The Necessity of Stars
Page 7
Memory was armor. I should have remembered my own world—should have remembered how one can be discovered when one intends to hide. We were eaten this way; we were erased. Memory was armor—the thing we put on to defend ourselves from the world. Memory protected us—kept us from burning ourselves on the hot coals we once picked up. Memory told us not to stray from the path into the woods—it wasn’t wolves that lingered there, but the shadows of the trees. The shadows that could be predator or prey. Memory allowed us to become what we liked, what we needed in order to hide what we are.
That morning—this morning—the mirror reflected no change. I look as I have always looked, old and failing, but I’m standing straighter, and I see the confidence that was lacking. I do not hunch over, I do not shake, and I can remember—
Delphine and stars and a shadow that was not a shadow.
“Tura,” I whispered.
There was no reply—but for the gleam in my eyes. Like planets, I thought, and then laughed. Old women were allowed to be foolish, weren’t they. But I could remember it all—I had walked naked through the garden. A plea: Consume me. And Tura had.
I touched my fingers to my lips—I could remember the consumption. I could remember too, that Delphine had been attacked, that she was in a room down the hall, and when I peered in at her, I found her sleeping comfortably. I wanted to linger there, wanted and meant to tell her consume me, but I remembered other things: Sugden was here, Sugden and his men, and I wanted them out of my house. But Sugden wanted me to do the diplomatic thing.
“I am Bréone Hemmerli,” I whispered, as I walked downstairs. “I am the Special Representative of the Secretary-General of the United Nations.” I knew what that meant—only Bréone Hemmerli could speak with Prime Minister Johnson and First Minister Campbell and find the terms that would bring them together. Only Bréone Hemmerli.
Sugden was waiting in the kitchen, where he was putting himself back together. He knit his shadows away so neatly, it stole my breath and I almost envied him. How long had Sugden done so? I always felt like there was a little of my shadow self peeking out from the skin I wore. How the shadows get deeper when the sun climbs higher—that is how I felt all the time, dark and leaking. Would he see it? Would he know me for the prey he sought the way he had sought Delphine?
Sugden turned and he did not see. He had never seen me. “Bréone—good. We have work before us.”
How good it was to be necessary.
“Will you walk in the garden with me?” I asked. I gestured to the kitchen door and Sugden paused, eyes narrowed. Older women had a way of outliving their usefulness—I could almost see the thought cross his mind as we paused there. But I saw, too, the memory—Delphine caught off guard. Delphine on the grass of her garden. And me in the pond of mine. Sugden believed he would have the upper hand—he did not see my shadow self. He did not know I remembered.
I don’t want you to forget this. How could I ever?
Perhaps it was in the wrong order, but I remembered it all. The way I had found Tura. The way they had transformed me. The way we had transformed one another. The way Tura helped me remember. The weight of Delphine beside me, the drape of her hair across my shoulder in the morning light. We could have those memories again. Now.
And so Sugden dipped his head in a nod and headed outside—into the garden without his security detail, for he had grown careless in an old woman’s home. Into the garden where the trees held their shadows until I let go of my own—and they followed, down to the ground where we pulled Sugden to his knees, and pulled the predatory shadows from his mouth. His howling mouth. The claim was swift and hard. My teeth were ivory and he was the rabbit. Did he understand?
Stars do not explain themselves.
When I don’t remember my name, I will remember this.
* * *
THE END
Acknowledgments
Sometimes, my life feels like Bréone’s: isolated. And then, I look around to discover I am surrounded by an embarrassment of riches—namely my writing community. I have been blessed to cross paths with the most gifted writers, who constantly take time from their busy lives to help me make my work stronger. They certainly did that with this novella. The Necessity of Feedback.
My thanks to Alix E. Harrow, who pointed out all the places where one might get lost in this dim garden and need more hand-holding. My thanks to A. C. Wise, who talked with me about pacing and the non-linear nature of my work. My thanks to Suzan Palumbo, who always encourages me to think about the intersection of race and language. My thanks to Alex Acks, who dives in with enthusiasm, even when my work is not their jam. My thanks to Lindsay Thomas, whose own work helps me find the poetry within the story I am telling. (Thanks to Alex and Lindsay too, for tolerating the way I fangirled and squealed my way through the Claude Monet: The Truth of Nature exhibit at the Denver Art Museum. Monet was the influence for Bréone’s gardens in Normandy, and getting to experience so much of his work in person was overwhelming.) And thanks to Lex Hunter, who loved Bréone and Delphine so completely and allowed me to trust I could lean fully into that pairing. (And to dave ring who asked for even more.)
The chances I have forgotten someone in these notes is high; alas, I cannot blame it on the influence of aliens, only the limits of this human mind.
About the Author
Since 2000, E. Catherine Tobler has sold more than 120 science fiction and fantasy short stories to markets such as Apex, Lightspeed, Fantasy, and Interzone. Her Clarkesworld story, “To See the Other (Whole Against the Sky)” was a finalist for the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award. She has published seven novels with small press markets, and co-edited the fantasy anthology Sword & Sonnet, which was on the Ditmar, Aurealis, and World Fantasy award ballots. In 2019, her thirteen year run as editor at Shimmer Magazine made her a Hugo and World Fantasy finalist. In June 2020, her first short fiction collection, The Grand Tour, was published with Apex Book Company.
About the Press
Neon Hemlock Press is an emerging purveyor of zines, queer chapbooks and speculative fiction.