Frost and Fire

by Roger Zelazny

  “Tell me.”

  “Last year there was a revolution in Saudi Arabia. It seemed to promise well for the Saudis but it also threatened Japan’s oil supply. Suddenly the new government began to look very bad on paper, and a new counterrevolutionary group looked stronger and better-tempered than it actually was. Major powers intervened successfully on the side of the counterrevolutionaries. Now they are in power and they seem even worse than the first government which had been overthrown. It seems possible, though incomprehensible to most, that computer readouts all over the world were somehow made to be misleading. And now the Osaka Conference is to be held to work out new oil agreements with the latest regime. It looks as if Japan will get a very good deal out of it. You once told me that you are above such mundane matters, but I wonder? You are Japanese, you loved your country. Could you have intervened in this?”

  “What if I did? It is such a small matter in the light of eternal values. If there is a touch of sentiment for such things remaining within me, it is not dishonorable that I favor my country and my people.”

  “And if you did it in this, might you not be moved to intervene again one day, in some other matter where habit or sentiment tell you you should?”

  “What of it?” he replies. “I but extend my finger and stir the dust of illusion a bit. If anything, it frees me even further.”

  “I see,” I answer.

  “I doubt that you do, but you will when you have joined me. Why not do it now?”

  “Soon,” I say. “Let me settle my affairs.”

  “I will give you a few more days,” he says, “and then you must be with me forever.”

  I bow my head.

  “I will see you again soon,” I tell him.

  “Good night, my love.”

  “Good night.”

  He drifts away then, his feet not touching the ground, and he passes through the wall of the monastery.

  I reach for my medicine and my brandy. A double dose of each …

  22. Mt. Fuji from the Sumida River in Edo

  And so I come to the place of crossing. The print shows a ferryman bearing a number of people across the river into the city and evening. Fuji lies dark and brooding in the farthest distance. Here I do think of Charon, but the thought is not so unwelcome as it once might have been. I take the bridge myself, though.

  As Kit has promised me a little grace, I walk freely the bright streets, to smell the smells and hear the noises and watch the people going their ways. I wonder what Hokusai would have done in contemporary times? He is silent on the matter.

  I drink a little, I smile occasionally, I even eat a good meal. I am tired of reliving my life. I seek no consolations of philosophy or literature. Let me merely walk in the city tonight, running my shadow over faces and storefronts, bars and theaters, temples and offices. Anything which approaches is welcome tonight. I eat sushi, I gamble, I dance. There is no yesterday, there is no tomorrow for me now. When a man places his hand upon my shoulder and smiles, I move it to my breast and laugh. He is good for an hour’s exercise and laughter in a small room he finds us. I make him cry out several times before I leave him, though he pleads with me to stay. Too much to do and see, love. A greeting and a farewell.

  Walking… . Through parks, alleys, gardens, plazas. Crossing… . Small bridges and larger ones, streets and walkways. Bark, dog. Shout, child. Weep, woman. I come and go among you. I feel you with a dispassionate passion. I take all of you inside me that I may hold the world here, for a night.

  I walk in a light rain and in its cool aftermath. My garments are damp, then dry again. I visit a temple. I pay a taximan to drive me about the town. I eat a late meal. I visit another bar. I come upon a deserted playground, where I swing and watch the stars.

  And I stand before a fountain splaying its waters into the lightening sky, until the stars are gone and only their lost sparkling falls about me.

  Then breakfast and a long sleep, another breakfast and a longer one …

  And you, my father, there on the sad height? I must leave you soon, Hokusai.

  23. Mt. Fuji from Edo

  Walking again, within a cloudy evening. How long has it been since I spoke with Kit? Too long, I am sure. An epigon could come bounding my way at any moment.

  I have narrowed my search to three temples—none of them the one in the print, to be sure, only that uppermost portion of it viewed from that impossible angle, Fuji back past its peak, smoke, clouds, fog between—but I’ve a feeling one of these three will do in the blue of evening.

  I have passed all of them many times, like a circling bird. I am loath to do more than this, for I feel the right choice will soon be made for me. I became aware sometime back that I was being followed, really followed this time, on my rounds. It seems that my worst fear was not ungrounded; Kit is employing human agents as well as epigons. How he sought them and how he bound them to his service I do not care to guess. Who else would be following me at this point, to see that I keep my promise, to force me to it if necessary?

  I slow my pace. But whoever is behind me does the same. Not yet. Very well.

  Fog rolls in. The echoes of my footfalls are muffled. Also those at my back. Unfortunate.

  I head for the other temple. I slow again when I come into its vicinity, all of my senses extended, alert.

  Nothing. No one. It is all right. Time is no problem. I move on.

  After a long while I approach the precincts of the third temple. This must be it, but I require some move from my pursuer to give me the sign. Then, of course, I must deal with that person before I make my own move. I hope that it will not be too difficult, for everything will turn upon that small conflict.

  I slow yet again and nothing appears but the moisture of the fog upon my face and the knuckles of my hand wrapped about my staff. I halt. I seek in my pocket after a box of cigarettes I had purchased several days ago in my festive mood. I had doubted they would shorten my life.

