In the Forest of Forgetting

by Theodora Goss

  IN THE FOREST OF FORGETTING

  THEODORA GOSS

  for Kendrick

  Papaveria Press

  www.papaveria.com

  France

  Copyright © Theodora Goss, 2013.

  Cover Art Copyright © Virgnia Lee.

  All Rights Reserved Worldwide.

  ISBN 978 1 907881 28 2

  First print edition was published May 2006 by Prime Books.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the publisher.

  “The Rose in Twelve Petals,” Realms of Fantasy, April 2002.

  “Professor Berkowitz Stands on the Threshold,” Polyphony 2, April 2003.

  “The Rapid Advance of Sorrow,” Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet 11, November 2002.

  “Lily, With Clouds,” Alchemy 1, December 2003.

  “Miss Emily Gray,” Alchemy 2, August 2004.

  “In the Forest of Forgetting,” Realms of Fantasy, October 2003.

  “Sleeping With Bears,” Strange Horizons, November 2003.

  “Letters from Budapest,” Alchemy 3, April 2006.

  “The Wings of Meister Wilhelm,” Polyphony 4, September 2004.

  “Conrad,” original to first print volume.

  “A Statement in the Case,” Realms of Fantasy, August 2005.

  “Death Comes for Ervina,” Polyphony 5, November 2005.

  “The Belt,” Flytrap 4, May 2005.

  “Her Mother’s Ghosts,” from The Rose in Twelve Petals and Other Stories, Small Beer Press, 2004.

  “Pip and the Fairies,” Strange Horizons, October 2005.

  “Lessons with Miss Gray,” Fantasy Magazine 2, May 2005.

  INTRODUCTION BY TERRI WINDLING

  I first encountered the stories of Theodora Goss in the pages of the ’zine Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet (edited by Kelly Link and Gavin Grant), which provides a forum for writers working at the literary and experimental edges of the fantasy field. At that time, I was co-editing The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror annual anthologies for St. Martin’s Press, a job which entailed reading many hundreds of magical and surrealist stories each year. In such a deluge of fiction, it takes an exceptional writer to stand out among all the rest—yet from her very first publications, Goss’s stories caused me to sit up and take notice. Here was a fresh and original voice, combined with an elegance of craft and an artist’s eye for imagery. Her fiction is rooted in the Romantic and Gothic traditions, Victorian fantasy and fairy tales, yet it is also thoroughly contemporary, fashioning the tropes of such genres into new, unfamiliar forms. It is this deft combination of the old and the new that gives Goss’s work its resonance; her stories lull the reader with the familiarity of a myth or a fairy tale re-told and then turn a sharp corner to reveal unexpected streets and vistas beyond. She is a master at evoking liminal spaces, those mysterious places and moments that lie “in between”: the borderlands between countries, between historical eras, between the everyday and numinous worlds, between the shadowed streets of Eastern Europe and the sun drenched roads of America.

  Goss was born in Hungary, crossing the Iron Curtain while she was still a child; she lived in Italy, then Belgium, and eventually settled in the United States. “My childhood is a collection of disjointed memories,” she writes of her early years. “I remember water-weeds clinging to my legs as I hung from the edge of our wooden platform in Lake Balaton. I remember dangling double cherries from my ears - for propriety’s sake, the only earrings I was allowed to wear. I remember the taste of Madár Tej, a sugary cloud of whipped egg whites floating on a pale yellow lake of yolk and milk. And I remember listening, at night, long after I was already supposed to be asleep, to stories from a book of Hungarian fairy tales. Hungarian fairy tales are frightening and sad. Soldiers go off to war, maidens die despite their innocence, witches are relentlessly wicked. I remember a picture of a dragon, green like linden leaves, writhing while the soldier he had eaten chopped open his side with a cavalry saber and emerged from his bowels. Red stained his vivid hide. Dragons were easy to understand. It was harder to understand why no one could know that we would soon be leaving the country, why I could not practice the English words I was learning in front of my friends.

