The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year Volume Seven

by Jonathan Strahan

  I tell my father many things these days. He likes to listen. When he listens, it does not matter that words are slippery and sentences betray him.

  “I found this on the path to the train station,” I tell him. I hold out the tiny stone tool. I’ve been carrying it in my pocket since I found it. “I can see tiny chips where someone has been working the stone, flaking away bits to make an edge.”

  My father examines the blade. His hand shakes. The skin of his arm is marked with dark purple age spots. He gives the stone back. “Microlith,” he says. Basically, that’s a technical term for “tiny worked stone.” Not saying much I didn’t already know.

  “I found a mirror the other day,” I say.

  “That’s good,” he says. A complete sentence. Short enough that he can get through it without losing his way. Sentences are trickier than you realize, long and twisty. It’s easy to get lost.

  “I need….” he begins. He’s pushing his luck now, working on a longer sentence. What does he need? “I need a mirror.”

  “Really? I’ll bring you the one I found,” I tell him. Does he really need a mirror or is that just the word that came most quickly to mind?

  He nods. “Don’t forget.” Another easy sentence.

  I care about my father in a grudging sort of way. My mother died when I was nine. She committed suicide, jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. Even as a child, I recognized that she was a drama queen, a flamboyant woman given to grand gestures, to great joys and great depression. Today, she might be identified as bipolar.

  My father, on the other hand, is solid and unemotional. After my mother’s death, Dad took care of me in an awkward, casual, ham-handed sort of way. I never went hungry and I never got hugged. It was a balance, of sorts.

  I take after my mother. I understand drama, I understand depression, and I understand the appeal of the dark and foggy waters below the bridge.

  “Don’t forget,” my father says again.

  We eat raspberries in companionable silence.

  “Godzilla is sleeping on top of the mirror, which is lying flat on the bureau. He was there this morning when I left for work. He is there when I get home. Usually, he supervises when I open a can of cat food for him and his brother. But tonight he jumps down from the bureau only after I set the food on the floor. He eats quickly, then returns to the mirror, gazing into it intently, sniffing it carefully, and then lying down on top of it once again. Curled up, he completely covers the glass surface.

  When I sit down at my desk, I pat my lap and call to him. He lifts his head and regards me with that slit-eyed look that one of my friends says is how cats smile. He’s not about to leave his post.

  His brother, Flash, is prowling the apartment restlessly. Every once in a while, he walks past the bureau and looks up at his brother. Then he resumes his patrol.

  Cats have theories. Every cat owner knows that. The cats can’t and won’t tell you their theories. You must deduce the theories from their behavior. Then you have theories about the cats’ theories. If you modify your behavior in response to your theories about their theories, you may change their theories. It is an endlessly recursive loop. The viewer affects the system. It’s Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle with cats.

  I let Godzilla sleep.

  I am doing online research about fairy fashions. To draw convincing fairy clothes, I figure I’d better know what people think fairies wear. It’s edging up on ten PM, and I have to be up at six in the morning to catch the train, but I’m not sleepy at all. When I’m insomniac, I find doing research online very comforting. I used to walk on the Golden Gate Bridge at night—but doing research online is safer.

  I find information on Conan Doyle’s belief in fairies. I find a discussion of pygmy flints, blades of worked stone that some claim are made by the little people. I find hundreds of images of Victorian fairies—pretty ladies with delicate wings.

  Somewhere along the way, I find Rocky’s blog.

  Mostly it is one of those extremely tedious personal blogs that I am amazed that anyone writes and even more amazed that anyone reads. A description of an art opening he attended. Photos of his friends (all in black, of course). Discussion of his plans to attend Burning Man. And a long list of fairy links.

  Rocky, it turns out, has done a lot research that he has not shared with the rest of the team. He has links to fairy porn. (Yes, of course there is fairy porn.) He has links to sites considering the connections between fairies and alien abductions, as well as sites about the original Celtic fairies—amoral creatures that are capable of great malevolence. In Celtic tradition, when someone died people said that they went to be with the fairies. Being touched by a fairy, according to one site, was commonly recognized as the cause of a stroke.

