The door was kicked open and three cops with shotguns piled in, levelling gleaming barrels.
Stuart, in the throes of a change he couldn’t understand, was still going to die. He would die before he had achieved his potential.
“It’s him,” a cop said. “Finn, the Brit.”
They paraded him, half-captive and half-trophy. An officer made a comprehensive report into a wafer-phone.
The Jungle was tamed. The dead had been disappeared. Now, things were being cleaned up. Teams shifted the burned-out cars, searched for survivors and culprits, even picked up empty shell-cases like litter collectors.
Stuart was still too high on the jolt he had taken to be tired. Last night, several times, he’d thought he was a changed man. Now, he truly was. He remembered Diego’s voice, at once urgent and discursive, and the corrido that had been an education and a preparation.
Small businessmen sighed outside smoking wrecks. Crying mothers searched for missing sons. Floral tributes lay on corpse outlines. Cops stood around with paper cups of coffee. Newsteams scavenged for interviews with firefighters and cops.
Everyone would want Stuart’s story.
He was hustled to an intersection where a tangle of newsies pointed cameras and mikes at a knot of officials. There were uniform cops, faces grimed from the action, and serious, smiling dignitaries. He recognized Chief Ryu and Mayor Jute.
Their faces glowed like moonlight.
The gleam made Stuart sick. He clenched fists, and felt his sharp, strong nails breaking his skin. His forefingers were lengthening, strange aches in their knuckles. The pain was not unpleasant, and made him aware of the growing reconfigurations of his nerves and senses.
The crowds parted and Stuart was welcomed. Hundreds of questions were asked, but a suit Stuart had never seen explained “Mr Finn is exhausted from his grueling ordeal but will answer all serious inquiries later.”
Stuart knew he’d rate a debriefing before he was allowed to say anything.
Chief Ryu and the Mayor competed to shake his hand. The Mayor, a head taller, won. Dazed by the almost-opaque wasp’s nest of light around her head, Stuart accepted Mayor Jute’s grip.
He left her palm bloody, and smiled.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized.
“This atrocious situation will not be repeated,” Chief Ryu insisted to the media. “When the moon comes out tonight, things will be different.”
“That’s true,” Stuart said. Reaching out as if dazed, he wiped his bloody hand on the hood of a police armoured car. It was warm in August sunlight.
Diego Vega had talked most of the day away, invisibly dying all the while, something inside him gathering to make a leap. Now, evening was rushing on, and night was creeping after.
As Stuart’s smile stretched, he ran his tongue over his teeth and felt an unfamiliar sharpness.
“Regardless of the bleats of the bleeding heart bunch,” Ryu said, arms extended, “there is Evil all around us. And Evil must be suppressed. Wrong-doers must be punished.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Stuart said.
He looked at the car he had smeared. His mark was drying. His mark in blood.
Zig-zag-zig.
ESTHER M. FRIESNER
Lovers
ESTHER M. FRIESNER lives in Connecticut with her husband, two children, two rambunctious cats, and a fluctuating population of hamsters. She was educated at Vassar College, where she completed BAs in both Spanish and Drama.
She has published more than twenty novels so far, the most recent titles being The Sherwood Game and The Psalms of Herod, and with Martin H. Greenberg she is co-editor of the anthologies Alien Pregnant by Elvis, Chicks in Chainmail and Blood Muse. Her own short fiction and poetry have appeared in such magazines as Asimov’s, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Aboriginal SF, Pulphouse, Amazing and Fantasy Book, as well as numerous anthologies.
She won the Romantic Times Award for Best New Fantasy Writer in 1986 and the Skylark Award in 1994. Her short story, “All Vows”, took second place in the Asimov’s SF Magazine Readers’ Poll for 1993 and was a finalist for the Nebula in 1994. Her Star Trek: Deep Space Nine novel, Warchild, made the USA Today bestseller list.
The poem that follows is based on an old American folktale which may or may not have European roots . . .
DOWN BY THE RIVERBANK, under the willows,
Far from the sound of the guns’ angry roar,
Girl to whom blue and grey are merely colours
Waits for her sweetheart who went off to war.
