The Darrell Schweitzer Megapack: 25 Weird Tales of Fantasy and Horror

by Darrell Schweitzer

  It was then that I awoke to the touch of a gentle hand on my shoulder. I sat up abruptly, with a startled grunt, and found a woman standing over me. She was probably in her early twenties, and she wore blue jeans and an army jacket and a stocking cap. A knapsack hung from one shoulder.

  She was a traveler, I thought. Yes, someone who travels far, who travels without ever stopping to rest, or to find a home. I could tell all that about her, somehow, as if I were developing a new sense.

  “Perhaps I can help you,” she said, and as we beheld one another, we both understood, she why I was there, and I why she had selected me among all the shabby denizens of the train station benches.

  She had done so because I was a traveler too, and she had that same special sense, which enabled her to recognize one of her own kind.

  “Come,” she said. I rose and followed her, out into the enormous main hall of the station.

  It took me a moment to recognize what was different: there had been a war memorial inside the station, a colossal bronze statue of a winged Victory lifting a fallen soldier out of flames. That was how I remembered it. Now the figure was a charging World War I doughboy.

  Outside, on the bridge over the river, the old man was waiting for us. He, too, knew me for what I was, and I knew him.

  “There are not many like us yet,” he said, “but we are like you, all of us. Like you, we move on. We never stay in one place very long.”

  * * * *

  We are a family, the young woman and the old man, and the others I met in a cellar, where our band gathers at certain times, when each of us knows deep inside that it is time for another meeting. Sometimes the meeting place is not a cellar at all, but an inn or a courtyard or a field or even the deck of a ship at sea. But always the faces are there, twenty or so familiar to me, and always one or two new ones.

  My eyes are newly opened. I see for the first time.

  The woman’s name is Mara. She reached into her pocket once and showed me a Woodrow Wilson dime. The old man is Jason, and he is eighty-two and our chieftain and priest and rememberer. It is he who keeps and reads aloud from the book of our lives, in which is written all that can be recalled and preserved. I lived in Philadelphia. Jason was born in New Orleans long ago, shortly after the triumphal entry of the emperor Napoleon IV.

  We are alone, but we are together, and the true things about us are written and remembered. The rest drifts away like mist rising from a perfectly still lake.

  Remember. That’s all we have. Cling together and remember.

  A LANTERN MAKER OF AI HANLO

  In Zabortash, all men are magicians. The air is so thick with magic that you can catch a spirit or a spell with a net on any street corner. Women wear their hair short, lest they find ghosts tangled in it. Still, they find them in their hats.

  In Zabortash, even the lantern makers work wonders: the present moon is not the first to shine upon the Earth. The old one went out when the Goddess died, but a Zabortashi lantern maker consulted with a magus, and was directed to that hidden stairway which leads into the sky. He hung his finest lantern in the darkness, in the night, that the stars might not grow over-proud of their brilliance, that men might know the duration of the month again.

  In Zabortash, a land far to the south and filled with sluggish rivers, with swamps and steaming jungles, the air is so thick that in the darkness, in the night, the face of the moon ripples.

  So it is said.

  In Zabortash, further, for all that the folk are magicians, there are men who love their wives, who look on their children with pride when they are young and wistfulness when they are old enough to remind the parents what they were like in their youth.

  In Zabortash, people know beauty and feel joy, and know and feel also hurt and hunger and sorrow.

  So it is said.

