They knelt. Pig Gnat raked away the leaves with a stick. “Don’t we say something, or something?” Billy Joe asked.
“That’s after. Give me a hand with this rock.”
Billy Joe set down the Daisy and they heaved together, and slid the big stone to one side.
Underneath, in the dark brown earth, a two-inch ruby square glowed. “Hadn’t it oughta say press me or caution or something?” Billy Joe joked nervously.
“Sssshhhhh,” said Pig Gnat. “Just press it.”
“Why me? Why don’t you press it?”
“I don’t know why. That’s just the way it works. Just press it.”
Billy Joe pressed it and instead of pushing in like a button it sort of pushed back.
There.
“Now, all repeat after me,” Pig Gnat said. “Oh Secret and Awesome Lost Wilderness Shrine.”
“Oh Secret and Awesome Lost Wilderness Shrine.”
“The Key to Oz and Always be Thine.”
“The Key to Oz and Always be Thine.”
“Bee-Men, and so forth. Now help me with this rock.”
“Rock!”
“First the rock and then leaves.”
“We’ll never find it again.”
“When we need to, we will. Come on. I think it’s late.”
It was late, but still warm for October. While Nation and Pig Gnat pulled the rock into place, Billy Joe scrambled to the top of the culvert. The funny feeling in his legs was gone. Across the corn stubble, in the subdivision on the other side of the highway a few early lights gleamed. Among them, Mrs. Pignatelli’s.
“It is late,” said Billy Joe. “I think your mother’s home. Maybe we should cut across the field…”
“You know better than that,” Pig Gnat said. “He who comes by the trail must leave by the trail.”
The trail followed the great stream away from the highway and the houses on the other side, down the culvert and across the gorge on a high, perilous bridge of two-by-fours.
Billy Joe led the way. Pig Gnat was in the middle. Nation, who owned and therefore carried the gun, brought up the rear, alert for game.
“Hold,” he said.
Three boys froze in the dying light. A giant grasshopper stood poised on top of a fence post. Nation took aim. Billy Joe squinted, imagining a rogue tiger. Pig Gnat kept his eyes wide open, staring off into the endless coils of night.
RECORDING ANGEL
Paul J. McAuley
Several of the stories in this anthology take us to the far future, but few take us as far into that future, or to a future as numinous, alien, rich, and strange, as the bizarre and evocative story that follows … set in a future so remote, so distanced from our times and from the Earth itself, that the very memory of humanity itself is almost forgotten and gone. Almost—but not quite.
Along with other writers such as Stephen Baxter, Iain M. Banks, Greg Egan (actually an Australian, but usually counted in with this group because of his work for Interzone), Gwyneth Jones, Ian R. MacLeod, Ian McDonald, Colin Greenland, and others, Paul J. McAuley is considered to be one of the best of the new British breed of “hard science” writers who have been helping to reinvent that form at the beginning of the nineties. He is a frequent contributor to Interzone, as well as to markets such as Amazing, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Asimov’s Science Fiction, When the Music’s Over, and elsewhere. His first novel, Four Hundred Billion Stars, won the Philip K. Dick Award. His other books include the novels Of the Fall, Eternal Light, Red Dust, and Pasquale’s Angel; a collection of his short work, The King of the Hill and Other Stories; and an original anthology coedited with Kim Newman, In Dreams. His most recent book is a major new novel, Fairyland. His stories have appeared in our Fifth and Ninth Annual Collections. Born in Oxford, England, he now makes his home in Strathkinness, in Scotland.
Mr. Naryan, the Archivist of Sensch, still keeps to his habits as much as possible, despite all that has happened since Angel arrived in the city. He has clung to these personal rituals for a very long time now, and it is not easy to let them go. And so, on the day that Angel’s ship is due to arrive and attempt to reclaim her, the day that will end in revolution, or so Angel has promised her followers, as ever, as dusk, as the Nearside edge of Confluence tips above the disc of its star and the Eye of the Preservers rises above the Farside Mountains, Mr. Naryan walks across the long plaza at the edge of the city towards the Great River.
