhaps more tellingly for our purposes, letters. Acuña was recorded as visiting once, in 1930, with his young son Raiquen. It is not for us to imagine this meeting, so far from the decks of the Proximidad and salads of lichen, far from claret and the green shadows of the aurora australis. However, after this incident, Acuña arranged for Maldonado to be moved to a special penitentiary in Ushuaia, on the southern tip of Argentina, with the shores of the South Shetlands in sight, on very clear days.

  The Great Man looked up from his bread and held the eye of the Naval Cartographer. Their beards were both very long, but Acuña’s was neatly cut and kept, while Maldonado’s snarled and ran to the stone floor.

  “I promised you, my friend,” he said, his voice very rough, “that it was big enough. Big enough for us both to look on it and hold in our vision two separate countries, bound only by longitude.”

  “What’s big enough?” little Raiquen asked, tugging on his father’s hand, which had two gold rings upon it.

  But Acuña did not answer. For my own part, my heart was filled with long plains of ice receding into eternity, and on those plains my prisoner walked with bare feet and a cup of gold.

  —Keeper of the Key: The Autobiography of a Prison Guard, Rafael Soto, 1949

  Villalba Maldonado died at Ushuaia on June 4th 1933. Acuña lived, feted and richly funded, until 1951, when he drowned off the shore of Isla Concepción. Suyai and her sons continued in residence on the islands, producing between them twelve maps of the area. (Lots 219-231H) Raiquen relocated in middle age to the mainland where he lives still in well-fed obscurity.

  The Petrel Map was Maldonado’s final work, and as such, has been assessed at $57000US.

  Lot 994D

  Captain’s Logbook, the Anamnesis, disembarked from Ushuaia, 1934

  Here is presented the logbook in which Soledad Maldonado signed her name and declared her cargo — an iron coffin lashed to a long sled. She left her ailing mother in Buenos Aires and sailed south as soon as tide and melt permitted, and Captain Godoy deposited her on the floes of the Weddell Sea per instructions. His full account of the voyage and Soledad’s peculiar habits, studies, and intentions will be released only to the buyer, however, his notes conclude thus:

  I watched the young lady amid her supplies, her sled, her eight bristling dogs, her father’s long, cold coffin. She gave me a cool glance in farewell and turned southward, towards the interior ice. She waited for a long while, though I could not think what for. It was drawing on night, and there were many stars showing when it happened, and I must insist that I be believed and not ridiculed, no matter what I may now write.

  Two great dogs strode out from the long plains of ice, enormous, thickly furred, something like Saint Bernards. They pressed their noses into her hands and she petted their heads, scratched behind their ears, let them lick her face slowly, methodically, with great care. The huge hounds allowed her to yoke them at the head of her team, and without a whip she directed them inward, onward, hoisting aloft as they flew a long fishing pole, at the end of which was an orb of impossible light, like a cup overturned and spilling out the sun.

  The Log Book has been assessed at $10700US. Bidding begins at noon precisely.

  About the Author

  Born in the Pacific Northwest in 1979, Catherynne M. Valente is the author of Palimpsest and the Orphan’s Tales series, as well as The Labyrinth, Yume no Hon: The Book of Dreams, The Grass-Cutting Sword, and five books of poetry. She is the winner of the Tiptree Award, the Mythopoeic Award, the Rhysling Award, and the Million Writers Award. She has been nominated nine times for the Pushcart Prize, shortlisted for the Spectrum Award was a World Fantasy Award finalist in 2007. She currently lives on an island off the coast of Maine with her partner and two dogs. Her crowdfunded novel, The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making, can be found at http://catherynnemvalente.com/fairyland

  Birdwatcher

  Garth Upshaw

  I was poisoning crows the day the aliens arrived. They’re smarter than you might think — crows, not aliens — and they don’t go for any of the easy stuff anymore. I had some good roadkill, two squirrels and a raccoon, but I couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for using it. The crows would caw and peck at the corpses as carefully as a dowager entering her bath. Nowadays, I had to mash D-Con into a virulent green powder, mix it with honey or peanut butter, and spread it on the underside of a flashy piece of metal. Crows love the sparkle and glitter, and they must know it’s bad, but they pick it up anyway.