  No sweet and beautiful fairies. No gossamer wings.

  “At the next meeting of the fairyland team, Tiffany gathers ideas for the portal to our fairy site. At Disney’s fairy site, the splash screen has a sprinkling of fairy dust and the words: “Believing is just the beginning.” Then pictures of fairies appear. Tiffany asks the group for an image and words that will capture the essence of our site.

  “A black mirror,” I say. “A portal to another world. And the words—clap if you believe in fairies.”

  I don’t see the need to specify the type of fairy you might believe in. Dark-eyed and sultry; sweet-faced and dressed in pink. That doesn’t matter to me. Clap if you believe.

  Rocky smiles a little. “That could work,” he says.

  After the meeting, Johnny calls to tell me that my dad is in the hospital. Apparently Dad forgot that he could not walk without a walker. He stood up, and then fell down, fracturing his hip.

  I go to the hospital after work. I bring the mirror and set it on one of the chairs in my father’s room. He won’t remember that he said he needed a mirror, but I do.

  Dad is sleeping. The nurse says that he was cursing all day. He said he was going to kick the doctor in the balls. “It’s the Alzheimer’s,” she says.

  I nod, letting her believe what she wants to believe. Clap your hands if you believe that my father doesn’t really want to kick the doctor in the balls.

  I am not clapping.

  I explain to the nurse that we have a DNR, a “do not resuscitate” order for my dad. No heroic measures, I explain. Just keep him comfortable.

  Clap your hands if you believe in death.

  Believing in fairies is much easier, I think. Death is an end, an emptiness, a darkness. People want to believe in the light. Go to the light, they say. We fear the darkness and the unknown, the fairies in the ravine, the world behind the mirror.

  I set the stone tool beside the mirror. I sit by my father’s bed and watch him breathe. His arms are loosely strapped to the rails of the hospital bed. The nurse had told me that they had to strap him down. He kept trying to get out of bed. His hip was broken and he couldn’t walk, but he was still trying to get out of bed.

  My father’s life has been shrinking over the past few years. After I went to college, he lived alone in his Victorian home. When he couldn’t get by on his own, I helped him move to an apartment in a senior residence. Then he moved from that apartment to his room in the board-and-care home. Then he moved from that room into this shared room in a hospital, where all he has is a bed and a table and a curtain that separates his space from that of another old man with a table and bed.

  My father is not conscious. He is lying on his side, his spine curved, his legs bent. A sheet covers him, but I can see the outline of his body through the fabric. He looks smaller than he ever has before. The tube that snakes from beneath the sheet is dripping a cocktail of painkillers into his veins.

  My father is dying. That’s clear.

  Here’s a question. Do I stay and keep watch? Sit by his bed and do what? Read a magazine? Think about his life? Not such a happy life, by my lights.

  What would I like, if I were the one lying on the bed?

  I would like to be left alone.


  So I go home, leaving the mirror and the stone tool on the table by the bed.

  Clap your hands if you believe in death. Clap your hands and my father will die.

  Actually, I’m kidding about that. My father will die no matter whether you clap your hands or not. My father will die, I will die, and someday you will die. You can applaud or remain silent and death won’t care. You can choose to speed up your death—by plunging from a balcony, from a bridge—but all the clapping in the world won’t put death off forever.

  Some discussions of death make it sound all soft and warm, like falling asleep in a feather bed. But falling asleep implies waking up again, and Death means not waking up.

  Not being here.

  Being with the fairies.

  An hour after I leave the hospital, a nurse calls to tell me my father has passed away.

  Here’s what I think happened: My father curled up into the fetal position. He curled up as small as he could. Then he curled up even smaller, then smaller, then smaller still. You might not think a person could shrink, but my father had been shrinking over the last year, growing shorter with each passing day. So he shrank until he was small enough to slip into the fairy mirror. When the time was right, the fairies came through the mirror and took him away with them.

  You see, new fairies are not born. They are transformed through the fairy mirror.