Rippling patterns swirl out from his feet, silver and gold racing away through the living marble. Above his head, clouds of little machines spin through the twilight: information’s dense weave. At the margin of the plaza, broad steps shelve into the river’s brown slop. Naked children scamper through the shallows, turning to watch as Mr. Naryan, old and fat and leaning on his stick at every other stride, limps past and descends the submerged stair until only his hairless head is above water. He draws a breath and ducks completely under. His nostrils pinch shut. Membranes slide across his eyes. As always, the bass roar of the river’s fall over the edge of the world stirs his heart. He surfaces, spouting water, and the children hoot. He ducks under again and comes up quickly, and the children scamper back from his spray, breathless with delight. Mr. Naryan laughs with them and walks back up the steps, his loose, belted shirt shedding water and quickly drying in the parched dusk air.
Further on, a funeral party is launching little clay lamps into the river’s swift currents. The men, waist-deep, turn as Mr. Naryan limps past, knuckling their broad foreheads. Their wet skins gleam with the fire of the sunset that is now gathering in on itself across leagues of water. Mr. Naryan genuflects in acknowledgment, feeling an icy shame. The woman died before he could hear her story; her, and seven others in the last few days. It is a bitter failure.
Angel, and all that she has told him—Mr. Naryan wonders whether he will be able to hear out the end of her story. She has promised to set the city aflame and, unlike Dreen, Mr. Naryan believes that she can.
A mendicant is sitting cross-legged on the edge of the steps down to the river. An old man, sky-clad and straight-backed. He seems to be staring into the sunset, in the waking trance that is the nearest that the Shaped citizens of Sensch ever come to sleep. Tears brim in his wide eyes and pulse down his leathery cheeks; a small silver moth has settled at the corner of his left eye to sip salt.
Mr. Naryan drops a handful of the roasted peanuts he carries for the purpose into the mendicant’s bowl, and walks on. He walks a long way before he realises that a crowd has gathered at the end of the long plaza, where the steps end and, with a sudden jog, the docks begin. Hundreds of machines swarm in the darkening air, and behind this shuttling weave a line of magistrates stand shoulder to shoulder, flipping their quirts back and forth as if to drive off flies. Metal tags braided into the tassels of the quirts wink and flicker; the magistrates’ flared red cloaks seem inflamed in the last light of the sun.
The people make a rising and falling hum, the sound of discontent. They are looking upriver. Mr. Naryan, with a catch in his heart, realises what they must be looking at.
It is a speck of light on the horizon north of the city, where the broad ribbon of the river and the broad ribbon of the land narrow to a single point. It is the lighter towing Angel’s ship, at the end of its long journey downriver to the desert city where she has taken refuge, and caught Mr. Naryan in the net of her tale.
* * *
Mr. Naryan first heard about her from Dreen, Sensch’s Commissioner; in fact, Dreen paid a visit to Mr. Naryan’s house to convey the news in person. His passage through the narrow streets of the quarter was the focus of a swelling congregation which kept a space two paces wide around him as he ambled towards the house where Mr. Naryan had his apartment.
Dreen was a lively, but tormented, fellow who was paying off a debt of conscience by taking the more or less ceremonial position of Commissioner in this remote city which his ancestors had long ago abandoned. Slight and agile, his head shaved clean except for a
fringe of polychrome hair that framed his parchment face, he looked like a lily blossom swirling on the Great River’s current as he made his way through the excited crowd. A pair of magistrates preceded him and a remote followed, a mirror-coloured seed that seemed to move through the air in brief rapid pulses like a squeezed watermelon pip. A swarm of lesser machines spun above the packed heads of the crowd. Machines did not entirely trust the citizens, with good reason. Change was raged up and down the length of Confluence as, one by one, the ten thousand races of the Shaped fell from innocence.
