by Mike Allen
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictional or used in an imaginary manner to entertain, and any resemblance to any real people, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.
CLOCKWORK PHOENIX 4
Edited by Mike Allen
Copyright © 2013 by Mike Allen. All Rights Reserved.
Cover: solar images courtesy of the Solar & Heliospheric Observatory (SOHO), a collaboration between ESA and NASA.
Published by Mythic Delirium Books
www.mythicdelirium.com
Introduction by Mike Allen. Copyright © 2013 by Mike Allen.
“Our Lady of the Thylacines” by Yves Meynard. Copyright © 2013 by Yves Meynard.
“The Canal Barge Magician’s Number Nine Daughter” by Ian McHugh. Copyright © 2013 by Ian McHugh.
“On the Leitmotif of the Trickster Constellation in Northern Hemispheric Star Charts, Post-Apocalypse” by Nicole Kornher-Stace. Copyright © 2013 by Nicole Kornher-Stace.
“Beach Bum and the Drowned Girl” by Richard Parks. Copyright © 2013 by Richard Parks.
“Trap-Weed” by Gemma Files. Copyright © 2013 by Gemma Files.
“Icicle” by Yukimi Ogawa. Copyright © 2013 by Yukimi Ogawa.
“Lesser Creek: A Love Story, A Ghost Story” by A.C. Wise. Copyright © 2013 by A.C. Wise.
“What Still Abides” by Marie Brennan. Copyright © 2013 by Marie Brennan.
“The Wanderer King” by Alise Alering. Copyright © 2013 by Alise Alering.
“A Little of the Night” by Tanith Lee. Copyright © 2013 by Tanith Lee.
“I Come from the Dark Universe” by Cat Rambo. Copyright © 2013 by Cat Rambo.
“Happy Hour at the Tooth and Claw” by Shira Lipkin. Copyright © 2013 by Shira Lipkin.
“Lilo Is” by Corinne Duyvis. Copyright © 2013 by Corinne Duyvis.
“Selected Program Notes from the Retrospective Exhibition of Theresa Rosenberg Latimer” by Kenneth Schneyer. Copyright © 2013 by Kenneth Schneyer.
“Three Times” by Camille Alexa. Copyright © 2013 by A. Camille Renwick.
“The Bees Her Heart, the Hive Her Belly” by Benjanun Sriduangkaew. Copyright © 2013 by Benjanun Sriduangkaew.
“The Old Woman With No Teeth” by Patricia Russo. Copyright © 2013 by Patricia Russo.
“The History of Soul 2065” by Barbara Krasnoff. Copyright © 2013 by Barbara Krasnoff.
For Anita,
and for Mom, Greg, and Eddie,
in Dad’s memory.
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION
Mike Allen
OUR LADY OF THYLACINES
Yves Meynard
THE CANAL BARGE MAGICIAN’S NUMBER NINE DAUGHTER
Ian McHugh
ON THE LEITMOTIF OF THE TRICKSTER CONSTELLATION IN NORTHERN HEMISPHERIC STAR CHARTS, POST-APOCALYPSE
Nicole Kornher-Stace
BEACH BUM AND THE DROWNED GIRL
Richard Parks
TRAP-WEED
Gemma Files
ICICLE
Yukimi Ogawa
LESSER CREEK: A LOVE STORY, A GHOST STORY
A.C. Wise
WHAT STILL ABIDES
Marie Brennan
THE WANDERER KING
Alisa Alering
A LITTLE OF THE NIGHT (Ein Bisschen Nacht)
Tanith Lee
I COME FROM THE DARK UNIVERSE
Cat Rambo
HAPPY HOUR AT THE TOOTH AND CLAW
Shira Lipkin
LILO IS
Corinne Duyvis
SELECTED PROGRAM NOTES FROM THE RETROSPECTIVE EXHIBITION OF THERESA ROSENBERG LATIMER
Kenneth Schneyer
THREE TIMES
Camille Alexa
THE BEES HER HEART, THE HIVE HER BELLY
Benjanun Sriduangkaew
THE OLD WOMAN WITH NO TEETH
Patricia Russo
THE HISTORY OF SOUL 2065
Barbara Krasnoff
PINIONS
The Authors
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
INTRODUCTION
Mike Allen
Welcome to the book Kickstarter built, the fourth volume of Clockwork Phoenix.