  “My mother had worked for a year in the United States as a medical student, and she had always wanted to return. She no longer wanted to live in Hungary, where everything seemed lost—land to redistribution, families to diaspora, history to propaganda—and where the air itself tasted of defeat. After her divorce she began the long process of leaving a country with closed borders, bribing officials with liquor and their secretaries with candy, sending money to her sister, who had been allowed to leave the country when she fell in love with and married an Italian. And then, one day, we were gone, a mother and two children over the border, with two suitcases full of children’s clothes, a perfectly acceptable tourist visa, and no intention of returning. My mother had twenty-five dollars and a medical degree to sustain us.

  “We lived for a time with my aunt in Milan, where I refused to eat a dinner of frogs’ legs after a day of catching frogs on the paths between the flooded rice fields—to play with, I had thought. The next morning, I saw the skeleton of a frog next to the road, picked clean by ants. Just as Hungarian fairy tales had taught me terror, and my carefully rationed mouthfuls of Madár Tej had taught me delight, that skeleton, so delicately perfect, taught me the beauty of form. We lived for a time in Brussels, where we were taught, in school, to brush our teeth twice a day—my first introduction to the hygienic West. On Sundays the Grand Place was filled with flowers—and with parrots, who brought the colors of the tropics to that staid city, where every pedestrian seemed to be a teacher or a banker. And then, at last, a visa—the medical degree having worked its magic—and the lights of New York City, seen from the scratched oval of an airplane window. I had never seen anything so confusing in my life.”

  Goss goes on to reflect on how these early experiences shaped the woman, and the writer, that she eventually became. “We are, all of us, creatures of place,” she says. “Even the roaming tribes of the Mongolian steppes or African grasslands have their seasonal routes, their preferred grazing grounds and water holes. Their places are wider than ours, but they are formed by them just as we are by a house our family has lived in over the years, a hill we have rolled down, a tree we have seen from a bedroom window since childhood. The places we live determine who we are. That is why homelessness is experienced as a loss of self. I had spent my childhood moving from country to country, learning language after language. When we landed that day in New York City, all of my possible selves seemed to have been lost, as though a baggage carrier had mislaid them in the airport of some country we had passed through. I still think, sometimes, of landing in Iceland and finding my younger selves there, grown up and living happily on the side of a glacier.”

  Goss’s sense of displacement began to ease when she discovered the local library and found echoes of her early experiences in the pages of classic fantasy books: tales of young heroes who travel through unknown worlds both wondrous and strange. “I had lost one country after another, but now I discovered new ones, which could never be conquered by foreign powers and which required no passport when crossing the border. I traveled into Narnia through Lantern Waste, then went south to Aslan’s How. I stopped for a week in the Shire and proceeded through the dark passes of Mirkwood to the Lonely Mountain. At some point I took a boat and sailed out to the West Reach, where the dragon Yevaud still curls around the hills of Pendor, guarding his treasure. I watched the sun play on the eddies in the River with Mole and Water Rat, ventured into the mysterious third story of Thornfield Hall, and looked down on London
, sweeping past below, from a nest in North Wind’s hair. I lived for a time, very happily, in the valleys of Nangiyala, then went adventuring again in the strange kingdoms where Azhriaz ruled.

  “I read through elementary school, under the Japanese cherry trees that grow everywhere around Washington D.C., where we had moved so that my mother could work at the National Institutes of Health. In late spring, when the blossoms fell, the asphalt was covered with piles of fragrant pink petals, like the rags of a ball gown. I read through high school, in the National Museum of Art, on a bench in front of my favorite painting—a mid-Victorian allegory of golden-haired Youth sailing down a placid river on a boat piled high with flowers, whose sentimentality exactly suited my taste. I read through college, on the golf-course grass of the University of Virginia, surrounded by Thomas Jefferson’s neoclassical columns, while my mind searched through the library of Miskatonic University for forbidden tomes, or wandered down the streets of Portsmouth, where in the alcoves albino beasts conducted unholy rites.”

