Mammoth Book of Best New SF 19

by Gardner Dozois

  The demons had a bottle. Passing it from one hand to the next, each took a long sip and held it in his mouth, and after the last demon had his fill, they spat out what looked like water. Except this water caused the fire to blossom and roar, singeing the branches high in the surrounding trees.

  Demons liked poisons. They drank them and ate them, and that was one reason that they were demons.

  Raven wondered how it would taste, having that false water in your mouth?

  A demon turned abruptly, shuffling toward their hiding place. He was small and clumsy. With both hands, he opened his pants, and he stopped at the edge of the nettles, taking a long, slow pee. His prick was small and wrong-looking. His face had a wild hairiness, and his eyes were stupid and slow. But nothing about the demon was genuinely unpleasant. That was what Raven was thinking, watching the creature pee and shake its prick and laugh in a joyous, honest way.

  The bottle was emptied, and another bottle was opened and drained. Then the four demons crawled inside a pair of shelters, and in another breath or two, the night was filled with the sounds of deep, wet snoring.

  The brothers crept forward.

  “Demons sleep hard,” Uncle liked to say. “They sleep so hard, you could steal their arms, and they wouldn’t even feel your knife.”

  Remembering the phrase, Raven laughed.

  “Quiet,” Snow-On-Snow warned.

  The Moon had fallen behind the hills. The brothers picked their way through slick bags and bulging packs. A metal box was set near the dying fire, held shut with a metal clamp. Snow-On-Snow tried to open the box, then gave up. Seeing the opportunity to better his brother, Raven stared at the clamp until he saw it perfectly, and he quietly twisted it, releasing the lid, a breath of damp cold air leaking out.

  Inside the box was a marvel. Ice. The ice was in pieces, floating in icy water, and with it were metal bottles and glass bottles and a great plastic tube filled with what looked like meat.

  Meat was a treasure worth stealing.

  Raven claimed the tube and sucked on chunks of ice. Snow-On-Snow went down by the water, looking at the long metal bowls. Raven eased up alongside the demons’ shelters. One shelter was yellow, the other orange. He touched the taut fabric and ropes, and he picked up a soggy boot and turned it over. Something small and yellow tried to fall free. He caught it and held it up to the firelight. A narrow rope clung to the treasure, and there was a curl of metal at the rope’s far end. A soft button waited beneath his thumb. He touched the button, and sounds began to leak from the curled metal. Raven heard voices. Putting the curled metal to his ear, he made the voices become louder. For an instant, he nearly panicked. But Snow-On-Snow heard nothing. He was bending over another pack, tugging at a little zipper. Did anyone notice him? Grandfather might be watching, but from a distance. Raven decided that he didn’t care. He pressed the button again, and the voices stopped. Then he moved to a brush pile, fitting his dangerous treasure beneath a slab of rotted wood.

  Snow-On-Snow noticed Raven and began walking toward him, wearing a curious face; but then a demon cried out, and the orange shelter twisted as legs and arms flailed wildly.

  The brothers ran back to their hiding place, each carrying a single treasure. Raven had the meat, and Snow-On-Snow had a pair of odd moccasins. The young men had barely hidden when the screaming demon crawled into the open, followed by his shelter mate. Then a third demon looked out of the other shelter, asking a question, and the scared demon answered him.

  Raven heard another word that he recognized.

  “Dream,” he heard.

  The first two demons threw wood on the fire. Soon the bottomland was lit up like day. The dreaming demon was the same creature that had pissed in front of them. He sat on the metal box, wearing almost nothing. His face was sad and bothered. Whatever the dream, it had been terrible. The other demon said soft words and looked at his friend and said more words. That was what they were doing when Blue Clad came out of the darkness.

  He rode up inside his metal wagon. The demons never noticed him, hearing nothing but the crackling sputter of their own fire. A pair of twin lights ignited, slicing across the campsite. The two demons climbed to their feet. Wagon doors swung open. A familiar voice, rough and loud, shouted at the invaders. Then came the sharp clean sound of metal against metal, and a second voice, younger and a little scared, called out, “Hands up! Do it!”

