by Various
A small Buddhist temple peeked from a grove of trees, with stone dogs guarding a red gate into the grounds. A boy swept the ground in front of a shrine there. Small Cat smelled the dried fish and mushrooms left as offerings: it might be worth her while to find out more.
Two young dogs wrestled in the dirt by a sheep pen until they noticed her. They jumped to their feet and raced to her, barking, “Cat! Cat!” She wasn’t afraid of dogs any more—not happy dogs like these, with their heads high and their ears pricked. She hopped onto a railing where they couldn’t accidentally bowl her over. They milled about, wagging their tails.
A woman stretching fabric started to say something to the dogs. When she saw Small Cat, her mouth made an O of surprise. “A cat!” She whirled and ran toward the temple. “A cat! Look, come see!”
The woman knew what a cat was, and so had the dogs. Ignoring the dogs, ignoring all the people who were suddenly seeing her, Small Cat pelted after the woman.
The woman burst through a circle of children gathered around a seated man. The man was dressed in red and yellow, his shaved head shiny in the sun. A monk, but not her monk, she knew right away: this one was rounder, though his face was still open and kind. He stood up as the woman pointed at Small Cat. “Look, look! Another cat!”
The monk and the children all started talking at once. And in the middle of the noise, Small Cat heard a cat meow.
A cat?
A little ginger-and-white striped tomcat stood on a stack of boxes nearby, looking down at her. His golden eyes were bright and huge with excitement, and his whiskers vibrated. He jumped down, and ran to her.
“Who are you?” he said. His tail waved. “Where did you come from?”
When she decided to make this her home, she hadn’t thought she might be sharing it. He wasn’t much bigger than she was, or any older, and right now, he was more like a kitten than anything, hopping from paw to paw. She took a step toward him.
“I am so glad to see another cat!” he added. He purred so hard that his breath wheezed in his throat.
“The monk brought me here last year to catch mice, all the way from the capital in a basket! It was very exciting.”
“There are so many things to do here! I have a really nice secret place to sleep, but I’ll show it to you.” He touched her nose with his own.
“There’s no fudoki,” he said, a little defensively. “There’s just me.”
“And me now,” Small Cat said, and she rubbed her cheek against his. “And I have such a tale to tell!”
Copyright © 2009 Kij Johnson
Books by Kij Johnson
NOVELS
Fudoki
The Fox Woman
Dragon’s Honor (with Greg Cox)
SHORT STORY COLLECTION
Tales for the Long Rains
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.
Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
Contents
Begin Reading
The invitation card has a Western theme. Along its margins, cartoon girls in cowboy hats chase a herd of wild Ponies. The Ponies are no taller than the girls, bright as butterflies, fat, with short round-tipped unicorn horns and small fluffy wings. At the bottom of the card, newly caught Ponies mill about in a corral. The girls have lassoed a pink-and-white Pony. Its eyes and mouth are surprised round Os. There is an exclamation mark over its head.
The little girls are cutting off its horn with curved knives. Its wings are already removed, part of a pile beside the corral.
You and your Pony ___[and Sunny’s name is handwritten here, in puffy letters]___ are invited to a cutting-out party with The Other Girls! If we like you, and if your Pony does okay, we’ll let you hang out with us.
Sunny says, “I can’t wait to have friends!” She reads over Barbara’s shoulder, rose-scented breath woofling through Barbara’s hair. They are in the backyard next to Sunny’s pink stable.
Barbara says, “Do you know what you want to keep?”
Sunny’s tiny wings are a blur as she hops into the air, loops, and then hovers, legs curled under her. “Oh, being able to talk, absolutely! Flying is great, but talking is way better!” She drops to the grass. “I don’t know why any Pony would keep her horn! It’s not like it does anything!”
This is the way it’s always been, as long as there have been Ponies. All ponies have wings. All Ponies have horns. All Ponies can talk. Then all Ponies go to a cutting-out party, and they give up two of the three, because that’s what has to happen if a girl is going to fit in with TheOtherGirls. Barbara’s never seen a Pony that still had her horn or wings after her cutting-out party.
Barbara sees TheOtherGirls’ Ponies peeking in the classroom windows just before recess or clustered at the bus stop after school. They’re baby pink and lavender and daffodil-yellow, with flossy manes in ringlets, and tails that curl to the ground. When not at school and cello lessons and ballet class and soccer practice and play group and the orthodontist’s, TheOtherGirls spend their days with their Ponies.
The party is at Top Girl’s house. She has a mother who’s a pediatrician and a father who’s a cardiologist and a small barn and giant trees shading the grass where the Ponies are playing games. Sunny walks out to them nervously. They silently touch her horn and wings with their velvet noses, and then the Ponies all trot out to the lilac barn at the bottom of the pasture, where a bale of hay has been broken open.
TopGirl meets Barbara at the fence. “That’s your Pony?” she says without greeting. “She’s not as pretty as Star blossom.”