  * * * *

  In the time of the death of the Goddess, there dwelt a lantern maker in Zabortash named Talnaco Ramat who was skilled in his art. He was a young man, and wholly in love with the maiden Mirithemne, but she would not have him, being of a higher caste than he, and he would not be satisfied with any other. Therefore he labored long on a lantern of special design. He cut intricate shapes into the shell of it, making holes for light to shine through. The lantern was like a metal box, as tall as an outstretched hand, rectangular with a domed top and a metal ring hinged onto the dome to serve as a handle. At the outset, it was like any other lantern Talnaco Ramat might make, but he inlaid it with precious stones and plated it with gold. He carved schools of fish into it, swimming around the base, and those winged lizards called kwisi, which hop from branch to branch and are supposed to bring constancy and long life. He carved hills and villages, the winding river which is called Endless, and he fashioned the top half of the lantern into the shape of Ai Hanlo, the holiest of cities and center of the world, where the bones of the Goddess lie in blessed splendor. That city is built on a mountain; at the summit stands a golden dome, beneath which the Guardian of the Bones of the Goddess holds court. In this likeness was the dome of the lantern made, complete with tiny windows and ringed with battlements and towers.

  Finally, Talnaco Ramat carved his own image and that of his beloved into the metal. He depicted the two of them walking hand in hand along the bank of the river, going up to the city.

  Then he lit a candle inside the lantern and carried it into a darkened loft. Light streamed through the carven metal, and all his creations were outlined by it. As he watched, the river seemed to flow. The images were projected onto the walls and roof of the loft. Then he was not in the loft at all, but beside Mirithemne. All around them lizards hopped from branch to branch, wings buzzing, fleshy tails dangling.

  Mirithemne smiled. The day was bright and dear. Rivermen sang as they poled a barge along. A great drontha, a warship of the Holy Empire, crawled against the current like a centipede on its banks of oars.

  They came to the holy city, entering through the Sunrise Gate, mingling with the crowds. They passed through the square where mendicants waited below the wall that shut them out of the Guardian’s palace. Once a week, he explained to Mirithemne, priests came to the top of that wall, and, holding aloft reliquaries containing splinters of the bones of the Goddess, blessed the people below. Miraculous cures still happened, but they were not as common as they had once been. The power of the Goddess was fading.

  He led Mirithemne to a house at the end of a narrow lane. A wooden sign with a lantern painted on it hung over the door. He got out a key.

  “This will be our home,” he said.

  He unlocked the door and went in, only to find himself alone in the loft, with the candle of the lantern sputtering out.

  He was satisfied. The lantern was adequate.

  That night, in the darkness, after the moon had set, he spoke a spell into the open door of the lantern and it filled with a light softer than candle flame, with vapors excited by the ardor of his love.

  He climbed onto the roof of his shop and set the lantern down on a ledge. He spoke the name of his beloved three times, and he spoke other words. Then he gently pushed the lantern off the ledge.

  It hung suspended in air, and drifted off like a lazy, glowing moth on a gentle breeze. He sat for a time, watching it disappear over the rooftops of the town.

  But the next morning he found the lantern on his doorstep. Its light had gone out and its shell was tarnished. He knew then for a certainty that his suit was hopeless. A sorrow lodged in his heart, which never left him.

  The sign was very clear.

  * * * *

  So Talnaco Ramat transported himself to Ai Hanlo by some means which comes as easily to a Zaborman as breathing. The great distance was traversed, the tangled way made straight, dangers avoided, and the lantern maker come to the Sunrise Gate, dragging a two-wheeled cart filled with his belongings.

  For a moment he had the idea that he would become rich here in Ai Hanlo, since the folk there had surely never seen anything as wondrous as a finely-wrought
Zabortashi lantern.

  He was wrong. There was no novelty. In fact, there are so many magicians in Zabortash that many of them go abroad in search of work. A number of them had settled in Ai Hanlo. Some of those made lanterns. He had to join a guild and pay a share of his earnings, but it was a comfort to be surrounded by men and women who spoke his own language. They found a place for him to live and work.

  It was a house at the end of a narrow lane, with a wooden sign over the door.

  He prospered in his new life and seemed to forget his old. In time he married a woman of the city called Kachelle, and she bore him three daughters, and, later, a son, whom he named Venda. His life passed peacefully as his family grew. He made lanterns of great complexity and beauty and sold them to nobles of the city, even to the Guardian himself. For all that, he was never too proud to turn out a simple oil lamp, or even to mold candlesticks.

