The Year's Best SF 11 # 1993

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  The creek was apart from all that. It was finished and complete, in a pure and tranquil state. Alma felt certain nothing more could happen here that could possibly enhance this magic place. She felt she was seven, she felt she was ten, she felt her sister Lucy by her side. And as she stood there caught up in the spell, lost in the enchantment of the day, her eyes seemed to draw her to the bridge, to the shadows under old and rusted iron.

  Alma held her breath. Something seemed to flicker there, vague and undefined, something like a dazzle or a haze. A pale shaft dancing for an instant through the quiet. Dust motes captured in an errant beam of light. It was there and it was gone and it wasn’t gone at all.

  “Hello, Aunt Alma,” Cush said.

  Alma stood perfectly still. She felt incredibly calm, she felt frightened and alarmed, she felt totally at ease.

  “Are you there, Aunt Alma, are you there?”

  “I’m right here, Cush,” Alma said. “I’m glad to see you’re talking some better than you could.” His voice was a croak, like gravel in a can. “I’ve brought you some oatmeal, hon. You need to eat something hot and good.”

  “Tell mother that I’m doing just fine,” Cush said. “You tell her that for me.”

  “Now, you ought to tell her that yourself,” Alma said, “that’s what you ought to do. Cush, you shouldn’t be staying down here. You shouldn’t be out beneath a bridge.”

  “I’m where I ought to be,” Cush said.

  “Now, why you say that?”

  “This is where I got to stay, this is where I got to be.”

  “You already told me that. What I’d like to know is why.”

  “This is where I am, Aunt Alma. Right here’s where I got to be.”

  He may be different, Alma thought, but he’s just as aggravating as any other child I’ve ever known.

  “Now, Cush—” Alma said, and that’s as far as Alma got. Words that might have been were never said. Alma was struck by a great rush of loneliness and joy, shaken to her soul by a wave of jubilation and regret, nearly swept away by chaos and accord.

  As quickly as it came, the moment passed and let her go. Let her go but held her with the faint deep whisper of the earth. Held her with a hint of the sweet oscillation of the stars. She tried to remember the universal dance. Tried her best to hum the lost chord. There were things she had forgotten, there were things she almost knew. She hung on the restive edge of secrets nearly told, a breath away from mysteries revealed. She wondered if she’d died or if she’d just come to life. She wondered why they both looked just the same.

  And when she found herself again, when her heart began to stir, she looked into the shadow of the bridge. She looked, and there was Cush. Cush, or a spiderweb caught against the sun; Cush, or a phantom spark of light.

  “Cush, I know you’re there,” Alma said. “Cush, you talk to me, you hear?”

  Alma stood and listened to the creek. She listened to a crow call far off in the trees. She listened and she waited in the hot electric summer afternoon.…

  * * *

  Pru wasn’t any better and she wasn’t any worse. Pastel shades were still clouding up her head. Mint seemed the color of the day. She said she felt she had a rush, and took three or four baths before dark. She soaked herself in European soap and rubbed Chinese lotions on her skin. Every hour and a half, she completely changed her clothes.

  Alma couldn’t take all the bathing and the changing and the scurrying about. It made her dizzy just to watch. She prowled through the kitchen, searching for anything that wasn’t in a can or in a sack. Lord God, Alma thought, there’s a garden outside that would bring Luther Burbank to tears, and Pru’s got a corner on Spam.

  She went outside and picked several ears of corn. She yanked up carrots big as Little League bats. She made a hot supper and a salad on the side, and took it up to Pru. Pru picked around a while and wrinkled up her nose.

  “What kinda stuff is this?”

  “Those are vegetables, Pru. You probably never saw one before. We grow ’em all the time on Mars.”

  “I ain’t real hungry right now.”

  “Pretend you’ve got Fruit Loops and a Coke,” Alma said. “I’ll leave your plate here.”

  * * *

  Alma went back downstairs and ate alone. She took a lot of time cleaning up. She did things she didn’t have to do. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to think about Cush or what had happened at the bridge.

