The Stories: Five Years of Original Fiction on Tor.com

by Various

“Let’s wait until tonight,” I said. “I don’t have yours ready yet.”

  Father shook his head and a fit of coughing took his words for a minute. “I don’t want to wait,” he said. “As tired as I’ve been, I’m likely to sleep through Dragon’s Mass Eve anyway.”

  I forced a smile. “Okay. But you get yours tomorrow if you fall asleep.”

  He shrugged, then leaned over to dig around within the deep drawer in the nightstand. He pulled out a form—in triplicate—and handed it to me. “This,” he said, “is for you.”

  I looked at it. I rubbed my eyes and looked at it again. “What’s this?”

  He cleared his voice. “It’s…urm…a requisition slip. I’ve been saving it for you. Your mother and I brought two with us when we rode west.”

  I read it, my eyes naturally drawn to the places where he’d taken the liberty of filling it out. As I realized what it was, I felt the anger burning hot in me and by instinct, I crumpled the requisition into as tight a ball as my white knuckled fist could make it. “I don’t want a child,” I said. “I don’t ever want a child.”

  I tried to stand but his gnarled hand caught my arm and I turned on him. I nearly said something, nearly let the feelings that savaged me slip past my careful control. But I kept quiet. Still, he saw everything in my eyes and his own filled up with tears at the sight of my anger.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  He blinked. “Why am I sorry?”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said. “Why do you think I should have a child?” Seeing his tears made my own fight harder to get out.

  He patted my arm. “I thought when I met your mother that I knew what love was. But meeting you opened up a vast continent of love I never imagined could exist. How could I not want that for you?” His voice lowered and then my father said the last words that he would ever say to me. “Melody Constance Sheffleton-Farrelly, don’t you know that you are the best gift anyone ever gave to me, Dragon’s Mass Eve or not?”

  I stood and bent to kiss his brow. Then, I left so he wouldn’t see me crying. I tossed the ball of paper into my room and went outside into the yard to walk off the feelings that ambushed me. When I went back inside, I saw my father had gone to sleep amid the stories I’d written him over a lifetime of Dragon’s Mass Eves together. And when I checked on him even later, I found he’d slipped away.

  I gathered up the books, closed them, and stacked them neatly in his nightstand drawer. I carefully removed his spectacles and folded them up to lay them beside his bed.

  Then I went to find something to wrap him in and wondered if the coming night would be cloudy or clear.

  Motes swim. Light diffuses. Home rises.

  We see it through a smoky glass. We watch it twitch and meep with each note of the framing song.

  The Santaman laughs and beats his sword against his thigh: “Ho, ho, ho.”

  We few remaining weep and set our feet on emerald grass. We smell the reek of love upon the wind. We wipe our eyes. We wipe our eyes and look again.

  Ahead a dragon.

  Upon his back a world.

  Our New Carved Home

  The Santaman Cycle, Authorized Standard Version

  Verity Press, 2453 YD

  You arrived in Autumn amid the buzz of change.

  But before that, while I waited for you, I started wrapping things up at our homestead on the edge of the world. I went through my father’s papers and organized them, separating out his working notes from his personal notes. Most, I kept. But some I left for the mine’s new owners.

  I felt you kick for the first time while I was taking the civil service exam, and after I finished, the test proctor sought me out in the waiting room after everyone else had gone to let me know he’d not seen a score so high in well over twenty years.

  I wasn’t surprised at all when the offer came through, and once it did, I started negotiating the sale of the mine. I knew going in that whatever I sold it for would be vastly more than I could make in a lifetime on government salary, working in the cubicle maze of the Bureaucracy. But a clean start seemed somehow right to me, especially as your arrival drew closer and closer.

  Still, I’m glad we had these three months together on the homestead where we both were born. Wandering the yard, it’s been a strange, new mourning as I accept the reality that I’ll likely not come back here again. You may when you’re older. You might want to see where your grandmother and grandfather lay buried. You may want to see the house where you were born. And I’m sure folks around here will be curious to meet you, too.

  There is a knock at the door on the morning of Dragon’s Mass Eve and it startles you. I go to answer and find Parson Brown on the porch. He sees the truck the Bureaucracy has provided me, shoved full of everything we’ll take with us when we leave. I’ve only left out enough to celebrate tonight and tomorrow, we start our weeks-long drive east and south.

  “So,” he says, “you really are going?”

  I nod. “Tomorrow,” I say. “Come in, Parson.”

  I brew him some tea while he plays with you and I can tell you’re as uncomfortable with him as he is with you. When the tea is ready, I hold you while he drinks it, mindful of his shaking hands. I want to ask him about your father, but I don’t. Last I heard, he’d ridden north with his sword and not long after, bits of gossip drifted back. I don’t know who exactly wields it, but there are rumors of a young man in red with a terrible blade and he’s earning quite a name for himself. I’m pretty sure it’s him. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe someone further north heard the cry of his heart. I doubt it, but it would be a fine story.

  Drawler season didn’t really subside this year—they pushed south all the way through summer—but the militias are holding them at Harrowfield and Lumner, and in a few weeks, I’ll be working supply chain for the headquarters of a new standing army.