  Yellow Hair was with his father. He was a small demon, like his mother. His hands held a shotgun. Blue Clad pointed a rifle at the sky. He looked huge and furious, his brown skin shiny with sweat, his blue trousers dirty at the knees, thick arms shaking and his breath coming hard until he found his voice.

  He said “Who,” followed by more words.

  The nameless demons answered, their voices sloppy and quick. Then the other demons crawled from their shelter, looking angry and confused.

  Blue Clad said, “Shut up!”

  Then he spat out more words.

  The demons glanced at each other, their mouths hanging open. “Now!” Yellow Hair shouted, drawing a circle with the barrel of his shotgun.

  The invaders grabbed their packs. They turned over their long bowls and threw in their packs. But when they came back for the icebox, Blue Clad said, “No.” Then he said something else. And the half-dressed demons left it and the shelters on the ground. They pushed the long bowls out into the river and climbed in, slashing at the water with those flat pieces of wood. It would remain night for a long while. The Moon was down, and there were rapids after the next bend. But the demons were terrified and brave because of it, pushing at the water under them, outracing the current as it slipped across the dirty white sandbars.

  Blue Clad and his son walked slowly through the campsite. Yellow Hair saw something and pointed, and his father looked at the ground, nodding and offering a few words. And then together, they looked back across the open ground, watching the shadows, watching hard for something.

  Raven had walked on that ground.

  They must have noticed one of his little footprints, and now they would find him and his brother. Raven knew it. Then they would find Mother and Grandfather, and because they were demons, they would shoot them dead — all because of the carelessness of one boy.

  Raven wished that he were dead.

  But then Blue Clad used his boots, smoothing the sandy ground, and he climbed into his wagon with little Yellow Hair beside him, and they rode away together, the wagon’s bright lights showing the way down the long, long length of the world.

  The people stood on the riverbank. Uncle returned from his unmentioned errand, and now there were seventeen faces. Snow-On-Snow happily described their adventures, while Raven took his share of the salted red meat, sitting near the fire, slicing off pieces with an old demon knife and eating them slowly, tasting none of the salt or sweet fat.

  Grandfather came over and looked at him. Then he looked back at the others, thinking to himself.

  Raven said nothing.

  The old man sat on the ground before him. “The world was once a better place,” he began. “The People were abundant and happy, and if they were not perfect, at least they were on the path to an ideal life. But then the demons came. Like a flood, they came. They drowned our lands and killed the buffalo and made us live on evil ground where the children and old ones died away. That is why —”

  “I know that story, Grandfather.”

  Raven had never interrupted before, but the rudeness went unmentioned. Instead, Grandfather spoke about people long dead. “My grandfather’s grandfather was a strong medicine man. He had a vision. In his vision, he was shown a valley free of demons. And it would remain pure, if good people would live there. So he and a few believers slipped away, and they became us, and we found grass and fresh water and a few elk and buffalo still hiding in these draws. We learned to hide by day —”

  “And hunt by night,” Raven interrupted. “Yes, I know all that.”

  Grandfather looked at him. “What d
o you know, little boy?”

  “I am not a little boy,” said Raven.

  “What are you?” asked Grandfather.

  Raven closed his eyes, telling the old man, “Blue Clad knows about us. Somehow he knows that we are here.”

  For an instant, it felt as if anything might happen. But then Grandfather broke into a low laugh, balancing his share of the stolen meat on his trouser leg, using his good hand to break off slivers that he could swallow whole. “Of course he knows about us,” Grandfather admitted. “He knows and his father knew before him, and his grandfather before them.”

  What was stranger? Was it Grandfather’s confession or the ease in his voice?

  “Demons are demons,” the old man added. “But if you can charm a few of them, then you’ll have powerful allies.”

