Jim Baen's Universe Volume 1 Number 3 October 2006

by Baen Publishing

  The Lord's son, the groom, had a round face. Like the Buddha. Like a perfect orange, or an upside-down pear, or a pregnant pig's tight-stretched belly. Looking at him turned my stomach, but that was to be expected. I was not religious, and I never liked pears. He looked at me once during the dinner and smiled. His teeth gleamed like knives. He was his father's son.

  After the wedding feast, those guests still able to walk followed me from the great hall to a smaller room. They sat on their pillows, elbows almost touching there were so many of them, and their eyes did not have the grace to look elsewhere. I closed my own to shut them out, and I started to sing--not a song of words, but the kind of song only a vasya can sing. A song of poetry, of life. Magic. A pale imitation of all three, but then, everything is.

  I began with the blackbird. The nightingale is more renowned, but only because of an unfortunate poem by a tone-deaf poet. It is the blackbird that I find sings most beautifully, most forcefully, most perfectly. Someone in the audience sighed at the sound, careful to let his neighbors know how pleased he was at the choice. I almost ended the concert and yelled at them all.

  But I did not. I was a singer. I continued to sing. I added cicadas, and someone gasped, perhaps in honest surprise, in honest praise, and I glowed at the thought until I remembered that no one is honest in the house of the rich. I shoved thoughts of past mistakes aside, and I made the room pulse with sound instead, as

  the blackbird chases off a hawk. It rains, a small drizzle, the sound barely audible above the chirping of the cicadas, the crunch of a rabbit eating. A squirrel runs, chatters, leaps. Night comes; the sound of shade creeping audibly over the audience is itself a minor masterpiece. A peasant household makes dinner. Riceballs, soup, stir-fry vegetables. The sound of the scent of garlic and spices fill the air. The children get in a fight. Father yells at them—"Ayah, ayah! Hayah dah-doh! Ayah, ayah!" In his anger there is love.

  One child whimpers. His sister comforts him. "Sheh sheh, hassuh hoh," she murmers. "Sheh sheh." Mother serves the food. The child stops his crying.

  As the last dish is finished, the wooden bowl scraped clean by the hungry child, the dog is given a bowl of rice. The mother and father make love. The child stares into the fire as his sister listens.

  They drift off to sleep, and one by one the sounds fade until it is just the cicadas and the blackbird, then just the blackbird singing through the night, under a lantern left hanging in the branches of a solemn old tree, then nothing is left but the breath of life and the slow beating of the heart of the universe, then even those are gone as the inevitable silence of eternity fills the hall.

  The concert finished, I opened my eyes and was disappointed to see the audience still there. Sometimes I wished I could truly transport them somewhere else with my music; them or myself, either would do.

  The nobles waited the proper amount of time, then applauded politely. The host bowed towards the stage, as was tradition, and no doubt would have a parting gift suitable for the Empress herself come the morning and our departure. He had to. It was--tradition.

  I hunched my shoulders and smoldered until the last had turned their backs and left, as deaf as ever, leaving me in the room all alone except for the boy who sat with his eyes closed, rocking back and forth on his seat in time to the memory of the beating of the heart of the universe. "Meh," he said, after a moment. "Meh." With each rock forward, he repeated it. Softly, under his breath, "Meh."

  It was close. It was not quite the heart of the universe. But still it was a heart, of that I was sure. I left him in the room to his meditation, and went out to the courtyard for my own. The last of the guests were gone. The servants were busy with other tasks, or asleep themselves. I was alone. Happy for the first time in weeks, I closed my eyes and listened to another concert that far surpassed my own.

  If only people would learn to listen, I would never need to sing again.

  ****

  We returned home. On the way he again asked me to teach him. And I again said no. I sing, I told him. I am a singer. He had come to the wrong man. Perhaps he should have found a teacher.

  For about a mile after my response he said nothing. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with the past. I could tell he had been thinking of something. "In my village," he said, trailing off. "Near my village, there were trees . . ."