  Flash and Godzilla could see that the way was open. Cats notice that sort of thing. So they blocked the way—sleeping on top of the mirror to keep the fairies in and to keep me out. They were protecting me. They aren’t stupid. They know who opens those cans of cat food.

  My father left his worn out body behind, dressed in the unfortunate hospital gown. Like a snake abandoning its skin, my father slipped out of his body and emerged in the mirror. He felt better. All the life energy that remained in him was concentrated in his smaller form.

  Right now, he’s hunting for mice among the stalks of fennel and the blackberry brambles. He took the stone tool with him. He’ll scavenge a pencil dropped by a commuter, lash the stone blade to the end to make a spear, and go hunting for frogs.

  That’s what I choose to believe.

  “I stop by the hospital to make arrangements for the body that my father has left behind. A kindly social worker helps me, giving me the name of a mortuary, telling me where to call to get copies of the death certificate, offering words of sympathy. Eventually I leave, taking the mirror with me. There’s no sign of the stone tool among my father’s things.

  Late that night, I take the mirror to the train station. Light of a half-moon is shining down on Pennsylvania Street. I walk down the steps to the 22nd Street train station, alert to every noise around me.

  When I reach the train tracks, I head south. No one is there. The graffiti artists are taking a night off. Their past creations look gray and black, the colors invisible in the moonlight.

  A short distance from the benches and ticket machine, the tracks go into a tunnel. I lean the mirror against the wall beside the tunnel entrance. Somehow it seems right to put it by the tunnel mouth, near the entrance to the underworld. Well, maybe not quite the underworld—it isn’t a very long tunnel. But it’s the closest thing to an underworld there is around here.

  My father had smoked when I was young. My early memories of him are tobacco-scented, wreathed in smoke. The father in those memories is strong and tall and energetic. He could sweep me up and toss me in the air, swing me by my arms until my feet left the ground.

  I take a pack of cigarettes from my pocket and I tear the cigarettes open, one by one. I scatter the tobacco on the ground in front of the mirror. I am mixing my magic systems, I know. Native Americans offered tobacco to the spirits. The frogs call; something rustles in the bushes. An opossum? A raccoon? Something else?

  I sit by the train tracks near the mirror for a time and think about death. Every now and then, someone will commit suicide by walking in front of a train. Such a noisy, messy, industrial way to go.

  I leave the mirror and head for home. That night, I surf the web.

  On Rocky’s site, I find that he has been working on a fairyland. When I log in, I am given an avatar.

  This is not a fairyland that would meet with Tiffany’s approval. Yes, there are leafy groves, but the trees are gnarled and menacing, draped with Spanish moss. Little light reaches the forest floor and I have the sense the creatures other than fairies lurk in the shadows.

  There’s a fairy village, but the mud huts are neither elegant nor appealing. The carcass of a mouse, marked with the wounds that killed it, hangs curing in the shadows. There are no fairies in residence.

  I explore Rocky’s fairyland carefully. In the dark bole of a hollow oak I find a tunnel that goes down, down, down into the underworld.

  I move my avatar through the darkness, the way illuminated by faintly glowing marks on the tunnel walls. I reach a dead end. A wooden door, closed with a bar and a large padlock, blocks my way.

  I lay my hand on the door and the words “THIS WAY CLOSED” glow on the bar in neon green. I know what to do.

  I reach out to the letters and touch the D, then the E, then the A, T, H. Death. Each letter winks out when I touch it. When I touch the H, the padlock and the bar dissolve. The door opens.

  I stand by the open doorway, looking into a dark and misty world. I listen—and in the distance, I hear the low wail of a train’s horn, the rumble of metal wheels on tracks. I catch a faint scent of wild fennel and tobacco.

  Listening to the train rumble in the distance, I know the way is open, but I don’t need to go there. I close the door.

  “At work the next day, I see Rocky in the lunchroom and pull up a chair next to him. “I visited Fairyland last night,” I tell him.

  He glances at me, startled.

  “I particularly liked your attention to detail in the hollow oak,” I continue.