  As I raise one to my lips, I hear the words, “You desire a light, madam?”

  I nod my head as I turn.

  It is one of the two monks who extends a lighter to me and flicks forth its flame. I notice for the first time the heavy ridge of callous along the edge of his hand. He had kept it carefully out of sight before, as we sojourned together. The other monk appears to his rear, to his left.

  “Thank you.”

  I inhale and send smoke to join the fog.

  “You have come a long way,” the man states.

  “Yes.”

  “And your pilgrimage has come to an end.”

  “Oh? Here?”

  He smiles and nods. He turns his head toward the temple.

  “This is our temple,” he says, “where we worship the new bodhisattva. He awaits you within.”

  “He can continue to wait, till I finish my cigarette,” I say.

  “Of course.”

  With a casual glance, I study the man. He is probably a very good karateka. I am very good with the bo. If it were only him, I would bet on myself. But two of them, and the other probably just as good as this one? Kokuzo, where is your sword? I am suddenly afraid.

  I turn away, I drop the cigarette, I spin into my attack. He is ready, of course. No matter. I land the first blow.

  By then, however, the other man is circling and I must wheel and move defensively, turning, turning. If this goes on for too long, they will be able to wear me down.

  I hear a grunt as I connect with a shoulder. Something, anyway …

  Slowly, I am forced to give way, to retreat toward the temple wall. If I am driven too near it, it will interfere with my strokes. I try again to hold my ground, to land a decisive blow… .

  Suddenly, the man to my right collapses, a dark figure on his back. No time to speculate. I turn my attention to the first monk, and moments later I land another blow, then another.

  My rescuer is not doing so well, however. The second monk has shaken him off and begins striking at him with bone-crushing blows. M
y ally knows something of unarmed combat, though, for he gets into a defensive stance and blocks many of these, even landing a few of his own. Still, he is clearly overmatched.

  Finally I sweep a leg and deliver another shoulder blow. I try three strikes at my man while he is down, but he rolls away from all of them and comes up again. I hear a sharp cry from my right, but I cannot look away from my adversary.

  He comes in again and this time I catch him with a sudden reversal and crush his temple with a follow-up. I spin then, barely in time, for my ally lies on the ground and the second monk is upon me.

  Either I am lucky or he has been injured. I catch the man quickly and follow up with a rapid series of strikes which take him down, out, and out for good.

  I rush to the side of the third man and kneel beside him, panting. I had seen his gold earring as I moved about the second monk.

  “Boris.” I take his hand. “Why are you here?”

  “I told you—I could take a few days—to help you,” he says, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Found you. Was taking pictures … And see … You needed me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Grateful, but sorry. You’re a better man than I thought.”

  He squeezes my hand. “I told you I liked you— Maryushka. Too bad … we didn’t have—more time…”

  I lean and kiss him, getting blood on my mouth. His hand relaxes within my own. I’ve never been a good judge of people, except after the fact.

  And so I rise. I leave him there on the wet pavement. There is nothing I can do for him. I go into the temple.

  It is dark near the entrance, but there are many votive lights to the rear. I do not see anyone about. I did not think that I would. It was just to have been the two monks, ushering me to the terminal. I head toward the lights. It must be somewhere back there.

  I hear rain on the rooftop as I search. There are little rooms, off to either side, behind the lights.

  It is there, in the second one. And even as I cross the threshold, I feel that familiar ionization which tells me that Kit is doing something here.

  I rest my staff against the wall and go nearer. I place my hand upon the humming terminal.

  “Kit,” I say, “I have come.”

  No epigon grows before me, but I feel his presence and he seems to speak to me as he did on that night so long ago when I lay back upon the couch and donned the helmet:

  “I knew that you would be here tonight.”

  “So did I,” I reply.

  “All of your business is finished?”

  “Most of it.”

  “And you are ready now to be joined with me?”

  “Yes.”

  Again I feel that movement, almost sexual in nature, as he flows into me. In a moment he would bear me away into his kingdom.

  Tatemae is what you show to others. Honne is your real intention. As Musashi cautioned in the Book of Waters, I try not to reveal my honne even at this moment. I simply reach out with my free hand and topple my staff so that its metal tip, batteries engaged, falls against the terminal.

  “Mari! What have you done?” he asks, within me now, as the humming ceases.

  “I have cut off your line of retreat, Kit.”

  “Why?”

  The blade is already in my hand.

  “It is the only way for us. I give you this jigai, my husband.”

  “No!”

  I feel him reaching for control of my arm as I exhale. But it is too late. It is already moving. I feel the blade enter my throat, well-placed.

  “Fool!” he cries. “You do not know what you have done! I cannot return!”

  “I know.”

  As I slump against the terminal I seem to hear a roaring sound, growing, at my back. It is the Big Wave, finally come for me. My only regret is that I did not make it to the final station, unless, of course, that is what Hokusai is trying to show me, there beside the tiny window, beyond the fog and the rain and the night.