  My mom’s backyard stretches towards a narrow gully choked with blackberry and old-man’s beard. Right before the ground drops out from underneath you, a gnarled old walnut tree stands guard. The trunk’s as solid as a cement pillar, but covered with head-sized lumps that weep a yellow sap, trapping twigs, dead leaves, and insects in a sticky gruel. The branches are treacherous, thick as regular trees, and jut out at all angles like arthritic fingers. They break off with no warning, crushing the ferns and hosta underneath. The crows love the walnut tree, gathering like impudent black leaves, squawking and shouting in a raucous tumult.

  That day, I watched from mid-yard, hidden behind a sheet of gray weathered plywood I’d cut a viewing slit in. A faded pink-and-green lawn umbrella cast an oval of welcome shade, but kept the air close and hot. Binoculars pressed against my sweaty face. I shifted in the folding chair, thighs constrained by the unyielding metal arm supports, and took a long swallow of tepid cherry Slurpee. The sun burned a hole in the sky like the business end of a welding torch, flashing off the pieces of Mom’s hand mirror I’d shattered and arranged on a low, wide stump.

  It’s not worth doing a project unless you do it right, and I’d placed each piece with an aesthetic eye towards the whole effect. A landing area free of glass on the side of the stump away from me. Shards tilted different directions to send reflected sunlight 360 degrees. A central triangular piece propped so as to give a curious crow a chance for self-examination. The back of each deadly shard was slathered with my peanut butter concoction.

  A dozen big crows descended from the tree, cawing and gabbling. They pranced around the stump, hopping with wings half spread, cocking their heads at the bits of mirror. Their eyes drank in the light, black and shiny as a new coat of paint. An ant crawled up my right calf, and I reached down, slowly, slowly, and ground it against my leg.

  The sky flashed orange and purple, like a years’ worth of sunsets had been dumped catywampus and stirred with a big stick. I looked up, surprised and mystified. Purple and orange. My high school colors. It was afternoon, four o’clock at the absolute latest.

  “Doyle? Doyle, are you outside?” Mom’s high voice cut through the backyard like a mosquito’s whine. “What was that flash of light? I know you’re there.” Crows flew back to the tree, their flapping wings sounding like half-hearted applause.

  I waited to answer, irritated that she’d violated my space. “I’m bird watching,” I finally yelled, twisting in my chair so I could see her. She stood at the sliding glass doors, bleached blond hair cut in an expensively retro style.

  “Doyle, could you come here?” Her fingers tugged at her bathrobe, pulling it tighter around her surgically enhanced figure. “Something’s gone terribly wrong with the power.” She cocked her head at the swirling colors still leaking from the sky. “What’s all that? Northern lights?”

  I sighed, levering myself out of my chair, and letting the binoculars swing free from around my neck. “Don’t be stupid. We’re too far south.” A wave of petulance swept over me. I trudged towards the stump. The afternoon was ruined.

  I drew a tarp over my project, knocking a shard out of alignment in spite of my care. I tucked the corners down, and made my way up the lawn to the house, feeling like I was wading through hot syrup. I stopped at the back patio, peeling my T-shirt away from my belly and flapping the cloth to get a slight cooling effect.

&n
bsp; A frown wrinkled the perfect skin of Mom’s forehead. “If you’d go on a diet, get some exercise, or maybe go out with a nice girl...”

  “You said the power was down?”

  “How’d your interview go?” She flashed her white teeth at me. “For Mr. Perfect SAT scores, the job should be a breeze.”

  I turned, and pressing a finger to close one nostril, blew a viscous stream of yellow snot out my nose. Most of it landed on the wilted geraniums that fringed the patio, and I used my T-shirt to wipe the rest off the side of my face. “What do I need money for?”

  Mom flinched and retreated inside. “Dad will be home soon, and I’ve been planning a pork roast.” Cool air poured from the house.

  “Roger loves his dead pig.”

  “He wants to be your friend.” Mom backed into the kitchen and took an invigorating swig from a tall glass. Ice rattled.