  I thought he was going to tell me about his past. Where he came from, why he wanted so much to sing. Was his family dead? Had the war destroyed his village as it had so many of the others?

  I was wrong. Shadows cast by the trees along the trail continued to caress our skin with their cooling, intermittent touch, and we said nothing else for a long, long time.

  ****

  We sat inside the hut, taking turns pouring the tea and trying together to match our heartbeats to the pulse of the universe. "Teach me," he said once every day, breaking the stillness. "No," I replied. Then, our conversation finished, we would become still and listen with studied attention to the music that never ends.

  And what need was there for more? He wished to learn. I wished to listen. We both enjoyed the company. I did not know where he came from, and he knew nothing of my past. But the present--oh, the present brought us close, as we took in all the subtle rhythms of the world that surrounds us all as water does fish.

  What need was there for more?

  ****

  I was old when he came. Six years passed, and I only became older. One day, after we finished our conversation, he said something new. He said, "Sing for me, then, Master." I had often sung for us both, when I felt in tune with the world, but never before had he requested me to.

  "No," I told him. And as we sat and listened, I said it again. "No." And again, then again. "No. No. No. No." I repeated the word until it lost all meaning. Until it became a sound instead of a word.

  It was my refrain, my chorus. A backbeat, a rhythm, a pulse. Not the heartbeat of the universe, mind you--just the heartbeat of me. The heartbeat of my experiences. The sound of my life. I added a second beat after it, and they completed each other like red and gold.

  "Meh," I said. "No. Meh. No. Meh. No."

  Against them I added the sound of hunger. Or maybe it was loneliness.

  Night and day and back again; time ran around our heartbeats in circles, becoming lost and confused against the stability of their drumming. We fed each other through a door, him giving companionship and me giving gruel, and we walked together to chop firewood, and I sang to him my simple song of tea and light and life and wood that I had crafted so long ago.

  I sang of eyes burning, stomach clenching, end approaching, strength failing. I sang of stubbornness, youth, joy, hope, companionship. Of poured tea, the clink of glass on plate, four nostrils inhaling steam instead of two, hot liquid sipped and experienced separate, together, complete. I sang of everything.

  Through it all was the sound of our two heartbeats, slow and steady, steady, until I finally stopped singing. We sat and listened, eyes closed, as they continued to sound.

  Meh. No. Meh. No. Meh. No.

  ****

  I am not good with words; I am good with sound. Words are not sound. They are less than sound, they are more than sound. Words are ideas. Sounds are experiences. Both have their strengths and weaknesses. So do I. That was the only time I told him how much I loved him. That is a weakness. But he knew anyway.

  He was very strong.

  ****

  The boy did not give up after that.

  "Teach me," he asked the following day like every other day.

  "No," I said.

  "Meh," he said.

  We smiled together, and drank our tea.

  ****

  It was Winter when I began to cough. It did not stop. Drops of blood stained my sleeves, and I sat on my pillow and sipped my tea and thought of everything we had been through over the years. Maybe, I thought, it is time I took on a student. Maybe I already had.

  I began to compose again.

  ****
>
  He still asked me every day, but it was Spring before I finished my work. His eyes glowed when I said I would teach him.

  "Close your eyes," I said (they were too bright) "and

  listen: you have labored

  with the Patience of the Warrior Who Challenged The Sky, and you have Persevered with the Heart of The Woman Born In The Shadow Of The Reeds. Now you must Hear with the Ears of the Boy Who Would Learn To Sing. Just close your eyes, and listen.

  Do you hear this? This is my song. It is not words. It is different from words. Words share only ideas. A sound is an experience.

  Unh. See?

  Feh. See?

  Kah! See?

  You must listen to my song until I finish. Remember back to the first concert you saw me give. Listen to my lesson like that. The slow silence of eternity will let you know when I have reached the end. Then you can open your eyes again, open them and tell me what you think of this song. I think it among my most beautiful. I have been composing it for many months. I hope you agree. Listening to it, I want to live forever.