Jamey, she writes, and her eyes fill with longing.
Jamey, my dearest, I’m yours ever true.
Love me or leave me, my heart’s yours forever.
Take it or break it, I give it to you.
Out in the battlefield, under the cannons,
Wrapped in a shell made of other men’s screams,
Lad to whom love was once merely a trifle
Buries his honours in pale-petaled dreams.
Safe for a moment, he takes out her letter,
Presses his lips to the words smudged with tears.
“Agnes,” he sighs, and the name becomes blessing,
Strong enough magic to hold back his fears.
Down by the riverbank, under the willows,
Months stretch out dreary and years straggle grey.
Girl for whom letters won’t satisfy loving
Meets with another at dusk of the day.
Jamey, she writes, and her lips are set firmly.
Jamey, my friend you forever will be.
I mistook liking for love, but no longer.
I’ve found a true love. Be happy for me!
Huddled in shelter beneath the tent’s canvas,
Hands that are claws clutching only at pain,
Man who once loved a girl, loved her and lost her,
Knows that the dream of his heart was in vain.
“Agnes,” he grits, and the dying men tremble,
Hearing the name as a curse straight from Hell.
Hands burnt to bone grasp at shadows and phantoms,
Losing rage only to lose breath as well.
Under a sky of peace washed with war’s ending,
Facing a future of promises grand,
Girl to whom promises are only trifles
Gives her new lover her heart and her hand.
Oh, hear the revelry! See the rejoicing!
Souls that are weary of war’s dread alarms
Cling to the sight of this brave new beginning,
Joy with the groom and the bride in his arms.
How his wealth dazzles them! This man has prospered,
Building a fortune while other men died.
Coin is the grail that their fickle eyes follow,
Coin that has bought him so bonny a bride.
See them all dancing now, hark to the fiddler,
Hear how the merry notes soar, dip and swell
’Til the bride’s father jokes, “Son, you’re a wonder!
Music this sweet could lure demons from Hell!”
Silence. What is it? The guests’ faces ashen
Stare, like the fiddler, whose arm’s turned to stone.
What is the dark shape that slumps in the doorway?
Whose is that face, shorn of flesh, stripped to bone?
Agnes . . . A whisper like nails across iron.
Agnes . . . A serpent’s hiss, promise and threat.
How the bride clings to her groom in her terror,
Forced to remember, insane to forget!
Now on the dancing floor, under the lanterns
Bobbing above with their fool’s colours gay,
Hand that is bone reaches out in a summons
No one can countermand, none can gainsay.
See how the guests turn to ice at his gesture!
Frozen in place by both magic and fear.
Agnes alone feels her breath lurch within her,
Moves ’cross the flo
or to her dread cavalier.
“What do you want?” The words fall in the silence,
Rasped from a throat choked and burning with tears.
Only what’s mine, only that which you promised.
Words from a lipless mouth ring in her ears.
Tattered and muddy, the shreds of a letter
Tremble like leaves in an autumn-bared tree
Clutched in white fingerbones half greened with grave mould.
Read here the promise you once made to me.
Part of her mind tells her she’s only dreaming,
Holds tight the ruse that keeps madness at bay.
As in a trance, Agnes takes back her letter,
Under the gaze of the phantom in grey.
Read. She cannot. The words shudder and scatter.
Read. She cannot. The page looks like a shroud.
Read! Now the letters are Hades’ own fires
Shrieking their tale of betrayal aloud.
“Promise?” A word that’s the ghost of an echo.
“But – but it was just a silly girl’s vow.”
It was the hope that you gave me for living.
Living or dying, I’ve come for you now.
Bones at her breast, Agnes screams for salvation,
Praying for mercy, too little, too late.
Mercy? Red flames in the skull wink derision.
All that she reads in those sockets is hate.
But: What is mercy? The question confounds her,
A sliver, a splinter her drowning hopes grasp.
“Jamey, if you ever loved me, now spare me.
“Leave God to judge me!” It comes as a gasp.