In the introductions to the first three books, I played a little game. Rather than attempting to explain exactly what my goals were in assembling each individual volume, I’d compose a prose poem addressing the reader that featured a phoenix made of clockwork, a creature somewhere between a character and a motif. The beings this phoenix encountered and the settings it moved through would all be cobbled from the imagery of the tales that followed, and the poem would end with an event that segued right into the beginning of the first story. My intent was to teach the reader to watch for recurring themes and patterns as she moved through the book.
There. Now I’ve stepped out from behind the curtain and given the game away.
I had another reason for crafting such elliptical introductions. When I first began batting about the idea that became Clockwork Phoenix, a number of anthologies were in the pipeline that served as manifestos for the latest iterations of the weird tale, such as Delia Sherman and Theodora Goss’s Interfictions, Ann and Jeff VanderMeer’s The New Weird and Ekaterina Sedia’s subversive Paper Cities: An Anthology of Urban Fantasy. While my concept for what sort of story would appear in Clockwork Phoenix was nebulous at best, I knew that I wanted to create an anthology that partook fully of the trends variously described as interstitial, new weird, slipstream, as well as other types of strangeness, without laying claim to an agenda. Rather than sporting the term for a new movement like a name badge, it would simply be. My title, Clockwork Phoenix, wasn’t intended to conjure a new mythological beast; rather, it was meant to signify a jarring, surreal juxtaposition.
By the time I started editing the second volume, I could articulate my approach—I wanted stories that were bold in the style of their telling and also emotionally satisfying; experimental yet coherent and engaging.
But those who followed this series closely know that I always buried that little tidbit in the backs of the books, somewhere within my editor’s bio. My actual introductions were always meant to tease without enlightening; to make no assertions at all about what you were about to read.
I believe this rebirth requires a different approach.
When I put the finishing touches on Clockwork Phoenix 3, I expected it to be the end of the series. I’ll always be grateful to Vera Nazarian of Norilana Books for bankrolling and publishing the first three volumes, but by the time the third one appeared, Norilana, alas, had clearly struck a financial atoll and would no longer be able to fund a project on that scale. And realistically speaking, the Clockwork Phoenix books are works of art and labors of love, and about as uncommercial as anthologies can get, which meant that despite the starred reviews and award nominations, the chances of another publisher taking up the cause were slim to none—and proved to be none.
Yet I couldn’t escape the feeling that Clockwork Phoenix had burned to ash with its business still unfinished.
This notion became reinforced as I continued to hear the same question even after a year had passed, asked online or in person at conventions: When are you going to edit the next one?
Credit must go where it’s due. My buddy Michael M. Jones first brought up Kickstarter.com as an option. His own anthology project, Scheherazade’s Facade: Fantastical Tales of Gender Bending, Cross-Dressing, and Transformation, had been orphaned by Norilana’s financial troubles. He found a new publisher, Circlet Press, who would take on the book if he could find the funds to pay the authors. In March 2012, he set up his Kickstarter page, made his pitch, and the very generous online sf and fantasy community came th
rough for him. Once I saw that happen, I knew I had to give it a try.
I discussed it with colleagues and friends, and became the beneficiary of some wonderful behind-the-scenes brainstorming, especially from Elizabeth Campbell, Rose Lemberg, and Ken Schneyer. Anita pledged to lend her crafter’s talents to creating rewards for pledges, and in July 2012 we launched, just a couple of days before formally announcing the campaign at Readercon in Boston, where all three of the previous volumes had their debut. It felt like leaping off a ledge into the dark, with no way to know where or how we’d land.
You know how it ended. Whether an object of printed pages or words shimmering on the screen of your e-reader, you’re holding the result in your hands.