  Do you remember saying that?

  Hear me now. I am happy. Hear the sound of my happiness:

  Wheh

  Hear it grow and shimmer as I tend to the stove, as I bring tea to boil. This is the sound of boiling tea:

  Pahdehdehdeh

  Pahdehdehdeh

  Do you recognize it?

  Now hear your breath, the breathing of my student:

  Hseh-Whey, Hseh-Whey

  Do you see how the sounds belong together? How they compliment each other like birth and death, hope and love?

  Hear the sound of tea spilling into my cup. Hear the sound of my happiness,Wheh Wheh Wheh.

  Before you, there was none of this. There was only the rahsheheheh of my loneliness, my ignorance of self, my fear of life. And the slowslehh, slehh,of years passing by with everything I wanted and nothing I needed. Or do I have that backwards?

  Ah, I have tricked you. There is no difference.

  Now hear the smell of green tea. Feel the sound of my heart as I stir in one last ingredient. Can you make out the rattle in my lungs? It has grown so loud:

  Kheh-heh-heh

  This is your first lesson, to listen, and it is the last. It is the only lesson you will ever need, and you know it already. I am useless. Listen to my heart, my happiness, my new understanding, my tea, the rattle in my lungs, my happiness, my heart. You see? You are a genius.

  Now listen to the blood running thin in my veins. Listen to it staining the back of my teeth as I cough; it is worse now than it was before, is it not?

  Hear me take a sip. No, a gulp. Hear how it washes the blood away, like the sun washing back the snow? Yes, of course you do.

  Now . . . listen, as the world falls away. Listen until all is nothing, nothing but a blackbird singing through the night under a lantern left hanging in the branches of a solemn old tree. Listen as even that sound fades into the breath of labored lungs near failing, then fades further into the slow beating of the heart of an old man. Listen to my masterpiece.

  Listen, boy, I only told you once, but you knew all along did you not? You knew even before I did. Know it afterward, too. It is just my weakness that keeps me from speaking. It is a strength to listen so well. The only strength the Gods have given us. I hope you have learned well the one thing I could teach. You have taught me much more.

  Keep your eyes closed, Master. I don't like being watched. Just . . . listen. Listen to my happiness. Listen to the silence of eternity. Is it not beautiful?

  This song will be over soon, but there are others to replace it. Listen, and sing, that is all I ask.

  You will make beautiful songs, I'm sure of it.

  ****

  "Master?"

  ****

  He will sing well someday. Like a little blackbird.

  I try to open my eyes one last time to see him before I go, but it is too late. The song has taken me someplace else. Someplace beautiful. I do not know the sounds to describe it.

  Maybe I can learn them.

  ****

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  Devil May Care by Jason Kahn

  Illustrated by David Maier

  In his assigned pit in Hell's vast Pain Management Center, Cornelius, Tormenter Second Class, plied his trade with tireless enthusiasm. At present he was in the middle of his morning session, working on a serial adulterer who had been shot, stabbed, strangled and poisoned after all of the women he had been seeing discovered his infidelities at the same time. One look and Cornelius knew he had a fear of small places, which was why he locked the offender inside a small room that slowly contracted until the man was crushed to a pulp. The process would start over after the soul was revived. Cornelius waited until the screams reached a crescendo for the fifth time and then broke for lunch. He retired to his personal alcove where he sat back in his comfy chair and ate some salamander stew while perusing the Daily Apocrypha.

  Cornelius flipped through the pages, careful to get a minimum of ink on his reddish skin. A headline read: "Reaper Union Demands Overtime Pay." Cornelius shook his head. Reapers had the worst job, flitting Above Ground, grabbing their assignment and hustling back to Hell. They were little more than glorified escorts, and they had a ridiculous quota to fill each day. Cornelius had started out as a Reaper, most everyone did. Fortunately, he was stuck in that job for only a hundred years or so before moving up.