  So his years were filled. Then his daughters married, and went to live with their husbands. Later, his wife Kachelle died, and he had only Venda, his youngest, for company. He taught the boy every facet of his craft, all the secrets of magic that he knew. He knew only little spells and shallow magic—he was not a magus who could make the world tremble at his gaze—but to Venda it was impressive.

  In time Venda married, and brought his wife to live with his father. As his sisters had done before him, he made his father a grandfather, and the house was filled with the shouts of children, and the sounds of their running feet, not to mention the clangor and crash when one of them blundered into a pile of lanterns.

  All these children were of the city. They spoke without the accent of Zabortash, as did Venda’s wife, who never seemed quite convinced that Zabortash was a real place, and that the stories about it were other than fables. Venda himself had never been there.

  So Talnaco Ramat began to feel alone, a stranger once more in a strange country. For the first time in decades he began to long for his homeland and the places of his youth.

  One day, while rummaging in the loft above his shop, he found something wrapped in an oily rag. He unwrapped it, and beheld the tarnished lantern he had made for Mirithemne, so long ago. He had forgotten about it all these years. Now memories flooded back.

  Once again he saw himself on the rooftop, watching the lantern float above the town. He remembered the songs he had composed for Mirithemne, and the letters he had labored over with uncertain penmanship. He remembered the great fairs of Zabortash, where grand magi and lesser magicians and craftsmen of all sorts came together to conjoin their magic, that the Earth might continue to follow the sun through the universe, now that the Goddess was dead, and not be lost in the darkness, in the night. There were wares displayed, feats performed. The high born women of the land were in attendance, among them Mirithemne. He smiled at her, and waved, and even spoke with her when she mingled with the crowd of common folk. She smiled back—was it out of politeness, or something more?

  Talnaco Ramat remembered what it is like to be young.

  Therefore he took up the lantern and carefully polished it, until it shone as it had on the day of its completion. He oiled the hinges of its door.

  He waited for evening with barely controlled excitement, speaking to his son and his son’s family about trifling things, his mind far removed in time and space.

  High up Ai Hanlo Mountain, a soldier blew a curving horn that hung from an arch, announcing that the sun had set.

  Talnaco Ramat went out into the cool evening air, bearing the lantern. The dome of the Guardian’s palace still glowed with the last light of day. He came to a courtyard he knew, which was filled with trees. It was the autumn of the year, and dead leaves rustled underfoot. He sat down on a stone bench and looked up at the dome, waiting for it to grow dark.

  He was alone. The night was quiet, but for occasional distant noises of the city.

  When the time came, he did not hesitate. He lit a candle and placed it inside the lantern with a steady hand, speaking as he did the most powerful spells he knew. The candle burned more brightly than it would have with mere flame. He closed the door of the lantern and at once the intricate carvings in the metal shell were outlined in fire. He set the lantern down on the bench and knelt before it, entranced by the shifting shapes. The glowing fishes swam in the air before his eyes. The Endless River flowed around him, its fiery waters splashing over the walls of the courtyard, swirling between the tree trunks. Everywhere, spirits of the air were suddenly visible in the magic light: glowing, stick-legged things wading in the earth like impossible herons; an immense serpent beneath the ground, engirdling the world, its gold and silver scales polished bright as mirrors. He saw turning at the world’s core that great rose, half of fire, half of darkness, where dwell the Bright and Dark Powers, the fragments of the godhead.

  He turned away from all this, drawing his awareness back into himself, into the courtyard. He concentrated on the lantern before him. It seemed to float in the air. The light grew brighter, brighter; the door opened and he was blinded.

  When he could see again, he was by the side of the river called Endless, at a spot he knew well. Mirithemne was with him. He could not see her; but he sensed her presence. She was just beyond the periphery of his vision. He spoke; she did not answer; but he knew she heard.

  He was still kneeling, as he had been in the courtyard. He got to his feet, expecting every joint to ache with the strain, but he found that, although he still wore the clothes he had as an old man, and his tools were still in the pockets of his apron, he was young again. He got up easily. He looked at his beard and saw that it was no longer white.