Loved you? How dreadful, the sound of his laughter!
Loved you? Oh body and soul, can’t you tell?
Loved you so much that my soul made a promise,
Laid down a deal with the masters of Hell!
“What was the bargain?” She feels her heart quiver,
Beating like birdwings to hear his reply.
Let me return, let me find you still love me,
Willing I’ll let you live, willingly die;
Die the true death and depart, now forever;
Go to my grave never more to appear;
Leave you to live out the days with your lover;
Leave you to live with my blessing, my dear.
Agnes’ eyes shine: This is more than she hoped for!
Soon she’ll rejoice in her soft bridal bed.
What is the harm to say words without meaning,
Purchase her life with a lie to the dead?
What is the harm? Life is all for the living!
Who is this phantom? A fool clad in bone.
Only one lie, and she’ll have her fine lover.
Only one lie and he’ll leave her alone.
“Jamey . . .” She smiles, and the words drip with honey.
“Jamey, my dearest, I’m yours ever true.
“Love me or leave me, my heart’s yours forever.
“Take it or break it, I give it to you.”
Lips that are no lips still seem to curve slightly.
As you have spoken it, so shall it be.
God, who shall judge you, shall read the truth rightly.
Hell, that shall have me, the verdict shall see.
Darkness now covers the moon and her maidens,
Leven-light flashes with sulfurous smell.
How the bride screams as the heavens cry Judgement!
Cold to the core with the verdict of Hell.
Afterwards, wedding guests wake from their slumbers,
Blinking like owls, asking, “Where is the bride?”
Lone where he stands is her husband, dumbfounded,
Seeking in vain for her place at his side.
Down by the riverbank, under the willows,
Lulled by the sound of the deep-dreaming water,
Father with lantern raised high against shadows
Gazes at last on the face of his daughter.
Tranquil her face, smooth and white as the snowdrift,
Eyes seeming shut in the kingdom of sleep.
Bright as a blossom the stain on her bosom,
Wide as a man’s hand the wound oh so deep!
Down by the riverbank, under the willows,
True lovers rendezvous, false lovers part,
Man who is only bone wrapped in grey shroudings
Holds now forever his lost lover’s heart.
STEPHEN JONES & KIM NEWMAN
Necrology: 1994
AMONG THOSE WHO have helped significantly to shape the horror, science fiction and fantasy genres, a number of major writers, artists, performers and technicians died in 1994, including the two old friends to whom this year’s volume of The Best New Horror is respectfully dedicated . . .
AUTHORS/ARTISTS
Frank Belknap Long, the last survivor of the original Lovecraft circle, died of pneumonia on 9 January, aged 90. A poet and writer of science fiction and supernatural fiction since the 1920s, his first books were the small press poetry collections The Man from Genoa and Other Poems (1926) and The Goblin Tower (1935). He contributed to many of the early pulp magazines, including Weird Tales, Astounding and Unknown, and during the 1940s wrote for such comic books as Captain Marvel and The Green Lantern. Over the next three decades he wrote a number of SF adventure novels and, under the pseudonym Lyda Belknap Long, was the author of several Gothic romances. In 1975, Arkham House published his memoir Howard Phillips Lovecraft: Dreamer on the Night Side. A winner of the First Fandom Hall of Fame Award, The World Fantasy Convention Life Achievement Award, and the Horror Writers of America Stoker Award for Life Achievement, his best short fiction is collected in The Hounds of Tindalos, The Horror from the Hills, The Rim of the Unknown and The Early Long. His body was finally interred in the family plot at New York’s Woodlawn Cemetery in November, after Necronomicon Press raised the $2,000 needed. His widow, Lyda Arco Long, died about a week after his burial.
Raymond F. Jones died in January of pancreatic cancer. He was in his late 70s. A regular in Astounding during the 1940s and ’50s, he developed his series of “Peace Engineer” stories from Thrilling Wonder Stories into his most famous novel, This Island Earth (filmed in 1955). His other books include a number of juvenile SF novels and the collections The Toymaker and The Non-Statistical Man.