  Nothing did any good at all. Cush was in her head and he wouldn’t go away. “I don’t even know what happened out there,” Alma said. “I don’t know if anything did.”

  Whatever it was, it had left her full of hope and disbelief, full of doubt and good cheer, full of bliss and awful dread. She felt she was nearly in tune, on the edge of perfect pitch. She felt she nearly had the beat. That’s what he did, Alma thought. He gave me a peek somewhere and brought me back. Brought me back and never told me where I’d been.

  Alma left the house and walked out onto the porch. The air was hot and still. Night was on the way, and the land and the sky were strangely green. It looked like Oz, right before the wizard came clean.

  Oh Lord, Alma thought, looking out into the quickly fading light, I guess I knew. I knew and I didn’t want to see. I wrote it all down and I thought that’d make it go away. The farm and the money and Uncle John Fry, nothing the way it ought to be. And all of that coming out of Cush. Coming from a child with awful skin and a baked potato head.

  “Who are you, Cush,” Alma called into the night. “Tell me who you are, tell me what you got to do!”

  The cornfield shimmered with luminescent light. The air seemed electric, urgent and alive, she could feel it as it danced along her skin, she could feel the night press upon the land, she could feel the deep cadence of the earth.

  “It’s going to happen,” Alma said, and felt a chill. “It’s going to happen and it’s going to happen here. Who are you, Cush,” she said again. “Tell me what it is you’ve got to do.…”

  * * *

  Alma tried to rest. She knew she wouldn’t get away with that. Not in Pru’s house, and not tonight. She dozed now and then. She made tea twice. The wind picked up and began to shake the house. It blew from the north, then shifted to the south. Tried the east and tried the west, and petered out.

  A little after one, she fell asleep. At two, she woke up with a start. Pru was screaming like a cat. Alma wrapped her robe around herself and made her way back up the stairs.

  “Don’t turn on the light!” Pru shouted, when Alma opened up the door.

  “Pru, I’m getting tired of trying to find you in the dark,” Alma said. She felt her way around the walls. A glow from downstairs showed her Pru. She was huddled on the floor in the corner by the bed. She was shaking like a malted-milk machine: and her eyes were fever bright.

  “Pru, what’s the matter with you, child?” Alma sat down and held her tight.

  “Oh God,” Pru said, “my whole insides are full of fleas. It might be fire ants or bees, it’s hard to tell. They’re down in my fingers and my toes. They’re crawling in my knees.”

  Alma felt Pru’s head. “I’d say you’re right close to a hundred and three. I’ll find you an aspirin somewhere. I’ll make a cup of tea.”

  “I’ve got some Raid beneath the sink, you might bring me some of that. Oh Jesus, Aunt Alma, I’m scared. I think something’s wrong with Cush. I think he needs his mama bad. I think I better go and see.”

  “I don’t think Cush needs a thing,” Alma said, “I think Cush is doing fine. Pru, you better come downstairs and sleep with me. We’ll keep off all the lights.”

  “Don’t matter,” said Pru. “Dark helps some, but it don’t keep the pinks from sneakin’ in. I can take them limes, I can tolerate the peach, but I can’t put up with pink.”

  “I’ll get a pill,” Alma said, “you try and get some sleep.”

  Alma helped Pru back into bed and went out and closed the door. Lord God, she thought, I don�
��t know what to do. You can’t hardly reason with a person’s got decorator colors in her head.

  * * *

  Alma’s watch said a quarter after three. She didn’t even try to go to bed. She sat in the kitchen and drank a cup of tea. She tried not to think about Cush. She tried not to think about Pru. Everything would work itself out. Everything would be just fine. She could hear Pru pacing about. Walking this way and that, humming a Ray Charles tune. Likely works good in the dark, Alma thought.

  At exactly four o’clock, the lights began to flicker on and off. The wind came up again, this time blowing straight down. Alma knew high-school science by heart, and she’d never heard of that. Cups and dishes rattled on the shelves. The teapot slid across the sink. Cabinets and drawers popped open all at once. Peanut butter did a flip, and food from overseas hopped about.

