by Mike Allen
In the virtuality the dragons’ basin brims cool and clear, shot through with the ruby of scales, the ivory of antlers. By its shores a young woman sits, whistling a plaintive tune, knees tucked to her chest. Grass sways in a wind that brings the rich truth of honey. The weather is never imperfect. The hour is never too early or too late.
They sit side by side, sometimes, two young women who don’t speak. One has created this; the other has become its god. In the face of such facts words can only be rare, are of limited use. One laughs into the other’s hand, over a shared joke that requires no voicing. She sounds slightly equine. The edge of her pitch has been blunted by adulthood and time, and a cyberneticist’s legacy. They lean against each other even so, cheek to cheek, shoulder to shoulder.
In the virtuality they can still be family.
The sky lightens and banyan leaves patter down, green-gold rain. In the distance their parents wade through shallows, slowly as though waking from a dream. Their names are called through cupped hands.
Fingers laced, the sisters turn away from the basin. Arm in arm they raise their heads, and stand to answer.
THE OLD WOMAN WITH NO TEETH
Patricia Russo
When The Old Woman With No Teeth decided to have children, she didn’t go about it in the usual way. Well, really, what else could you expect from The Old Woman With No Teeth? If she ever did anything the usual way, even boiling a pot of water, the world might start spinning widdershins on its axis.
“Now you just stop that. I can read perfectly well, you impudent ragger. Set down what I told you, and don’t believe all the stories you’ve heard about me.”
There are many stories about The Old Woman With No Teeth, but people should not believe all of them. The most popular one is that she wore away her teeth by chewing a tunnel to the six-sided world. Nobody knows if this story is true. Many people have looked for the passageway she is supposed to have gnawed through reality, but none of the venturers have managed to pinpoint it.
“None of the ones who’ve come back, you mean. Silly bastards.”
Another common story about The Old Woman With No Teeth is that she once drank the river on a bet, and then spewed it out again after she caught a cold, which is why all the fish in the river taste of phlegm, no matter how one prepares them—fried, baked, boiled, poached, in hundred-herb sauce—
“You ragged little ragger, stop wittering about fish recipes. Besides, the fish always tasted like that. I had nothing to do with it. People always blame me for everything.”
People always blamed The Old Woman With No Teeth for everything, which was not fair. Most of the time she kept herself to herself, in her cavern in the mountains, where she made thunderstorms and sweaters and silver jewelry and high tides, magic whips that could seek out all the thieves in a crowd and give each one a good hiding, sandals for three-legged dogs, and sourbark lozenges that would cure a cough inside of a year. She lived in this simple way for ages and ever, not bothering anybody and wishing that people would stop bothering her, until one afternoon of soft rain and citron skies, the notion came into her head that she would like to have children.
Children, of course, are a comfort and support in one’s old age, but The Old Woman With No Teeth had reached, in fact surpassed, old age eons ago. The only person in the known world older than The Old Woman With No Teeth was Aunt Far Away, and Aunt Far Away had retired to a rented room in a sketchy part of the city, where she sat in an armchair and drank tea all day.
“Stop it this instant. I don’t want that person in my story.”
The Old Woman With No Teeth had many stories. This one is strictly about children. She wanted some because she was lonely, and bored, and desired to pass on her vast and unique knowledge to others who would continue making sweaters and thunderstorms and sourbark lozenges after she had wriggled through the passage to the six-sided world for the last time.
“Nonsense. Don’t you remember what I told you?”
You didn’t really go into specifics on this part. And, you know, Aunt Far Away does come into the account.
“All she did was wave from her window. Big deal.”
When The Old Woman With No Teeth made her decision to have children, she went to the city, for children, indeed any living beings other than blind snakes and naked rats, are difficult to come across in caverns. I don’t understand why you just didn’t get yourself a cat, or something.
“Cats can take care of themselves.”
The Old Woman With No Teeth wanted something she could take care of. Naturally children need to be taken care of; in fact, one might say that that is the primary characteristic of children. Hence, when the concept of caretaking first came into the mind of The Old Woman With No Teeth, the image that accompanied it was that of younglings and kiddies, little bundles of energy and giggles, nightmares and quick-drying tears, hugs and kisses and lisped words of love.
“This fancy stuff is getting on my nerves. I just wanted a little company.”
The Old Woman With No Teeth found that she longed for company in her mountain lair, and so came to the city. She had a look at a couple of orphanages and a school or two, and quickly came to the realization that children were more trouble than they were worth.
“That’s better. But I wouldn’t say I longed for anything.”
The Old Woman With No Teeth did not long for company. She merely thought it would be nice to have some. Children would not suit her, but there were plenty of other people in the city who needed to be taken care of. The Old Woman With No Teeth walked about for a while. If folks recognized her, they had the sense to keep their mouths shut. She was not stopped by any municipal authorities, or bothered by autograph hunters. Her wanderings took her past the rundown building in the rundown part of the city where a previously mentioned individual had a room. This individual waved from her window. She waved in a particular direction. The Old Woman With No Teeth thought it over for a moment, and then decided to go that way.