  “Who needs friends?” I followed her inside, leaving the door open behind me.

  Mom pushed several buttons on the stove. “See? Nothing.”

  Détente, then. I flicked a light switch to no effect. “I’ll check the breakers.”

  “Thanks, dear. I knew I could count on you.” Mom kissed the air near my head.

  I rummaged through the utility drawer, found a flashlight, and checked the batteries. The breaker box was on the far side of the garage wall, an obstacle course I was loath to traverse in the dark. “Wait here.”

  The hot, stale air of the garage sucked my remaining energy away. I played the yellow flashlight beam over the cobwebs on a jetski that blocked the breaker box, analyzing my path through the detritus of aborted recreational attempts to “bring our family together.”

  I’d just flipped the metal latch when a voice whispered in my ear. “Hello, Doyle.”

  I jumped, knocking a box of deck screws clattering across the cement floor. A clean-cut man of about forty, dressed in brown slacks and a purple and orange button-down shirt, stood beside me. I spluttered in surprise. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “We arrive today.” He nodded his head. Every hair stayed in place. “All at once. From far away. For everybody.” He smiled, teeth shining in the gloom like a row of mirrors.

  “How’d you get in?” I inched my hand closer to a plumber’s wrench.

  “We bring greetings, gifts for you.” He held out a glowing white egg, folding my hand around its warmth, and pressed the top with his thumb.

  I sucked in my breath. The garage had vanished. I stood on a beach, waves swishing in and swirling around my ankles. The cool water splashed to my knees. My arms felt firm and strong. A bright orange Frisbee sailed over my head and I jumped, catching it one-handed and flicking it back before I landed. My real father laughed and ran into the surf, diving into an oncoming wave after the flying disk.

  “See?” The man’s smile gleamed in the darkness. “You can choose anytime.” He let go of the egg, pressing its smooth heaviness into my hand, before stepping aside and walking away, growing smaller and smaller without ever leaving the garage until he winked out and was finally gone.

  I stumbled backwards, abandoning the breaker box. My heart beat so hard I thought my chest would burst. I pushed the door to the house open, brushing spider webs from my face with the hand that still held the egg.

  My mother stood in the hallway, hair pressed flat on one side of her head. I looked away from her open bathrobe, not wanting to see more. She raised her arm. An egg, twin to mine, glowed at me from her hand. Tears leaked from her eyes. “Sorry, Doyle. I haven’t been the greatest mom.” She pressed the top of her egg and vanished.

  I sit in the lawn chair, hot air leaden and heavy on me. I try to suck more Slurpee through my straw, but I’ve reached bottom, and the rattling sound echoes in my ears. I can’t hear any cars, and the burnt blue sky is empty of con trails. I stroke the smooth outside of the egg in my lap, and then slip it into a pocket. A crow lands on the stump, cocking its black head sideways. Its feathers are mottled, mangy. I press the binoculars hard into my cheekbones, trying to recover the sense of excitement I used to feel watching the birds take my bait.

  I leap up, flailing my arms and knocking the plywood blind over. Crows scatter in a flapping black cloud, cawing their disapproval at me. I lurch to the stump and sweep the shards of glass onto the ground. The tip of one piece cuts my palm, and I bring my hand to my mouth. My blood tastes hot and salty. I hitch my shorts up and turn towards the gully, wondering if any blackberries are ripe.

  About the Author

  Garth lives in Portland, Oregon with his brilliant, gorgeous wife, Katrina, and his three super-genius children: Chris, Kami, and Luken. He’s had jobs ranging from foundry drudge, bell packer, and tarantula minder to .com CEO, and has recently embarked on a guinea pig breeding project. Garth is an avid biker, refusing to remove his feet from the pedals even in the icy rain that mars the Mediterranean climate of the Pacific Northwest only six to nine months a year. This is his first sale to Clarkesworld Magazine.

  Of Dice and Men: Modern Fantasists and the Influence of Role Playing Games

  Justin Howe and Jason S. Ridler

  “I’d like to throttle Frodo.” —Gary Gygax (1938-2008)

  Take a group of socially awkward souls, a few gallons of Mountain Dew, a bag full of funny-looking dice, some sheets of paper, a rulebook or ten, add an argument about vorpal blades and Umber Hulks, and you have a scene that likely strikes a chord with most people involved in speculative fiction.