Mr. Naryan, alerted by the clamour, was already standing on his balcony when Dreen reached the house. Scrupulously polite, his voice amplified through a little machine that fluttered before his lips, Dreen enquired if he might come up. The crowd fell silent as he spoke, so that his last words echoed eerily up and down the narrow street. When Mr. Naryan said mildly that the Commissioner was, of course, always welcome, Dreen made an elaborate genuflection and scrambled straight up the fretted carvings which decorated the front of the apartment house. He vaulted the wrought-iron rail and perched in the ironwood chair that Mr. Naryan usually took when he was tutoring a pupil. While Mr. Naryan lowered his corpulent bulk onto the stool that was the only other piece of furniture on the little balcony, Dreen said cheerfully that he had not walked so far for more than a year. He accepted the tea and sweetmeats that Mr. Naryan’s wife, terrified by his presence, offered, and added, “It really would be more convenient if you took quarters appropriate to your status.”
As Commissioner, Dreen had use of the vast palace of intricately carved pink sandstone that dominated the southern end of the city, although he chose to live in a tailored habitat of hanging gardens that hovered above the palace’s spiky towers.
Mr. Naryan said, “My calling requires that I live amongst the people. How else would I understand their stories? How else would they find me?”
“By any of the usual methods, of course—or you could multiply yourself so that every one of these snakes had their own archivist. Or you could use machines. But I forget, your calling requires that you use only appropriate technology. That’s why I’m here, because you won’t have heard the news.”
Dreen had an abrupt style, but he was neither as brutal nor as ruthless as his brusqueness suggested. Like Mr. Naryan, who understood Dreen’s manner completely, he was there to serve, not to rule.
Mr. Naryan confessed that he had heard nothing unusual, and Dreen said eagerly, “There’s a woman arrived here. A star-farer. Her ship landed at Ys last year, as I remember telling you.”
“I remember seeing a ship land at Ys, but I was a young man then, Dreen. I had not taken orders.”
“Yes, yes,” Dreen said impatiently, “picket boats and the occasional merchant’s argosy still use the docks. But this is different. She claims to be from the deep past. The very deep past, before the Preservers.”
“I can see that her story would be interesting if it were true.”
Dreen beat a rhythm on his skinny thighs with the flat of his hands. “Yes, yes! A human woman, returned after millions of years of travelling outside the Galaxy. But there’s more! She is only one of a whole crew, and she’s jumped ship. Caused some fuss. It seems the others want her back.”
“She is a slave, then?”
“It seems she may be bound to them as you are bound to your order.”
“Then you could return her. Surely you know where she is?”
Dreen popped a sweetmeat in his mouth and chewed with gusto. His flat-topped teeth were all exactly the same size. He wiped his wide lipless mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Of course I know where she is—that’s not the point. The point is that no one knows if she’s lying, or her shipmates are lying—they’re a nervy lot, I’m told. Not surprising, culture shock and all that. They’ve been travelling a long time. Five million years, if their story’s to be believed. Of course, they weren’t alive for most of that time. But still.”
Mr. Naryan said, “What do you believe?”
“Does it matter? This city matters. Think what trouble she could cause!”
“If her story’s true.”
“Yes, yes. That’s the point. Talk to her, eh? Find out the truth. Isn’t that what your order’s about? Well, I must get on.”
Mr. Naryan didn’t bother to correct Dreen’s misapprehension. He observed, “The crowd has grown somewhat.”
Dreen smiled broadly and rose straight into the air, his toes pointing down, his arms crossed with his palms flat on his shoulders. The remote rose with him. Mr. Naryan had to shout to make himself heard over the cries and cheers of the crowd.
“What shall I do?”
Dreen checked his ascent and shouted back, “You might tell her that I’m here to help!”
“Of course!”
But Dreen was rising again, and did not hear Mr. Naryan. As he rose he picked up speed, dwindling rapidly as he shot across the jumbled rooftops of the city towards his aerie. The remote drew a silver line behind him; a cloud of lesser machines scattered across the sky as they strained to keep up.
The next day, when, as usual, Mr. Naryan stopped to buy the peanuts he would scatter amongst any children or mendicants he encountered as he strolled through the city, the nut roaster said that he’d seen a strange woman only an hour before—she’d had no coin, but the nut roaster had given her a bag of shelled salted nuts all the same.