Barbara is defensive. “She’s beautiful!” This is a misstep so she adds, “Yours is so pretty!” And TopGirl’s Pony is pretty: her tail is every shade of purple and glitters with stars. But Sunny’s tail is creamy white and shines with honey-colored light, and Barbara knows that Sunny’s the most beautiful Pony ever.
TopGirl walks away, saying over her shoulder, “There’s Rock Band in the family room and a bunch of TheOtherGirls are hanging out on the deck and Mom bought some cookies and there’s Coke Zero and diet Red Bull and diet lemonade.”
“Where are you?” Barbara asks.
“I’m outside,” TopGirl says, so Barbara gets a Crystal Light and three frosted raisin-oatmeal cookies and follows her. TheOtherGirls outside are listening to an iPod plugged into speakers and playing Wii tennis and watching the Ponies play Hide And Seek and Who’s Prettiest and This Is The Best Game. They are all there, Second Girl and Suck Up Girl and Everyone Likes Her Girl and the rest. Barbara only speaks when she thinks she’ll get it right.
And then it’s time. TheOtherGirls and their silent Ponies collect in a ring around Barbara and Sunny. Barbara feels sick.
TopGirl says to Barbara, “What did she pick?”
Sunny looks scared but answers her directly. “I would rather talk than fly or stab things with my horn.”
TopGirl says to Barbara, “That’s what Ponies always say.” She gives Barbara a curved knife with a blade as long as a woman’s hand.
“Me?” Barbara says. “I thought someone else did it. A grown-up.”
TopGirl says, “Everyone does it for their own Pony. I did it for Starblossom.”
In silence Sunny stretches out a wing.
It’s not the way it would be, cutting a real pony. The wing comes off easily, smooth as plastic, and the blood smells like cotton candy at the fair. There’s a shiny trembling oval where the wing was, as if Barbara is cutting rose-flavored Turkish Delight in half and sees the pink under the powdered sugar. She th
inks, It’s sort of pretty, and throws up.
Sunny shivers, her eyes shut tight. Barbara cuts off the second wing and lays it beside the first.
The horn is harder, like paring a real pony’s hooves. Barbara’s hand slips and she cuts Sunny, and there’s more cotton-candy blood. And then the horn lies in the grass beside the wings.
Sunny drops to her knees. Barbara throws the knife down and falls beside her, sobbing and hiccuping. She scrubs her face with the back of her hand and looks up at the circle.
Starblossom touches the knife with her nose, pushes it toward Barbara with one lilac hoof. TopGirl says, “Now the voice. You have to take away her voice.”
“But I already cut off her wings and her horn!” Barbara throws her arms around Sunny’s neck, protecting it. “Two of the three, you said!”
“That’s the cutting-out, yeah,” TopGirl says. “That’s what you do to be One Of Us. But the Ponies pick their own friends. And that costs, too.” Starblossom tosses her violet mane. For the first time, Barbara sees that there is a scar shaped like a smile on her throat. All the Ponies have one.
“I won’t!” Barbara tells them all, but even as she cries until her face is caked with snot and tears, she knows she will, and when she’s done crying, she picks up the knife and pulls herself upright.
Sunny stands up beside her on trembling legs. She looks very small without her horn, her wings. Barbara’s hands are slippery, but she tightens her grip.
“No,” Sunny says suddenly. “Not even for this.”
Sunny spins and runs, runs for the fence in a gallop as fast and beautiful as a real pony’s; but there are more of the others, and they are bigger, and Sunny doesn’t have her wings to fly or her horn to fight. They pull her down before she can jump the fence into the woods beyond. Sunny cries out and then there is nothing, only the sound of pounding hooves from the tight circle of Ponies.
TheOtherGirls stand, frozen. Their blind faces are turned toward the Ponies.
The Ponies break their circle, trot away. There is no sign of Sunny, beyond a spray of cotton-candy blood and a coil of her glowing mane torn free and fading as it falls to the grass.
Into the silence TopGirl says, “Cookies?” She sounds fragile and false. TheOtherGirls crowd into the house, chattering in equally artificial voices. They start up a game, drink more Diet Coke.
Barbara stumbles after them into the family room. “What are you playing?” she says, uncertainly. “Why are you here?” First Girl says, as if noticing her for the first time. “You’re not OneOfUs.”
TheOtherGirls nod. “You don’t have a pony.”
Copyright © 2010 by Kij Johnson
Books by Kij Johnson
NOVELS
Fudoki
The Fox Woman
Dragon’s Honor (with Greg Cox)
SHORT STORY COLLECTION
Tales for the Long Rains
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.
Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
Contents
Begin Reading
“Wake up.” When Crazy Me rests a hand on my forehead, it jolts me from sleep. “It’s raccoons.”
“What?” I shiver out of a very pleasant dream of licking frosting off Amisha’s nose. “Get!” I flail at him in the darkness and thump his shoulder.
“Raccoons! With their masks and their tiny black hands and their fleas. Rooting through our garbage.”
“What time is it?” I lift my head off the pillow to look at the clock. “Great, it’s four twenty-three.”