  The sun was trying to rise. Raven watched the women and children picking through the demons’ lost belongings. Uncle was standing with the other grown men, sucking at the ice and smiling, one hand playing with his long black hair. Quietly, Raven said, “I know who brought Blue Clad here.”

  Grandfather nodded soberly. “I didn’t approve. There was no reason to involve Blue Clad. But your mother’s brother is a grown man, and grown men do what they wish.”

  Raven smiled, playing with the idea of being that free.

  Then the old man grabbed him by the knee, his good hand squeezing while a hard, certain voice said, “Men can do as they wish. But because they are men, the consequences will do the same to them.”

  Raven left the voice-making machine in the woodpile, claiming it only when he was sure that nobody was watching him. Then in secret, he listened to the tiny voices. He heard demons speaking and singing. With the ends of the curled metal stuck in his ears, it was as if they were singing inside his own head. The machine worked best near the sky, which was where he kept it, sneaking away at night to listen for a few delicious moments. A little wheel could be turned, moving him from voice to voice, nothing between but a sputtering sound like fat on a fire. A second wheel made every sound louder or softer. And there was a hard black button that could be moved, causing a new flock of voices and songs to fall out of the increasingly cold night air.

  Raven felt half-deaf when he used the machine, and when it was put away, he still heard the buzzing of voices. That was their magic and their danger. To let the buzzing fade, he remained sitting for a time, staring out between the metal ropes, watching the spirit realm with its own grass and rolling hills and the mooing short-hairs. Everything out there looked like the real world, except for the differences. There was no river out there, and no trees. And on the clear nights, in the direction of summer, towers of shimmering white light rose into the air. Each tower marked a demon village. Uncle had explained this to Raven. Those villages were huge and noisy, and even when demons slept, everything was kept brightly lit. Each village had its own peculiar name. Uncle could point to a tower, repeating a senseless name. Then with the next breath, he would say, “I am not suppose to tell you this. Do you understand? You are too young to use what I say.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “This is our secret.”

  Raven smiled agreeably. “Yes. Our secret.”

  It was the rare night when Uncle sat with him. The man preferred to be hunting, even in fat times. A strong man with busy hands and legs, he was always moving in one fashion or another. More than anyone, Uncle hated being underground, and he used any excuse to escape. The women gossiped about his moods, and Mother teased him. “Where is your mind walking, brother?” she would ask, laughing but not laughing. “What scares you so badly when you look at the darkness?”

  Uncle would understand the yellow machine. That was why Raven dropped it into his hands, saying, “I found this.”

  “When did you find this?” Uncle asked.

  “Not long ago.” It wasn’t a lie. Not really. “This button wakes it. And this wheel makes it louder —”

  “I know how the bastard works!”

  Raven fell silent.

  Uncle listened to the voices. Then he put the machine to sleep again, and he flipped it in his hand and pulled off its back, thick fingers yanking free two silver cylinders.

  “Your batteries are old,” Uncle muttered.

  “Batteries” was a demon word. Their demon torches used bigger, fatter batteries than these.

  “The next time I wander,” said Uncle, “maybe I will bring you some fresh batteries. Would you like that?”

  Raven hesitated, and then said, “Yes. Please.”

  “I thought so.” Uncle stood and cocked his arm, flinging the machine far out into the spirit realm. Its back and body vanished into the tired autumn grass, and each battery hit the sand with a soft little thump.

  “Why did you do that?” Raven whispered.

  Uncle looked at him. Then he gazed up at the softly shimmering towers of light, shaking his head while asking, “Really, what did you think I would do? When you showed that thing to me, what did you think?”

  Winter was early and angry. Grandfather claimed to have lived through worse, but nobody else had seen such cold. A hard rain turned to ice, and a two-day snow fell afterward, the winds piling the snow into drifts as big as hills. The precious grass was trapped beneath the winter. Without a thaw, the deer and antelope would starve before spring. There was whispered talk of famine. There were meetings in the main room. Raven sat with the adults, listening to every word. Counts were made of their food. People volunteered to eat less and less often. Uncle wanted to butcher several of the short-hairs, but Mother didn’t approve. “We’ve killed three since spring,” she reminded everyone. “Blue Clad won’t like losing a fourth.”