“Was the right thing to do, master?” the nut roaster asked. His eyes glittered anxiously beneath the shelf of his ridged brow. Mr. Naryan, knowing that the man had been motivated by a cluster of artificial genes implanted in his ancestors to ensure that they and all their children would give aid to any human who requested it, assured the nut roaster that his conduct had been worthy. He proffered coin in ritual payment for the bag of warm oily peanuts, and the nut roaster made his usual elaborate refusal.
“When you see her, master, tell her that she will find no plumper or more savoury peanuts in the whole city. I will give her whatever she desires!”
All day, as Mr. Naryan made his rounds of the tea shops, and even when he heard out the brief story of a woman who had composed herself for death, he expected to be accosted by an exotic wild-eyed stranger. That same expectation distracted him in the evening, as the magistrate’s son haltingly read from the Puranas while all around threads of smoke from neighbourhood kitchen fires rose into the black sky. How strange the city suddenly seemed to Mr. Naryan: the intent face of the magistrate’s son, with its faint intaglio of scales and broad shelving brow, seemed horribly like a mask. Mr. Naryan felt a deep longing for his youth, and after the boy had left he stood under the shower for more than an hour, letting water penetrate every fold and cranny of his hairless, corpulent body until his wife anxiously called to him, asking if he was all right.
The woman did not come to him that day, nor the next. She was not seeking him at all. It was only by accident that Mr. Naryan met her at last.
She was sitting at the counter of a tea shop, in the deep shadow beneath its tasselled awning. The shop was at the corner of the camel market, where knots of dealers and handlers argued about the merits of this or that animal and saddlemakers squatted crosslegged amongst their wares before the low, cave-like entrances to their workshops. Mr. Naryan would have walked right past the shop if the proprietor had not hurried out and called to him, explaining that here was a human woman who had no coin, but he was letting her drink what she wished, and was that right?
Mr. Naryan sat beside the woman, but did not speak after he ordered his own tea. He was curious and excited and afraid: she looked at him when he sat down and put his cane across his knees, but her gaze only brushed over him without recognition.
She was tall and slender, hunched at the counter with elbows splayed. She was dressed, like every citizen of Sensch, in a loose, raw cotton overshirt. Her hair was as black and thick as any citizen’s, too, worn long and caught in a kind of net slung at her shoulder. Her face was sharp and small-
featured, intent from moment to moment on all that happened around her—a bronze machine trawling through the dusty sunlight beyond the awning’s shadow; a vendor of pomegranate juice calling his wares; a gaggle of women laughing as they passed; a sled laden with prickly pear gliding by, two handspans above the dusty flagstones—but nothing held her attention for more than a moment. She held her bowl of tea carefully in both hands, and sucked at the liquid clumsily when she drank, holding each mouthful for a whole minute before swallowing and then spitting twiggy fragments into the copper basin on the counter.
Mr. Naryan felt that he should not speak to her unless she spoke first. He was disturbed by her: he had grown into his routines, and this unsought responsibility frightened him. No doubt Dreen was watching through one or another of the little machines that flitted about the sunny, salt-white square—but that was not sufficient compulsion, except that now he had found her, he could not leave her.
At last, the owner of the tea house refilled the woman’s bowl and said softly, “Our Archivist is sitting beside you.”
The woman turned jerkily, spilling her tea. “I’m not going back,” she said. “I’ve told them that I won’t serve.”
“No one has to do anything here,” Mr. Naryan said, feeling that he must calm her. “That’s the point. My name is Naryan, and I have the honour, as our good host has pointed out, of being the Archivist of Sensch.”
The woman smiled at this, and said that he could call her Angel; her name also translated as Monkey, but she preferred the former. “You’re not like the others here,” she added, as if she had only just realised. “I saw people like you in the port city, and one let me ride on his boat down the river until we reached the edge of a civil war. But after that every one of the cities I passed through seemed to be inhabited by only one race, and each was different from the next.”
The Year's Best SF 13 # 1995 Page 94