  I don’t ask about your father. And I don’t tell Parson Brown your middle name is Simon, either. I know people are wondering and I’m okay with letting them wonder.

  I look into your eyes and I find I could fall into them. They are brown like mine and like your grandfather’s. The parson has to ask a second time before I realize he’s speaking. “I’m sorry?”

  “I was asking if you’d be joining us tonight,” he says as he drains the last of his tea. “I’ve a new acolyte. Brother Timothy. He’ll be giving the sermon.” Parson Brown leans forward and tickles your chin. “I’m sure everyone is dying to meet little Drummond.”

  I smile. “Maybe,” I tell him. “We’ll see.”

  But I already know we won’t be attending. Tonight, I’ll make our hats and after I’ve nursed you, I’ll eat rice stew and fruit salad. Then, we’ll walk up the hill and I will hold you close as I recite words that don’t need to be right or true to have their meaning for me. For us.

  I think I understand my father’s last Dragon’s Mass Eve gift to me now when I see his face in yours. His attachment to his old, discarded religion makes sense to me now, too, though I had to meet you before I could fully comprehend the truest object of his faith.

  Clear or cloudy, the only grace I’ll ever need has already found me.

  And the only home I’ll ever want is you.

  END

  Copyright (C) 2011 by Ken Scholes

  Art copyright (C) 2011 by Gregory Manchess

  Books by Ken Scholes

  PSALMS OF ISAAK

  Lamentation

  Canticle

  Antiphon

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  Long Walks, Last Flights, and Other Strange Journeys

  Driving Mimes, Weeping Czars, and Other Unusual Suspects

  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,
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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Begin Reading

  I leave Gabriel in the yard and go into town, taking my bag with the vials of skin and bone, flesh and blood, my regular delivery to Makin. The Peels are looking for body parts.

  I love the grandeur of The Strand. High towers of ornate stone. The road’s packed with wagons and carts. Boats choke the river. The Mersey is the city’s blood and it runs rich. Liverpool lives again.

  I can hear the stevedores’ calls, those kings of distribution and balance, whose job it is to oversee the dockers loading the barges. The boats must be perfectly weighted for their journey up the Manchester Ship Canal. Guards check them to ensure no unlicensed man steals aboard. Farther along, at Albert Dock, there’s a flock of white sails. The Hardman fleet’s arrived, tall ships bringing cotton from America.

  The Liver birds keep lookout. Never-never stone creatures that perch atop the Liver Building where all the families have agents. I keep my eyes fixed on the marble floor so that I don’t have to look at the line of people desperate for an audience. Peels’ man has the ground floor. The Peels’ fortune came from real estate, small forays such as tenements at first, but money begets money. They took a punt when they redeveloped Liverpool’s waterfront, a good investment that made them kings of the new world.

  The other families have managers on other floors, all in close proximity as nothing’s exclusive, business and bloodlines being interbred. The Hardmans are textile merchants, the Rathbones’ wealth was made on soap, of all things, while the Moores are ship builders.

  The outer offices contain rows of clerks at desks, shuffling columns of figures in ledgers. A boy, looking choked in his high-necked shirt, runs between them carrying messages. No one pays me any mind.

  Makin’s secretary keeps me waiting a full minute before he looks up, savouring this petty exercise of power. “He’ll see you now.”

  Makin’s at his desk. Ledgers are piled on shelves, the charts and maps on the walls are stuck with pins marking trade routes and Peel territories.

  “Have a seat.” He’s always civil. “How did you fare today?”

  “A few agreed.”

  I hand him the bag.

  “They’re reluctant?”

  “Afraid.”

  There are already rumours. That the Peels, Hardmans, Rathbones and Moores, these wealthy people we never see, are monstrosities that live to a hundred years by feasting on Scousers’ flesh and wearing our skins like suits when their own get worn out. Their hands drip with diamonds and the blood of the slaving classes. They lick their fingers clean with slavering tongues.

  Makin taps the desk.

  “Should we be paying more?”

  “Then you’ll have a line that stretches twice around the Mersey Wall consisting of drunken, syphilitic beggars.”

  “Do we have to order obligatory sampling of the healthy?”

  “That’s unwise.”

  His fingers stop drumming.

  “Since when are rag and bone men the font of wisdom?”

  I’m not scared of Makin but I need the money so I’m respectful. Besides, I like him.

  “At least wait ’til it’s cooler before you announce something like that or you’ll have a riot.”

  That brings him up short.

  “I’m feeling fractious today.” He rubs the top of his head like a man full of unhappy thoughts. “Don’t be offended.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You’re a good sort. You work hard and don’t harbour grudges. You speak your mind instead of the infernal yeses I always get. Come and work for me.”

  “Thank you but I hope you won’t hold it against me if I say no.”

  “No, but think on it. The offer stands.” Something else is bubbling up. “You and I aren’t so different. I had to scramble too. I’m a Dingle man. My daughters are spoilt and innocent. My sons no better.” His rueful smile reveals the pain of parenthood. “It’s their mother’s fault. They’re not fit for the real world, so I must keep on scrambling.”