French author Pierre Boulle, whose books include Planet of the Apes and The Bridge Over the River Kwai, died on 30 January. He was 81. He was an officer of the Legion of Honour, and received the Croix de Guerre and the Medal of the Resistance for his service in the Second World War.
Comics artist Jack Kirby (Jacob Kurtzberg) died of heart failure following a short illness on 6 February, aged 76. He began his career in the Fleischer animation studio, working on Betty Boop and Popeye cartoons. In the early 1940s, with partner Joe Simon, he created Captain America, and he eventually moved to Marvel Comics in 1958, where he teamed up with Stan Lee. During the 1960s, the duo created the revolutionary “Marvel Age of Comics” with such characters as the Fantastic Four, the Incredible Hulk, the Mighty Thor and the Silver Surfer.
Robert Shea, co-author of the cult Illuminatus! trilogy with Robert Anton Wilson, died of colon cancer on 10 March, aged 61. His solo books include The Saracens: Land of the Infidel and The Holy War (both in the Illuminatus! series), plus a number of historical novels with fantasy elements. At the time of his death, he was working on a second Illuminatus! trilogy with Wilson.
Verna Smith Trestrail, the daughter of science fiction writer E.E. “Doc” Smith, died in her sleep from a massive heart attack on 13 March. She was 73.
Songwriter/performer Donald Swann, best known for his musical comedy collaborations with Michael Flanders, died of cancer on 23 March, aged 70. His opera Perelandra was based on the SF novel by C.S. Lewis, and he also composed the song cycle The Road Goes Ever On in collaboration with J.R.R. Tolkien.
Margaret Millar (Margaret Sturm), the proli
fic author of such psychological thrillers as The Invisible Worm, How Like an Angel, Stranger in My Grave and Beast in View, died from a heart attack on 26 March, aged 79. She was married to mystery novelist Ross Macdonald.
Romanian novelist and playright Eugène Ionesco died in Paris on 28 March, aged 81. His most famous work is the surreal play Rhinoceros (filmed in 1974).
Science Fiction pulp writer Raymond Z. (Zinke) Gallun died on 2 April from a heart attack, aged 83. In November 1929, at the age of 19, his first two stories were published simultaneously in Hugo Gernsback’s Air Wonder Stories and Science Wonder Stories. He sold nearly 100 stories to Astounding Stories during the 1930s, and his novels include Passport to Jupiter, People Minus X, The Planet Strappers, The Eden Cycle, Skyclimber and Bioblast! In his will he set aside $50,000 to be divided among the first human crew to land on Mars.
Illustrator Keith Watson, who worked with Frank Hampson on the classic Dan Dare comic strip in The Eagle during the 1950s, died on 9 April after being diagnosed with terminal cancer. He was 59.
Conservative political theorist Russell (Amos) Kirk died of congestive heart failure on 29 April, aged 75. In 1976 he won the World Fantasy Award for his novella “There’s a Long, Long Trail A-Winding”. The author of more than twenty-five books, his novels include Old House of Fear and Lord of the Hollow Dark, and his ghost and weird fiction is collected in The Surly Sullen Bell, The Princess of All Lands and Watchers at the Strait Gate.
Don Thompson who, with his wife Maggie, co-edited The Comic Buyers Guide, died on 23 May from congestive heart failure. He was 58, and had also co-edited All in Color for a Dime and The Comic-Book Book with Richard Lupoff.
Controversial British playwright Dennis Potter died of cancer on 7 June, aged 59. His wife Margaret died of breast cancer a week earlier. Potter’s various works for TV and the movies include Brimstone and Treacle, Pennies from Heaven, The Singing Detective, Midnight Movie and Cold Lazurus.
Belgian surrealist painter Paul Delvaux died on 20 July, aged 96. His “Young Girl in Front of a Temple” (1946) was sold for $1 million forty years after it was painted.
British thriller writer Robin Cook (Derek Raymond) died on 30 July from cancer, aged 63. He was also the author of the near-future dystopian SF novel A State of Denmark, or A Warning to the Incurious.
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