  After completing a J.D. at Harvard Law School and working for several years at law firms in New York and Boston, Goss gave in to her passion for literature and decided to leave the law behind. She returned to school to complete an M.A. in English literature at Boston University, where she is currently working on a Ph.D. focusing on the Victorian gothic. She also teaches undergraduate courses on fantasy, and incorporates fantastic stories and poems into courses on more canonical literature. Goss’s scholarly expertise in the realms of romantic and gothic literature forms the ground on which she builds the elegant, mordant, carefully-crafted stories for which she has become known. As a writer who has crossed many borders in her life, she moves easily across the category borders erected by the publishing industry, creating works that could be alternately labeled as fantasy, horror, magical realism, surrealism, revisionist fairy tales and gothic romance, or that fall into the interstitial realm that lies in-between these genres. As a scholar and a critic, she champions “interstitial fiction,” a term used to identify, study, and celebrate works that cross the borders between literary categories; she is currently compiling an anthology of such works with co-editor Delia Sherman. “As a student studying literature,” Goss writes, “I was told there were borders indeed: national (English, American, colonial), temporal (Romantic, Victorian, Modern), generic (fantastic, realistic). Some countries (the novel) you could travel to readily. The drinking water was safe, no immunizations were required. For some countries (the gothic), there was a travel advisory. The hotels were not up to standard; the trains would not run on time. Some countries (the romance) one did not visit except as an anthropologist, to observe the strange behavior of its inhabitants. And there were border guards (although they were called professors), to examine your travel papers as carefully as a man in an olive uniform with a red star on his cap. They could not stop you from crossing the border, but they would tell you what had been left out of your luggage, what was superfluous. Why the journey was a terrible idea in the first place.

  “My problem is not with borders,” Goss explains, “although they are often badly drawn, so that villages within sight of each other, whose inhabitants have intermarried for generations, are assigned to different countries, or Jane Austen, who acknowledged the influence of Ann Radcliffe, is placed in a different tradition. My problem is with the guards who say, ‘You cannot cross the border.’ Because when borders are closed, those on either side experience immobility and claustrophobia, and those who cross them (illegally, by night) suffer incalculable loss.”

  In the stories that follow, Goss is our travel guide across borders both real and imaginary: borders of time, of gender, of genre, of landscape, of culture, and of expectation. She is a writer unafraid to explore countries that lie far beyond the marked map of the fantasy field. Her stories enchant me, surprise me, and move me, and I can’t wait to see where she travels next.

  Terri Windling

  THE ROSE IN TWELVE PETALS

  I. THE WITCH

  This rose has twelve petals. Let the first one fall: Madeleine taps the glass bottle, and out tumbles a bit of pink silk that clinks on the table—a chip of tinted glass—no, look closer, a crystallized rose petal. She lifts it into a saucer and crushes it with the back of a spoon until it is reduced to lumpy powder and a puff of fragrance.

  She looks at the book again. “Petal of one rose crushed, dung of small bat soaked in vinegar.” Not enough light comes through the cottage’s small-paned windows, and besides she is growing nearsighted, although she is only thirty-two. She leans closer to the page. He should have given her spectacles rather than pearls. She wrinkles her forehead to focus her eyes, which makes her look prematurely old, as in a few years she no doubt will be. Bat dung has a dank, uncomfortable smell, like earth in caves that has never seen sunlight.

  Can she trust it, this book? Two pounds ten shillings it cost her, including postage. She remembers the notice in The Gentlewoman’s Companion: “Every lady her own magician. Confound your enemies, astonish your friends! As simple as a cookery manual.” It looks magical enough, with Compendium Magicarum stamped on its spine and gilt pentagrams on its red leather cover. But the back pages advertise “a most miraculous lotion, that will make any lady’s skin as smooth as an infant’s bottom” and the collected works of Scott.

  Not easy to spare ten shillings, not to mention two pounds, now that the King has cut off her income. Rather lucky, this cottage coming so cheap, although it has no proper plumbing, just a privy out back among the honeysuckle.