  Unfortunately, while his job had more cachet than that of a Reaper, it had never been good enough for his broodmare. She complained to anyone who would listen that she wished he had a more glamorous occupation, like a Devourer or a Corruptor. But Cornelius had never doubted his calling. His sense of fairness and need to punish the wicked made him a natural Tormenter.

  The next headline read: "Samael Calls for Overhaul in Elemental Dept." Cornelius raised an eyebrow. Samael was second in command to Lucifer himself. The Elementals were the demons who caused natural disasters Above Ground: flood, hurricane, earthquake. But they were under Scylla's authority. The demoness also ran the Devourers, the demons who ate the most unrepentant, evil souls after the Tormenters were done with them, which made her very powerful. But she was still a rung or two below Samael. Scylla would not welcome Samael's intrusion into her affairs.

  Cornelius sighed and thanked the Void he was not involved in the politics of Hell's Hierarchy. He was about to turn the page when an intern came by with the mail and a roster of the next day's "cases," as the Tormenters called their victims.

  Cornelius felt a stab of anxiety when he looked at the parchment. Instead of the normal list of names and accompanying transgressions, there was a single name with a time and place Above Ground. He was going Reaping.

  Had he done something wrong? Was he being demoted? Cornelius quelled his rising apprehension and reached for the telephone on his desk. Perhaps his supervisor could shed some light on this. He dialed an inside line—there was only one outside line, and it hadn't been used for as long as he could remember.

  "Yes, Cornelius?" came the deep voice at the other end of the line.

  "Mr. Moloch, sir? I think there's been a mistake made in the assignments for tomorrow."

  "What mistake?" The voice rumbled with mild concern.

  "Well, it appears that I'm being sent to Reap someone." Cornelius tried to keep the irritation out of his voice.

  "Ah, yes." Moloch's voice registered sudden comprehension. "New program, straight from the top. We're now required to put in a little field work now and then, to keep us fresh. Do you a world of good. Don't worry, someone else will handle your cases until you're back. All right? All right. Thank you for calling."

  Cornelius hung up. Field work? This seemed as sensible as when the Devourers were given mandatory sensitivity training for preferentially eating the souls of building contractors. He sighed, knowing he had no choice but to go on the Reap tomorrow. The thought distracted him the rest of the afternoon. Twice he lost focus and allowed a third-world ty
rant with a fear of drowning to fall into shallow water, leaving the man soggy but unharmed. And once he even failed to properly heat a bed of hot coals, leaving a triple murderer with a confused look on his face and mildly uncomfortable feet.

  At length, however, the workday was done, and a grateful Cornelius filed out of the cavernous Pain Management Center and headed for home, which was a small but well-appointed townhouse in the Plateau area of Hell's middle-class district. His house was just a few hundred yards from a crevasse with a breathtaking view of a lava flow far below. That was why property values were so high, though the schools were not as good as in the really pricey parts of Hell.

  The next morning, after Cornelius' usual scalding hot shower, he wrote letters to some of the eighty brothers and sisters of his brood, many of whom still lived at home, much to his broodmare's annoyance. Then he made ready for his Reap. Cornelius stood and calmed his mind, then reached out to grab hold of the psychic winds that whirled unseen through the Void between Hell and Above Ground.

  He grabbed a strong current and pictured his destination. In an instant, Cornelius disappeared from his living room and reappeared in the TV section of a Wal-Mart store in Anaheim, California. He changed his appearance to that of a normal human, since his true form sometimes upset the newly dead.

  There was a group of people staring at a woman lying on the floor in front of a wall filled with television sets. She appeared uninjured, except for the television that resided where her head would normally be. Cornelius observed as the woman's extracorporeal essence rose out of her body. She stood looking down at herself.

  "Well, I certainly didn't see that coming," she said. None of the onlookers could see or hear her, except for Cornelius.

  She looked up, noticing him. "What are you dressed up for, Halloween?" Then she looked more closely. "Say, you look awfully familiar."

  Cornelius' eyes narrowed as he studied her. Something was wrong, aside from the fact that she could see his true form and seemed to recognize him.