  When he walked, he heard Mirithemne’s footsteps beside him, but when he turned, she was not there. He continued walking. The sky was clear and the day warm.

  He came to the mouth of a cave in the side of a hill which sloped down to meet the river. From within he heard a voice crying, “I am burning!”

  He rushed inside and there found an anchorite writhing on the floor of the cave. The man was dressed in rags. His beard and hair were matted with dirt. His skin was brown and wrinkled, like old leather, but there was no fire.

  “I prayed for it. Long I prayed for it. Now I have it, and I am burning,” the anchorite said, his voice frenzied.

  “What have you prayed for? You don’t seem to be burning,” Talnaco said, puzzled. He turned to Mirithemne, sure that she would understand, but she was not there.

  “I prayed,” said the anchorite. “I prayed that a fragment of the Goddess would settle on me, that I might be made as holy as she. Oh, it was an arrogant wish! But now it is fulfilled, and I am burning with the spirit. Soon I will be completely consumed.”

  Before the lantern maker could reply, the other began to babble. He prophesied in tongues, but there was no one to understand his prophecies, except perhaps Mirithemne. He spoke the thousand names of the Goddess, first the common ones, then those known to sages, then those which only the greatest of Guardians may apprehend but dimly, and finally all the rest, which never before had been spoken.

  Talnaco waited patiently while he was doing all this.

  At last the holy man sat up, and stared at the lantern maker in a distracted way.

  “You too are burning,” he said.

  “No, it’s not like that at all.”

  The holy man fell down once more, writhing. He babbled. Then he was calm and lay with his eyes closed, as if he were sleeping. Slowly, with apparent deliberation, he spoke the name of Mirithemne.

  Talnaco fled. For a time he lost his way in a dark forest, but still his beloved seemed to be with him. For days and nights he travelled, resting little. When he finally emerged from the forest, the river was before him again. Once more an imperial drontha crawled against the current on the legs of its oars. Once more the rivermen sang as they poled their barge.

  He made his way to Ai Hanlo, entering through the Sunrise Gate. He followed streets he knew until he stood before his own door. The key was in the pocket of his apron. He went
inside. The place was filled with dust and cobwebs. At once he set to work cleaning it, making it ready for the practice of his craft.

  So again a young Zabortashi lantern maker established himself in Ai Hanlo, He labored long and hard, selling excellent lanterns to the best clients. In each lantern, somewhere among the intricacies of the design, he carved the image of Mirithemne, all the while sensing her nearness. She became more evident every day. He found his bed rumpled when he had not slept in it. His cupboard was left open when he had closed it. He heard footsteps. He heard shutters and doors opening and closing, but when he went to see, no one was there.

  One day he found a woman’s comb on a chair. There were long, yellow hairs in it. Mirithemne’s hair was like that. Then he found her mirror, and when he looked into it, he saw someone staring over his shoulder.

  He turned. The carpet on the floor moved slightly, but he was alone in the room.

  At last, as he sat in his workshop in the upper room of the house, just below the loft, there were gentle footsteps on the stairway outside, followed by a light rapping at the door.

  “Enter,” he said.

  The door opened slowly, but no one entered: He got up, and found Mirithemne’s lantern on the threshold.

  The sign was very clear.

  Therefore Talnaco Ramat bore the lantern into a courtyard he knew. It was sunset, in the autumn of the year. High above the city, a soldier blew on a curving horn. The light of the golden dome faded, while the light of the lantern grew brighter.

  The door of the lantern opened. His eyes were dazzled. He fell to his knees.

  And when he could see again, Mirithemne stood before him, holding the lantern, as graceful and as beautiful as he had remembered her. She smiled at him, and, reaching down, took his hand in hers and lifted him to his feet. Then she danced to music he could not hear, her long dress whirling, the leaves whirling, the golden shapes projected by the lantern whirling over the walls, the trees, the ground, over Talnaco himself as she danced, the lantern in hand.