More than 270 donors—some contributing through means other than Kickstarter—pledged to bring this book into reality. In the Acknowledgments section you’ll see a long list of names, people we want to thank, people to whom this book owes its existence. It’s not complete—not everybody chose to be publicly acknowledged. I’m grateful to all our backers, all those who critiqued and brainstormed, all those who spread the word, all those who offered help with prizes. This is your book as much as it is mine.
Now, what about this book?
I couldn’t be happier with these carefully arranged gardens full of dangerously sharp leaves.
We have eight alumni from the previous volumes of the series, and ten newcomers. We have science fiction, because I’m of the belief that sf is a facet of fantasy and deserves as much stylistic and poetic exploration as any other facet of the genre. You’ll find the light-hearted and the bleak, the surreal become familiar and the familiar turned strange. You’ll see innocence shattered and trickles of hope discovered in the midst of horror. We’ll take you swimming in otherworldly waters and show you many, many ways to enlarge the definition of family.
If you’re still with me, if you haven’t done what you should have done in the first place and gone wandering among the wonders ahead, then it’s about time you did. I’ll take my leave.
The path through the gardens begins on the next page. Your first guide awaits.
OUR LADY OF THYLACINES
Yves Meynard
She was meant to be diurnal, yet the girl most often woke in late afternoon, to a sun already declining in the sky. The worst heat of the day was fading by then, though no part of the Garden was ever unbearably hot, even under the midday sun. The girl thought there must be a roof of sorts, one she could not see, but which shielded the Garden from the excesses of the sun. Or perhaps part of the heat was bled into other dimensions, there to harmlessly dissipate; she understood very little about such things, and the Lady vouchsafed few explanations.
It was because so many of the Lady’s friends preferred dusk or darkness that the girl found herself usually waking so late. There was nothing she liked so much as to sit at the feet of the Lady and play with Her friends. There were birds who could not fly; big shaggy animals that walked very slowly, as if always asleep; tiny spiky beings with short snouts and faces that remained always hidden; fat and cuddly animals that dug into the ground; and many, many other kinds. But her favorites were the stripeys: not just because they were the prettiest of all the Lady’s friends, but because they were the ones that responded best to her love. When they appeared, they would approach the girl boldly, sniff at her hands and feet, sometimes her crotch. They suffered her to pet their thick, soft, yellow-brown fur; the smallest of them, which had a black tuft at the tip of its tail, even let her hold it in her arms and kiss it for a few minutes at a time. When the Lady spoke to them, the stripeys looked at Her with attention, though like all the other friends it was hard to tell if they understood anything or just responded to Her voice. Sometimes as She spoke the stripeys rose up on their hind legs, their stiff tails held behind them keeping them in balance. The girl had given them names based on the number of dark stripes running across their back and rear haunches: Thirteen, Sixteen, Twenty … The littlest one was Seventeen or Eighteen, depending on how you counted one bifurcate stripe.
The girl did not see the stripeys all that often. The Lady had many friends, and the girl could never tell which kind she would see. And sometimes when she went to spend time with the Lady there were no friends at all there, only the Lady herself, and that meant there would be a lesson: some new words to learn, the names of the stars, calisthenics routines, baton twirling.
On that afternoon when the girl woke, the number of days since she had not seen the stripeys had risen to fifty. That was a big number, if you counted days and things of that sort. The Lady would have told her it was a tiny number for seconds, stars, and atoms, because She always made a point of correcting the girl when She could, of forcing her to think about things from another side. But the girl had been growing wiser, and sometimes now she was able to argue the point. She wasn’t sure—she could never be sure—but she thought the Lady was pleased when that happened. And so she held on to her initial thought, that fifty days without seeing the stripeys was a long time, and it made her feel disappointed, and she really hoped that tonight they would be there when she went to see the Lady.