  Alma held onto the Kenmore stove. She knew that Sears made their stuff to last. In a moment, the rumbles and the shakes came abruptly to a halt. The wind disappeared, and Alma’s ears began to pop. Something spattered on the window, something drummed upon the roof, and the rain began to fall. Alma ran into the parlor and peeked out through the blinds. Pink lightning sizzled through the corn. Every bush and every tree, every single blade of grass, was bathed in pale coronal light. Light danced up the steps and up the porch and in the house. It danced on the ceiling on the walls and on the floor. It crawled along the tables and the lamps.

  Lord, Alma thought, this isn’t going to set well with Pru. She listened, but she didn’t hear a sound from upstairs. Pru wasn’t singing anymore, but she wasn’t up stomping or crying out.

  The rain stopped as quickly as it came. Alma stepped out onto the porch. The very air was charged, rich and cool and clean. It made Alma dizzy just to breathe. The sky overhead was full of stars. The first hint of morning started glowing in the east, darts of color sharp as Northern Lights. And as the day began to grow, as the shadows disappeared, Alma saw them everywhere about, people standing in the road, people standing in the corn, people standing everywhere, and everyone looking past the field and through the woods, everyone looking toward the bridge.

  Alma looked past the corn, past the people and the trees. Something pure and crystal bright struck her eyes, something splendid as a star, something radiant and white. Alma caught her breath. She looked at the light and she laughed and cried with joy. She felt she ought to sing. She felt goofy in the head, she felt lighter than a gnat. She felt as if someone had shot her up with bliss.

  “It’s going to happen,” Alma said, “it’s going to happen and it’s going to happen here!”

  Alma couldn’t stay put. She couldn’t just stand there with glory all about. She sprang off the porch and started running down the road. She hadn’t run like that since she was ten. She ran down the road past the people, toward the bridge. The people sang and danced, the people swayed and clapped their hands. Alma passed Uncle John Ezekiel Fry. Uncle Fry grinned from ear to ear, and the light sparked off his tears.

  “He’s coming!” people shouted, “he’s coming and he’s just about here!”

  “I can see him,” someone said, “I can see him in the light!”

  Alma was sure she heard bells, a deep sonorous toll that touched her soul and swept her clean. A noise like a thunderclap sounded overhead. Alma looked up, and the air was full of birds. Storks and cranes and gulls, hawks and terns and doves, eagles and herons, every kind of bird there was.

  Alma laughed at the sky, Alma laughed at the bells, Alma laughed at the music in her head. It was Basin Street jazz, it was Mozart and Bach, it was old time Gregorian Rock.

  Alma couldn’t see the road and she couldn’t see the bridge. She felt enveloped and absorbed. She felt like she was swimming in the light. It dazzled and it glittered and it sang. It hummed through her body like carbonated bees. It looked like the center of a star. It looked like a hundred billion fireflies in a jar.

  “I knew you were something special, Cush,” Alma cried. “I knew that, Cush, but I got to say I never guessed who!”

  The light seemed to flare. It drowned her in rapture, an overdose of bliss. It was much too rich, too fine and too intense. It drove her back with joy, it drove her back with love. It lifted her and swept her off her feet. It swept her up the road and past the field and past the yard, and left her on the porch where she’d begun.

  “Better not get too close,” someone said, “better not get too near the light.”

  “That’s my grand-nephew,” Alma said, “you likely didn’t know that. I guess I can do about anything I please.”

  * * *

  Cush knew who he was. He knew what he was for. He knew what it was he had to do. And now, for the first time in his short and dreary life, in a life full of misery and pain, in a life filled with every dire affliction you could name, Cush knew the reason why. When he knew, when it came to him at last, Cush was overwhelmed with the wonder of the thing he had to do. It was awesome, it was fine, it was a marvel and a half, and Cush laughed aloud for the first time in his life.