  24. Mt. Fuji in a Summer Storm

  FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION: A WRITER’S VIEW

  One more essay shouldn’t strain the reader’s stamina, though I hasten to add that I’ve a standing order with my tutelary deities to spare me the fading writer’s trip of trying to sum everything up. It’s just a little talk that I gave when keynoting the Seventh Annual Eaton Conference on Fantasy and Science Fiction at the University of California at Riverside, in 1985, where I was treated well; and I thought it might make a decent endpiece.

  * * *

  I have often wondered whether I am a science fiction writer dreaming I am a fantasy writer, or the other way around. Most of my science fiction contains some element of fantasy, and vice versa. I suppose that this could be annoying to purists of both persuasions, who may feel that I am spoiling an otherwise acceptable science fiction story with the inclusion of the unexplained, or that I am violating the purity of a fantasy by causing its wonders to conform to too rational a set of strictures.

  There may be some truth in this, so the least I can do is try to tell you why I operate this way, what this seeming hybrid nature of much of my work means to me and how I see this meaning as applying to the area at large.

  My first independent reading as a schoolboy involved mythology—in large quantities. It was not until later that I discovered folk tales, fairy tales, fantastic voyages. And it was not until considerably later—at age eleven—that I read my first science fiction story.

  It actually did not occur to me until recently that this course of reading pretty much paralleled the development of the area. First came fantasy, with its roots in early religious systems—mythology—and epical literature. Watered-down versions of these materials survived the rise of Christianity in the form of legends, folklore, fairy tales, and some incorporated the Christian elements as well. Later came the fantastic voyages, the Utopias. Then, finally, with the industrial revolution, scientific justifications were substituted for the supernatural by Mary Shelley, Jules Verne, H. G. Wells. I had actually read things in the proper chronological order.

  I feel now that this colored my entire approach to the use of the fabulous in literature. The earliest writings of the fantasy sort involved considerable speculation from a small and shaky factual base. A lot of guesswork and supernatural justifications for events came into play. I accepted these things as a child would—uncritically—my only reading criterion being whether I enjoyed a story. About the time I discovered science fiction I was somewhere near the threshold of reflection. I began to appreciate the value of reason. I even began to enjoy reading about science. In a way, I guess, I was a case of ontogeny recapitulating phylogeny.

  I have never gotten away from a fondness for all of these forms—I suppose because my thinking has been touched by all of them. Emotionally, I find it difficult to draw distinctions between science fiction and fantasy because I feel them to be different areas of a continuum— the same ingredients but different proportions. Intellectually, however, I understand that if the fabulous elements involve the supernatural, or are simply unexplained in terms of an intelligent person’s understanding of how natural laws operate, then that particular story should be considered a fantasy.

  If the fabulous should be explained, or indicated to be explainable in terms of the present state of human knowledge or theory—or some extension thereof—I can see how a story of this sort can be considered to be science fiction.

  When I write, though, I generally do not think in terms of such facile compartmentalizations. I feel that fiction should mirror life and that its modus is that classical act of mimesis, the imitation of an action. I concede that it is a distorting mirror we use in science fiction and fantasy; nevertheless, it should represent in some fashion everything which is placed before it. The peculiar virtue of a distorting mirror is its ability to lay special emphasis upon those features of consensus reality which the writer wishes to accent—a thing which in many ways places what we do close to satire, in the classical sense—making the science fict
ion and fantasy worlds special ways of talking about the present world. Another is the particularly wide range of characters this practice permits me to explore.

  Not only do I not like to think of my stories in terms of separate science fiction and fantasy categories, but I feel that for me it would actually be harmful in terms of the creative act to drive such a wedge into my view of the continuum. According to John Pfeiffer, author of The Human Brain, “There is an entire universe packed inside your skull, a compact model of your surroundings based on all the experiences you have accumulated during the course of a lifetime.” Of necessity such a model is limited by the range of one’s perceptions and the nature of one’s experiences.

  Thus, the world about which I write, the world to which I hold up my distorting mirror, is not the real world in any ultimate sense. It is only my limited, personal image of the real world. Therefore, though I have tried hard to make my version of reality as complete a model as possible, there are gaps, dark areas which exist in testimony to my ignorance of various matters. We all possess these dark areas, somewhere, because we have not world enough nor time to take in everything. These are a part of the human condition—Jung’s shadows, if you like; unfilled addresses in our personal databases, if you prefer.

  What has this to do with the fabulous—with fantasy and science fiction? My feelings are that science fiction, with its rational, quasi-documentable approach to existence, springs from the well-lighted, well-regulated areas of our private universes, whereas fantasy, in the tradition of its historical origins, has its roots in the dark areas. Somewhere, I already hear voices raised in objection to my implication that fantasy springs from ignorance and science fiction from enlightenment. In a way it is true, and in a way it is not. To quote Edith Hamilton, “There has probably not been a better educated generation than the one that ushered in the end of Athens.” Yet it was these same highly rational Greeks who passed classical mythology along to us, in its most powerful, sophisticated forms, while providing material for early chapters in world history books.