  He can’t help himself—he is smiling now. A little smug, more than a little arrogant.

  “Nice trick on the password.”

  That surprised him. “You opened the door?”

  My turn to nod. “Obviously, I didn’t go in.”

  He is considering me now—eyes narrowing. “Maybe later,” he says.

  “That goes without saying.” I study him for a moment—face soft as a boy’s, the arrogant confidence of the young in his eyes. Forever young. “I’ve been wondering where you got the name Rocky,” I say. “Nobody names their kid Rocky.”

  I’ve been thinking about Rocky, a twenty-something web designer with an attitude and an obsession with death. Could he be something more?

  Do you believe in Peter Pan? A boy who never grows up, a boy who knows his way to fairyland and back, a boy with the power of death in his hands. When Disney made a movie of Peter Pan, they kept the happy moments, but left out the essence. When Wendy’s mother thinks about Peter Pan she remembers this: when children die, Peter Pan goes partway with them. Partway to fairyland where the dead people are.

  “The next day, at the 22nd Street train station, I look for the mirror. It’s gone. Perhaps someone who needed a mirror picked it up. I hope they have a cat.

  I sit on the bench by the tracks, sketching in my notebook as I wait for the train. In my sketch, two fairies crouch beneath the feathery fronds of a fennel plant. They wear war paint, stripes of color on their cheeks that help them blend with the shadows. One holds a spear made from a chipped stone point lashed to a pencil. He looks a bit like my father when he was younger and happier. The other fairy wears a Tinker Bell skirt, but she has a stone knife at her belt. Her face is in the shadows, but she has dark hair like my mother. It is sunny where they are. I’m glad of that.

  These two are hunting for mice, I think. Tiffany’s fairies drink dewdrops and sip nectar from flowers. Mine prefer protein.

  The fairies look purposeful, but content. They have a simple existence: a hut to live in, mice and frogs to hunt. But that’s enough.

  The sun shines on the hillside
covered with fennel and blackberries, on the concrete marked with messages that are not for me. In the stream, the irises are blooming.

  LET MAPS TO OTHERS

  KJ PARKER

  K. J. Parker was born long ago and far away, worked as a coin dealer, a dogsbody in an auction house, and a lawyer, and has so far published thirteen novels (the “Fencer,” “Scavenger” and “Engineer” trilogies, and standalone novels The Company, The Folding Knife, The Hammer and Sharps), three novellas (“Purple And Black,” “Blue And Gold” and “A Small Price To Pay For Birdsong,” which won the 2012 World Fantasy Award) and a gaggle of short fiction. Married to a lawyer and living in the southwest of England, K. J. Parker is a mediocre stockman and forester, a barely competent carpenter, blacksmith, and machinist, a two-left-footed fencer, lackluster archer, utility-grade armorer, accomplished textile worker, and crack shot.

  K. J. Parker is not K. J. Parker’s real name. However, if K. J. Parker were to tell you K. J. Parker’s real name, it wouldn’t mean anything to you.

  There is such a place. And I have been there.

  They all say that, don’t they? They say; I met someone once who spent five years there, disguised as a holy man. Or; the village headman told me his people go there all the time, to trade timber and flour for spices. Or; the priest showed me things that had come from there—a statuette, a small, curiously fashioned box, a pair of shoes, a book I couldn’t read. Or; from the top of the mountain we looked out across the valley and there it was, on the other side of the river, you could just make out the sun glinting off the spires of the temples. Or; I was taken there, I saw the Great Gate and the Forbidden Palace, I sat and drank goat-butter tea with the Grand Master, who was seven feet tall and had his eyes, nose and mouth set in the middle of his chest.

  You hear them, read them. The first, second, third time, you believe. The fourth time, you want to believe. The fifth time, you notice a disturbing pattern beginning to emerge—how they were always so close they could hear the voices of the children and smell the woodsmoke, but for this reason or that reason they couldn’t go the last two hundred yards and had to turn back (but it was there, it is there, it’s real, it really exists). The sixth time breaks your heart. By the seventh time, you’re a scholar, investigating a myth.