  I envy his children, wanting for nothing, this brutal life kept at arm’s length. Makin must see something in my face because he puts the distance back between us with, “Have you heard any talk I should know about?”

  He’s still chewing on my unpalatable comment about riots.

  “All I meant was that it’s unseasonably hot and a while since the last high day or holiday. Steam builds up in these conditions.”

  I hear craziness in the ale houses all the time that I’m not going to share with him. Talk of seizing boats and sailing out of Liverpool Bay, north to Blundell Sands and Crosby to breathe rarefied air and storm the families’ palaces. Toppling the merchant princes. A revolution of beheading, raping and redistribution of riches.

  Tough talk. Despairing men with beer dreams of taking on armed guards.

  “They can riot all they like. Justice will fall hard. Liverpool’s peaceful. There’ll be no unions here. We’ll reward anyone who helps keep it that way.”

  I want to say, The Peels aren’t the law, but then I remember that they are.

  * * *

  I cross Upper Parliament Street into Toxteth. My cart’s loaded with a bag of threadbare coloured sheets which I’ll sell for second-grade paper. I’ve a pile of bones that’ll go for glue.

  “Ra bon! Ra bon!” I shout.

  Calls bring the kids who run alongside me. One reaches out to pat Gabriel, my hound, who curls his lip and growls.

  “Not a pet, son. Steer clear.”

  When I stop, the children squat on the curb to watch. They’re still too little for factory work.

  “Tommy, can I have a sweet?”

  “No, not unless you’ve something to trade and it’s Tom, you cheeky blighter. Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  There are elementary classes in the big cathedral. I convinced Dad to let me attend until he decided it was too dangerous and taught me himself instead. Hundreds of us learnt our letters and numbers by rote, young voices raised in unison like fevered prayers that reached the cavernous vaults. The sad-eyed ministers promised God and Jerusalem right here in Liverpool and even then I could see they were as hungry as we were, for bread and something better.

  “Are you the scrap man?” It’s a darling girl with a face ravaged by pox. “My ma asked for you to come in.”

  “Don’t touch my barrow,” I tell the others. “After the dog’s had you, I’ll clobber you myself.”

  I wave my spike-tipped stick at them. It’s not a serious threat. They respond with grins of broken teeth and scurvy sores. They’re not so bad at this age. It’s the older ones you have to watch for.

  I follow the child inside. The terraces seethe and swelter in the summer. Five storeys from basement to attic, a family in every room. All bodies fodder to the belching factories and docks; bargemen, spinners, dockers, weavers and foundry workers. Dad reckoned Liverpool got shipping and industry when the boundaries were marked out and other places got chemicals, medicines, food production and suchlike. He said the walls and watchtowers around each county were the means by which the martial government quelled civil unrest over recession, then biting depression. It was just an excuse to divide the nation into biddable portions and keep those that had in control of those that didn’t.

  Dad also said his grandfather had a farm and it was a hard but cleaner living. No cotton fibres in the lungs, fewer machines to mangle limbs. Less disease and no production lines along which contagion can spread.

  The girl darts into a room at the back. I stand at the door. The two women within are a pair of gems. One says, “Lolly,” and the child runs to her. She looks like an angel, clutching the child to her that way.
>
  “We’ve stuff to sell,” says the other one with the diamond-hard stare. “I’m Sally and this is Kate.”

  Sally’s dazzling. I take off my cap and pat down my hair.

  They share the same profile, long hair fastened up. Sisters. Sally’s still talking while Angel Kate puts a basket on the table. I catch her glance. This pitiful collection’s worth won’t meet their needs.

  “Let’s see.” I clear my throat. “These gloves might fetch something. The forks too.” The tines are so twisted that they’re only worth scrap value. There’s a jar of buttons and some horseshoe nails that look foraged from between cobbles. “I’ll give you extra for the basket.”

  Kate looks at the money in my outstretched hand with hungry eyes but Sally’s got the money in her pocket before I can change my mind.

  “Are you both out of work?”

  “Laid off.” Sally makes a sour face.

  “I’m sorry. Laid off from where?”

  “Vicar’s Buttons.”

  A good, safe place for nimble-fingered women.

  “I’ll let you know if anyone’s hiring.”

  “Lolly, play outside.” Lolly jumps to Kate’s order, dispelling any doubt about which woman is Lolly’s mother.

  “We need more money.” Mother Kate is fierce. “I’ve heard that you’re looking to collect things for one of the families…”

  “Which one?” Sally butts in.

  “The Peels,” I answer.

  “The Peels have taken enough from us already.”

  I want to ask Sally what she means but I don’t get a chance.

  “We need more money, Sally. Peels, Vicars, Hardmans. What’s the difference?”

  “There is.”

  “No, there isn’t, Sal.” Kate sounds flat. “Lolly needs food and a roof. She comes above pride or principles.”

  Nothing could make me admire Kate more. I’m gawping at her.

  “We’ll get work.”

  “Not soon enough.” Kate turns to me. “Tell me more.”