  And in that very instant, in the echo of his laugh, the spark that had smouldered in his soul, that had slept there in the dark, burst free in a rush of brilliant light. The light was the power, and Cush was the light, and Cush reached out and drew everything in. Everything wrong, everything that wasn’t right. He drew in envy and avarice and doubt. He called in every plague and every blight. He called in every tumor, every misty cataract. He called in AIDS and bad breath. Ingrown toenails, anger and regret. The heartbreak of psoriasis, the pain of tooth decay. Migraines and chilblains, heartburn and cramps. Arthritic joints and hemorrhoids. Spasms and paralytic strokes. Hatred and sorrow and excess fat. Colic and prickly heat and gout.

  Cush drew them all in, every sickness, every trouble, every curse, and every pain. Cush called them down and drew them into healing light, where they vanished just as if they’d never been.

  “I got it all sopped up, I did what I came to do,” Cush cried, “I got everything looking real fine!”

  Cush was the power, and Cush was the light. He was here and he was there, he was mostly everywhere. He could see Cincinnati, he could see Bangladesh. He could see Aunt Alma, see her rushing up the stairs. He could see his mother’s room filled with swirls of pastel light. He could see her as she cried out with joy and surprise, see the wonder in her face, see the beauty in her smile as something blossomed inside her, blossomed for a blink and then appeared with silver eyes.

  “Got it all ready for you, little sister,” Cush called out from the light, “Got it looking real fine, just as pretty as can be. I’ve done about all there is to do!”

  All the people standing in the road and in the field saw the light begin to quiver hum and shake, saw it rise up from the bridge, saw it rush into the early morning light.

  “Hallelujah,” said Uncle John Fry, standing in the tall green corn. “Hallelujah-Chattanooga-bliss.…”

  ON THE COLLECTION OF HUMANS

  Mark Rich

  Here’s a mordant bit of advice for the Serious Collector, courtesy of new writer Mark Rich.…

  Mark Rich is a small-press veteran who has just started to break into professional print, with sales this year to Amazing, Analog, Expanse, Nova, and Full Spectrum 4. His first book, Lifting, published by Wordcraft of Oregon, won the Leslie Cross Fiction Award from the Council of Wisconsin Writers. He lives in Stevens Point, Wisconsin.

  * * *

  Having received many queries regarding the collection of human beings, I think it appropriate to make some general points about the matter in a public forum.

  Many new collectors and investigators are discovering what we have known for some time, viz., that a random or unguided collection of humans yields little useful information. Accepting certain parameters makes the collecting process more rewarding at all stages of study. Since many investigators share my belief that one issue above all needs resolution before we can proceed in other directions—the issue of why humanity has so thoroughly rej
ected its natural heritage—many likewise will take interest in the parameters I have set myself in my own pursuit of the question.

  While physiologically humans are of a type and form a single breeding population, the investigator should not be deceived into believing that all individuals of the population are identical in what literature calls mental-energetic characteristics. The neurological component of the human operating system appears to allow significant variation in mental energies. In order to isolate the variant most useful for study, my colleagues and I make these suggestions:

  First, collect from moving automobiles. While many collectors prefer to catch humans who are walking or running, automobile collections offer advantages far outweighing the slight difficulties involved. Mental-energetic characteristics can be detected more easily in the driving human than the walking human; moreover, walking humans are commonly unsuitable for our study. We have made a workable generalization that the smaller the vehicle, the less likely the human is to advance our understanding of human discord with nature. Humans walking, riding bicycles, and in smaller cars tend to exhibit less distance from nature to a statistically significant degree. Those on motorcycles also tend to depart from the human type we seek, sometimes in startling ways. The collector will obtain the best results from larger cars with high gloss, which usually contain humans of middle to high ranking in the normative social order. These humans yield exceptional results. In the landmark paper of Mardinak, Luskeccitet and the present writer, this human type yielded the entire set of data.

  Second, do not collect from homes, which present too many hiding options for the human and make collecting overly time-consuming. In car collecting, we should note in comparison, the humans can sometimes be obtained by holding the car upside down and giving it a shake; if that fails, the collector need only remove the roof to obtain the human. We should also note that home-collecting has on the whole provided less consistent and satisfactory results, often due to damage to the specimens.