“I was headed there anyway.”
The Old Woman With No Teeth was headed toward Adams Park anyway, so she continued on her already chosen path. In the park, she saw a sign she had never noticed before, not in the park, nor anywhere else. The sign read: Be Alert for Elderly People.
Be Alert for Elderly People? she thought. What an odd sign. She imagined hordes of ravening white-haired half-deads shambling through the bushes and lurking behind the heaps of trash on the walking paths. She pictured gangs of knife-wielding seniors, slitting the throats of the middle-aged. She—
“I pictured nothing of the sort! I imagined nothing of the kind! If you keep on with this claptrap, I will go back to the Underpass Settlement and find another starveling scrivener, do you hear me?”
The Old Woman With No Teeth made no hasty assumptions or judgments. She took great care as she walked through the park, and applied her vast intelligence to come to an understanding of the meaning of the sign.
There were many elderly people in the park. Some of them were sitting on benches. Some of them were simply standing. Some of them seemed to know each other, as they were chatting. Some were clearly strangers to the rest, as they kept silent and bore expressions of discomfort, as when one finds oneself at a party at which one does not recognize a single other guest.
The Old Woman With No Teeth cautiously, but with kindness, asked several of the elderly people what they were doing in the park. She heard the same tale from each: a law had been passed at the end of the most recent legislative session. Elderly people unaccompanied by family members or attendants were now required to restrict themselves to certain areas of the city. Adams Park was in bounds, so those who lived in the vicinity took themselves there on pleasant days, as it was better than staying at home and staring at the walls.
The Old Woman With No Teeth thought this was a dreadful law. The elderly people in the park agreed, but explained that it had been passed in order to make the city more attractive to tourists. The Old Woman With No Teeth did not th
ink this was a very good reason to do such a thing.
“What are you stopping for?”
Just to see if I got that bit right.
“Everything except for that part about kindness.”
The Old Woman With No Teeth thought logically and dispassionately, and then made the elderly people in the park an offer. Would they come with her, she asked, and be her children?
The elderly ladies and gentlemen in the park were rather surprised by the proposal, and several of them refused outright, and others asked for time to think it over, but a good hundred or so accepted. They all recognized her, of course. And a life in a mountain cavern with The Old Woman With No Teeth, who could make sandals for three-legged dogs and extremely useful whips, was a more appealing proposition than exile in one’s own native city.
“I should think so, too.”
Thus it came about that The Old Woman With No Teeth led her flock of children out of the park, and if a municipal warder gave them a glance—and more than one did—then The Old Woman With No Teeth had a repertoire of glances much more intimidating than any in a security man or woman’s arsenal. No one interfered with their progress.
They passed the rundown building when a certain previously mentioned individual lived. She was still at the window. She waved again, and smiled.
“Humpf.”
The Old Woman With No Teeth called up a wind of cushions, a wind of pillows, and the hundred children she had gathered were wafted in comfort to their new home. They have settled in quite well, despite a few squabbles here and there, now and then. The Old Woman With No Teeth runs a tight ship. Or cavern.
“I hold no one against their will.”
The Old Woman With No Teeth holds no one against his or her will. Her children are content with their new accommodations and their new lives. She has even began to teach some of them a few of the simpler workings for which she is so renowned. The Old Woman With No Teeth is content as well, for she has plenty of company, and more than enough people to take care of.
And so everybody will live happily ever after, until they die.
“Why did you put that last word in?”
To be truthful.
“All right. Leave it. Here’s your payment. You can go now.”
Much obliged. There’s one more thing. I have a message from that previously mentioned individual.
“I don’t want to hear that woman’s name.”
But would you care to know the message?
“Damned busybody. Always poking her nose in. How did she get this message to you?”
She whispered it in my dreams.
“Ah. She could never leave well enough alone, that one. Very well. What does she want to tell me? That she’s going to climb up here and make my life a misery—again?”
No. She said to tell you, “Well done.” And that the next time she sees you, if there is a next time, she will kiss your hand if you will allow it. She will kiss your lips, if you would allow that.
“She’s got a nerve. But then, she always did. Go, you ragger, you tattered scribe. But take this warning with you. Do not go around telling people I have been kind. I will find out if you do. And I will make you very sorry for telling such a monstrous lie.”
You have my word.
“Go. The children are hungry. I must get their dinner prepared.”
If you should ever require my services again …
“Don’t hold your breath.”
Then I shall take my leave.
“Wait.”
Yes?
“Thank you.”
It has been a great pleasure.
“Right. I’ll believe that when birds fly upside down and the shadows of the sourbark trees blaze red.”
Have you not heard? Those things have already happened in the county to the north.
“Get out of here before I lose my temper.”
Of course. But I hear the old children crying.
“I told you, they are hungry.”
I can cook, as well as set down words in a noter. Old Woman With No Teeth, I would rather not go back to the city. I am close to being old myself. Do you not have room for one more child?