And in fact, if they were not, then she would take a great dare and ask the Lady to call them. It had been a long, long time, far longer than fifty days, since the girl had dared to ask the Lady for anything. She was too old now, the Lady said. Long past infancy, when she could wail and beg for the nipple, and incur no blame. She was growing up, and she had to fulfill her promise, said the Lady, but She never would clarify what that meant. The girl had had to learn not to wish for things, to take the world as it was, in all its mystery. She wondered, more and more, if that was true to her nature or not.
The girl swung her legs down from the ledge where she slept on a pile of sere grass. On the flat rock at the far end of the cave where she lived, she found the Lady had made food appear, which She did at odd intervals, supplementing the berries and nuts and roots the girl normally ate. The Lady’s food was as juicy as fruit but the juice was salty, not sweet. It filled the girl’s stomach wonderfully and made her feel very good; after eating that food, her ordinary diet always paled, but she could not depend on the Lady’s generosity to eat. That was definitely one thing she had learned not to ask for.
This time, next to the pieces of food, there was also a dress. The girl usually went about naked, and whatever clothing the Lady gave her felt more like an impediment than anything else. Still, if the Lady had seen fit to give her a dress, the girl would wear it today. It might well please the Lady.
She struggled with the garment for several minutes until she’d figured out how to put it on: this was more complicated than the other dresses she’d worn. Once she had wrapped her mind around its shape, it made sense. There was a bit of rope as part of the dress, just under her collarbone. Once she had put the dress on, the girl pulled on the rope and felt the garment tighten snugly around her. This was a good dress, she decided. Unlike the others, which flapped around her knees and made it hard for her to run, this one allowed her full freedom of movement; it almost felt as if she was naked. The color was exciting, too: her old dresses had always been white or pale yellow, while the new one was a confusion of colors, greens, browns, and grays, in irregular splotches.
The girl stepped out of the cave that was her home and wandered down the grassy slope. The flowers and bushes and trees of the Garden filled her senses. There was no animal life about; there never was, unless you chose to count insects. Only in the presence of the Lady did any friends ever manifest themselves. From her point of view, the girl lived all alone in the Garden.
She came to a path and reluctantly stepped onto it. The tiny rounded pebbles, scorched by the sun, dug into the soles of her feet uncomfortably. Still, to show that she was growing up, she strode down the center of the path all the way to the heart of the Garden, the inner enclosure where the Lady dwelled.
The enclosure was defined by a wall, narrow and perpendicular to the ground, that curved smoothly all
around. There was but one break in its continuity, barely as wide as the girl was tall. The height of the wall made the aperture look as narrow as a finger. Whenever the girl passed through, she hunched her shoulders and had to resist the temptation to turn herself sideways and hug one side of the opening.
The enclosure was open to the sky—at least it seemed to be, though when it rained, not a drop of water ever fell within the wall, no doubt because it was torqued into additional dimensions. So it was a different kind of place, inside the Garden but perhaps not really part of it. It had its own light, too. When night fell and the Garden grew dark, it would still be light here, because of the lamps: clusters of glowing spheres, a few large ones and many much smaller spheres, like the bubbles in soap froth. They glowed with a bluish light, the tinier ones so small that they never properly resolved in the girl’s sight, unfocused blue dots she might have doubted had any tangible existence. The bigger spheres were physical enough: taut membranes, uncomfortably warm though not burning. She avoided their contact at the same time as she craved their light, her poor diurnal eyes inadequate to the task of properly seeing the world once the sun had gone from the sky.
On the inner curve of the wall pictures were hung: flat images surrounded by sticks of wood that made elongated squares much wider than they were tall. The girl loved to spend time looking at them. The Lady’s friends were all there. It was strange how much she loved to look at the pictures since she could just as easily go to the Lady’s side and gaze upon Her friends in the flesh. The Lady had said many times that this was one of the characteristics of being human: that humans loved the representation of a thing more than the thing itself. The girl did not really understand this, but she pretended she did, to please the Lady. Neither had the girl ever been able to grasp how the images were created. She could grab a stick and make lines in the sand, and dimly intuited a similar process was involved; beyond that, things remained a mystery.