  Since 1974, when Dave Arneson and the late Gary Gygax created Dungeons and Dragons (D&D), role-playing games (RPGs) have had an impact on genre fiction for good, ill, and geeky. Some fantasy fiction magazine guidelines even warn writers against sending “your most recent D&D adventure in prose.” Yet the gap between role-playing games and speculative fiction is narrow, and many similarities exist between the art of crafting fantastic fiction and the imaginative play of RPGs.

  We decided to ask some modern fantasists about their experiences and thoughts regarding the games they played and their vocation of letters. We think Mr. Gygax would be pleased with their responses.

  Jeff VanderMeer, two-time World Fantasy Award-winning author of Shriek: An Afterword, began playing D&D in grammar school. “I was a Dungeon Master, but I was soon putting too much time into details that had nothing to do with the games. Basically, I was world-building as background to stories and novels.” While enjoying the game, VanderMeer felt that it took away from his writing time. “I enjoyed the adventures, but it was a bit of a relief to go on to fiction — that’s really where I wanted to be, in terms of creating things. Ultimately, playing D&D seemed like a waste of time. It wasn’t, but it seemed like I could be creating something of my own and not just playing around in someone else’s universe. One day I looked up and D&D was in the past and I was a fiction writer.”

  Paul Witcover would agree with VanderMeer on gaming being a time-suck from writing, but gaming was also an inspiration. Witcover’s novel Tumbling After features a D&D-type game and explores “the philosophical and existential implications of gaming.” The novel’s twin protagonists, Jack and Jill Doone, share an almost telepathic connection. While vacationing with their family on the Delaware shore, they become play-testers for their Uncle Jimmy’s role-playing game, Mutes & Norms. After a near death experience, Jack finds himself developing unique powers. Soon his story and that of his sister becomes entwined with that of Kestrel, a mutant from the future whose world resembles that of their Uncle’s game.

  “If the act of imagining something could cause that imaginary thing to exist in some alternate universe,” Witcover wondered, “then there is a moral dimension to imagination and creation, a responsibility. We are responsible for what we imagine, what we create.” However, he went on to caution writers by saying: “Gaming and game designs are analogous to certain elements in the writing process, and can thus be helpful for writers, but gaming is not writing. Too many writers approach writing as if it were simply game design. Maybe I’m old-
fashioned, but such books leave me cold. I would rather play than read them.”

  On the other hand, Tim Pratt, multiple award-nominated author of Blood Engines, enjoyed absorbing the fantasy of RPG source books alongside other reading habits. “I read Stephen King novels and Ravenloft sourcebooks, I read Deities and Demigods and Charles de Lint stories, I read Unearthed Arcana and X-Men comics. I didn’t make much of a distinction, and often read source material for games I never even played — and in some of my early teen stories I flat-out stole characters and monsters from D&D sources (which is only fair, since they stole many of the same characters and monsters from genre fiction originally — circle of life!).”

  This amalgam of fiction and source books not only fueled his imagination but gave him early experience in storytelling techniques. “I’ve been accused of crossing genres a lot in my work, and I think I got that from RPGs, largely... RIFTs combined fairy tales and robots and mythological monsters and aliens, and that kind of freedom and weirdness always rubbed me the right way. Creating RPGs helped me become comfortable with doing big, crazy, wild things — which is a definite advantage in writing fantasy fiction.” Pratt’s writing would attest to that. His collections Little Gods and Hart & Boot feature stories that play fast and loose with elements of the fantastic and the mundane. Punks, magic, detectives, hell-hounds, and ghosts abound in stories set more often than not in a mimetic world. However, the benefit was not entirely in subject matter. Pratt mentioned another skill learned through gaming. “It also helped me learn to improvise on the fly, and, strangely enough, taught me that plot derives from character — you can create a setting and plan an adventure, but the people playing their characters will make their own unexpected decisions, and push the game in new directions.” Pratt also had to put games down to devout time to his writing career.