  There were strict, ancient rules about the short-hairs.

  “We will have to staunch Blue Clad’s anger,” Uncle allowed. “I will go out and talk to the wind and see what a short-hair is worth.”

  Raven knew what he meant. But when the children asked where Uncle was going, he repeated the lie. “Shadow-Below is chatting with the wind,” he said, using a stern, believable voice.

  Uncle returned and shook his head. “Blue Clad demands much. Very much.” Then he said a number.

  Raven didn’t understand the number.

  Grandfather reached into his medicine bag, removing slips of thin green fabric. “This is not enough,” he admitted. “We need more.”

  Uncle went to his chamber to make ready. He had visited the spirit realm many times, but it was never an easy journey. There were cleansing rituals and special demon clothes kept for these times, and Uncle needed to practice speaking demon words until he could say them easily.

  “Where will you go?” Raven asked, watching Uncle make ready.

  Uncle didn’t answer. He was staring at the earthen wall, his face long and his eyes empty. Then he suddenly looked at his nephew, explaining, “I will take a long walk.”

  “How long?”

  Uncle looked away. “I have work, Raven. Leave me.”

  Wounded, the young man returned to the main room. He sat apart from the others, watching the flickering flames of the tallow candles. Then Uncle appeared, and everyone called him, “Samuel.” That was his demon name. “Good luck to you, Samuel,” said Grandfather, watching as his son kicked loose the tree limbs holding the door in place.

  Uncle barely looked back. He climbed out into the roaring cold of the night, and the door was shut again, and Raven imagined his hero walking across the empty snow, aiming for one of those great towers of light.

  Uncle would be gone for ten or twelve days.

  “We have friends among the demons,” Grandfather explained to Raven, speaking man-to-man. “They used to belong to The People. They will give us whatever we need.”

  “What do we need?” Raven asked.

  “This,” said the old man. He brought out those little green hides. “These are charms. Powerful demon charms.”

  Every charm wore a face. The top face looked wise and kind; it was hard to think of this face as belon
ging to an enemy.

  “What are you thinking, Raven?”

  “Nothing.” But that was a lie. He was imagining himself marching across the spirit realm, covering great stretches of dangerous and strange country. In his mind, he was walking beside Uncle, holding the pace despite deep snow and the bitter, killing winds.

  Grandfather heard the lie in his voice.

  Quietly and firmly, he said, “Ask your uncle about his adventures. When it is just the two of you, ask for a story.”

  “May I, Grandfather?”

  “This once,” said the old man. “Just this once.”

  But Uncle didn’t return. Ten days became twenty days. Winter still lay over everything, the true world white and dangerous. Raven and the older men hunted on the mildest nights, but game was scarce and wary, and without Uncle’s skills, it was difficult to kill enough to feed the only sixteen People left in the world.

  After thirty days, Grandfather made a decision. He put on old demon clothes that rode loose on his withered frame. A piece of slick brown cloth was tied like a noose around his neck. Then he put a heavy demon coat over those clothes and stuffed some of the green charms into a pocket, and with a grave voice, he said, “Nothing is wrong. I am sure of it.”

  Mother and the other women wept as the old man staggered off into the darkness. And the last of the men held the women, wiping at their own wet eyes.

  Another ten days passed.

  After five more days of waiting, just as hope was flickering out, a foot pounded weakly on the main door. Twice and then twice again, the signal was given. Then Grandfather fell inside, half-frozen and his fingers burned by the cold. He was stripped and wrapped in deer fur, and everyone sat close to him, sharing heat. Weaker men would have died. Grandfather nearly died, but in the end, he lost only a pair of toes.