The Old Woman With No Teeth thought for a long time.
“Stop writing.”
The Old Woman With No Teeth weighed the advantages and disadvantages. She didn’t trust the ragged scribe she’d hired from the jostling liars in the Underpass Settlement.
“Stop writing this second. And give me that noter.”
Very well.
“Now go.”
“As you wish. But I would like to come back some day.”
“People don’t always get what they want. In fact, they usually don’t.”
“You did. That gives a person a certain degree of hope.”
“Only children believe that hope is a good thing.”
“Fair enough. I will think of you each time there is a thunderstorm, and every time I cough.”
“Just for that, you’re going to walk the whole way back to the city.”
“I expected no less.”
“Wait. It is too dark to start down the mountain now. You will leave in the morning.”
“Whatever you say.”
“The first thing in the morning.”
“Absolutely.”
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“Absolutely not.”
“All right. Get inside. And if you call this kindness, I will plant you head-down in a bog of blistering mud.”
“I’d never dream of saying such a thing.”
“Move, before I change my mind.”
“Wait.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“Move your legs, not your mouth. Hah. Got you now. Oh, a nod. Well, nod if you like, shake your head if you like. I am The Old Woman With No Teeth, and tomorrow I might just decide to send you all back where you came from. Did I hurt you when I grabbed your arm? Do not expect an apology. We cannot ever truly change what we are. You’ll find that out, if you live long enough.”
“I think though that sometimes, we can—Ouch!”
“Told you.”
THE HISTORY OF SOUL 2065
Barbara Krasnoff
It all started at Rachel’s first real seder.
Until then, the only Passover seders she had attended had been at her Grandma Isabeau’s house, where she and several of her cousins—all of whom were older than she, and not very nice—sat at the end of the table while her grandfather droned through incomprehensible Hebrew verses. The children were then conducted to their own table in the living room, where they threw pieces of matzoh at each other until one of the grownups came in and yelled at them.
This year, however, Rachel was also going to the second-night seder that Aunt Susan—who lived with Uncle Mark, Rachel’s mother’s brother—held every year.
She was a little frightened. Since, at age seven, she was going to be youngest person there—her best friend Annie, who came with them so Rachel wouldn’t be the only child, was four months older—Rachel was going to have to ask the ceremonial four questions.
“She’s a little nervous,” her mother told her Aunt Susan as they took off their coats. “I told her that she didn’t have to say them if she doesn’t want to.”
“Of course she’ll say them, Eileen,” Aunt Susan said, and she grinned at Rachel as though they were sharing a secret. “I’ve heard her recite. She has the makings of a damned good actress. She’ll do a fantastic job.”
Despite her nervousness, Rachel grinned back. Rachel liked her aunt and uncle, especially because they never talked down to her.
It was hard to move around in the living room, which was largely taken up with a long, rather unsteady metal folding table decorated with a bright blue paper tablecloth and white paper plates and cups. There were real knives and forks, and wine glasses, and two white-and-blue ceramic candleholders with tall blue candles in them.
A bright purple paperback book sat at each
place setting; Rachel picked one up and paged through it. It was a Hagaddah, the book that was used for the ceremonies before and after the meal. But unlike the one at her grandparents’ house, which was only in Hebrew and had nothing of interest in it, this one had a lot of English in it, and had lots of pictures and photographs of foreign-looking people celebrating the holiday.
Because the living room was so crowded, everyone had to sidle around the table in order to get to the dining room, which, because it was actually used as a sort of library, was nearly empty of furniture, and so had space for people to stand and chat. Rachel took the Hagaddah and she and Annie made their way to a corner and started to page through the book. But they lost interest quickly, and Rachel started describing the adults in the room to Annie in a careful whisper.
“The man over there, the one with the beard? That’s Abram, an old friend of Uncle Mark’s. They were both in high school together.”
“He’s bossy,” Annie observed. “And he interrupts all the time.”
Rachel shrugged. “I don’t like him,” she said. “But Mom says it’s not polite to say so.”
She pointed surreptitiously at a stout, smiling young woman who was talking to Abram. “That’s Yolanda, Aunt Susan’s best friend. She brought a pineapple for dessert. She’s studying to be a minister and used to live in Namibia.”
Uncle Mark came into the kitchen with a quick stride, holding a thin brown bottle, and thrust it at Abram. “Here,” he said irritably. “Kosher enough for you? Oh, hi, Eileen. Glad you brought Rachel and—Annie, is it?—with you this year.” He kissed his sister on the cheek and ruffled Rachel’s hair.
“Hi, Uncle Mark,” said Rachel. “It’s raining.”
“Really hard,” Annie added, unwilling to be left out of the conversation.
“Of course it is,” said Uncle Mark. “God forbid we should have good weather on a holiday.”
Abram, who appeared not to mind Uncle Mark’s tone, was examining the bottle carefully. “I don’t see anything problematic,” he said. “The reason I had a problem with the glaze you used last year was the corn syrup. Things need to be kosher for Passover.”