“Do you know how many raccoons there are?” he asks. As usual, my irritation bounces off him. “They’re everywhere, like furry cockroaches. I have no doubt whatsoever. The next pandemic will be huge—raccoon flu.”
“What, the last one wasn’t bad enough for you?” I press the pillow to my ears. The room is hot; the AC has shut itself off again.
He has to tell me about all of the ailments raccoons are subject to: congestive heart failure, cancer, hepatitis, distemper, rabies, the common cold. They get more diseases than any other wild animal. Crazy Me has been googling them since I went to bed. The pathology of the intestinal raccoon roundworm baylisascaris procyonis is particularly nasty. The eggs are sticky and pretty much invulnerable and if they get into an aberrant host, which is anything not a raccoon, like us, the larvae get confused and wander around the body compromising the liver, eyes, brain, spinal cord, or other organs.
“Roundworms aren’t the flu,” I say.
“I know that,” says Crazy Me. “But this paper from the Centers for Disease Control says there are all kinds of influenza receptors in raccoon tissues. A blood survey found twenty-five percent of the raccoons in Wyoming had flu exposure. Look at the data for 2014; raccoon flu can easily make the jump to humans. It’s only a matter of time.”
I switch on the bedside light. We blink at each other and then I scan the printout he thrusts at me. “So what are we supposed to do?”
“Hoard surgical masks?” he says. “Drink pricier Scotch? Maybe buy AstraZeneca stock?” He yawns. “Anyway, I just thought you’d want to know. I’m tired now, so I’m going to bed.”
This is how it’s been recently. Crazy Me sketches some doomsday scenario in the middle of the night and then retreats to the garage. Me, I lose another night’s sleep.
I head to the kitchen, stand in front of the open fridge to let the cool pour over me as I drink grapefruit juice out of the carton, then open my laptop on the kitchen table. AstraZenica closed at 39.45 yesterday, down from its fifty-two week high of 51.13. Most market analysts have it as a hold, but its MedImmune subsidiary makes FluMist®, the only nasal spray flu vaccine approved in the U.S. I put in an order for three hundred shares through Schwab for when the market opens.
Crazy Me is crazy, but he has his moments of prescience. He started one of the very first blogs on Blogger and just a year later called the dot-com bust. He discovered Sudoku in Dell Pencil Puzzles and Word Games back in 1989, long before it left for Japan and returned as the Godzilla of brainteasers. We got into Pfizer while Lipitor and Viagra were in clinical trials and bought six acres here on Ledge Lake a year before the bypass opened. But he was wrong about SARS and the Kindle and the Venezuelan war.
And he is crazy.
I’ve been up for almost five hours before I see my first patient and I’m dragging as I scan the schedule of morning eye exams. The day after a Crazy Me surprise party can seem to stretch for years—decades—but I have a solo practice, so there’s no help. It’s just me and Shannon the receptionist and my two technicians, Ronnie and Amisha, in the office. Sometimes I feel as if I’m in three places at once. Four, if you count whatever Crazy Me is doing while I’m at the office.
Axel Jensen is in the yellow room. He’s the contractor who used to date my ex-wife, but that’s not anything we can chat about.
“Just put your chin on the rest.” I’m giving him the slit lamp exam; he leans forward. “So, keeping busy?”
“Don’t ask.” He sets his forehead against the support pad. “Had to lay off one of my best carpenters last week. I’m down to three.” He puffs his lips in disgust. “You?”
“Oh, you know. People have to see.” I flick the switch of the Zeiss and a beam of intense blue light illuminates his eyes. “Look up.” I check for surface abrasions and tears. “Left. Down. Right.” I remember that Axel came in two years ago with a half-millimeter splinter of metal lodged in his left eye. He’s fine now, except for the unmistakable flicker of fear I’m
seeing in most of my patients these days. “You look just great today, Axel. Cornea, iris, lens, sclera, all great. You’re wearing safety glasses on the job?”
“Ever since the accident.”
“Great, great. So, is business picking up anytime soon?”
“Nah. There are raccoons busier than we are. Renovation work and damn little of that. Everybody’s scared shitless about where things are going. Pardon my French.”
“Tell me about it,” I say.
Inez Ramos is waiting in the blue room. I’ve got upwards of four thousand patients and they all expect me to remember them so I check her chart, which reminds me that she’s sixty-three and a longtime patient. I did cataract surgery on her a year ago—looked then like a good outcome. Basic phacoemulsification. Here’s a note that says she has a diamond the size of a raisin. It’s coming back to me now; her ring is a lethal weapon when she waves her hands. And it says that she’s a quilter. I don’t know from quilts, but if she’s who I think she is, chitchat won’t be a problem. She can talk the shirt off a statue.
I knock. “Good morning, Inez.” I glide into the room. “Great to see you again.”
She looks up from her sewing. “There you are, Doctor Takumi.” She slips a needle into a patchwork of red and white fabric stretched across a wooden hoop. “I’ve just been thinking as I’ve been sitting here about how you changed my life. All the things I see now, everything is so clear, the colors keep getting brighter and brighter.”