  Madeleine crumbles a pair of dragonfly wings into the bowl, which is already half full: orris root; cat’s bones found on the village dust heap; oak gall from a branch fallen into a fairy ring; madder, presumably for its color; crushed rose petal; bat dung.

  And the magical words, are they quite correct? She knows a little Latin, learned from her brother. After her mother’s death, when her father began spending days in his bedroom with a bottle of beer, she tended the shop, selling flour and printed cloth to the village women, scythes and tobacco to the men, sweets to children on their way to school. When her brother came home, he would sit at the counter beside her, saying his amo, amas. The silver cross he earned by taking a Hibernian bayonet in the throat is the only necklace she now wears.

  She binds the mixture with water from a hollow stone and her own saliva. Not pleasant this, she was brought up not to spit, but she imagines she is spitting into the King’s face, that first time when he came into the shop, and leaned on the counter, and smiled through his golden beard. “If I had known there was such a pretty shopkeeper in this village, I would have done my own shopping long ago.”

  She remembers: buttocks covered with golden hair among folds of white linen, like twin halves of a peach on a napkin. “Come here, Madeleine.” The sounds of the palace, horses clopping, pageboys shouting to one another in the early morning air. “You’ll never want for anything, haven’t I told you that?” A string of pearls, each as large as her smallest fingernail, with a clasp of gold filigree. “Like it? That’s Hibernian work, taken in the siege of London.” Only later does she notice that between two pearls, the knotted silk is stained with blood.

  She leaves the mixture under cheesecloth, to dry overnight.

  Madeleine walks into the other room, the only other room of the cottage, and sits at the table that serves as her writing desk. She picks up a tin of throat lozenges. How it rattles. She knows, without opening it, that there are five pearls left, and that after next month’s rent there will only be four.

  Confound your enemies, she thinks, peering through the inadequate light, and the wrinkles on her forehead make her look prematurely old, as in a few years she certainly will be.

  II. THE QUEEN

  Petals fall from the roses that hang over the stream, Empress Josephine and Gloire de Dijon, which dislike growing so close to the water. This corner of the garden has been planted to resemble a country landscape in miniature: artificial stream with ornamen
tal fish, a pear tree that has never yet bloomed, bluebells that the gardener plants out every spring. This is the Queen’s favorite part of the garden, although the roses dislike her as well, with her romantically diaphanous gowns, her lisping voice, her poetry.

  Here she comes, reciting Tennyson.

  She holds her arms out, allowing her sleeves to drift on the slight breeze, imagining she is Elaine the lovable, floating on a river down to Camelot. Hard, being a lily maid now her belly is swelling.

  She remembers her belly reluctantly, not wanting to touch it, unwilling to acknowledge that it exists. Elaine the lily maid had no belly, surely, she thinks, forgetting that Galahad must have been born somehow. (Perhaps he rose out of the lake?) She imagines her belly as a sort of cavern, where something is growing in the darkness, something that is not hers, alien and unwelcome.

  Only twelve months ago (fourteen, actually, but she is bad at numbers), she was Princess Elizabeth of Hibernia, dressed in pink satin, gossiping about the riding master with her friends, dancing with her brothers through the ruined arches of Westminster Cathedral, and eating too much cake at her seventeenth birthday party. Now, and she does not want to think about this so it remains at the edges of her mind, where unpleasant things, frogs and slugs, reside, she is a cavern with something growing inside her, something repugnant, something that is not hers, not the lily maid of Astolat’s.

  She reaches for a rose, an overblown Gloire de Dijon that, in a fit of temper, pierces her finger with its thorns. She cries out, sucks the blood from her finger, and flops down on the bank like a miserable child. The hem of her diaphanous dress begins to absorb the mud at the edge of the water.

  III. THE MAGICIAN

  Wolfgang Magus places the rose he picked that morning in his buttonhole and looks at his reflection in the glass. He frowns, as his master Herr Doktor Ambrosius would have frowned, at the scarecrow in faded wool with a drooping gray mustache. A sad figure for a court magician.