Six months after the wave washed over them, Jonah wakes in the middle of the night. He hears a voice calling his name. He tiptoes downstairs, and sees that the bowl of flowers in the center of the hand-planked table is gone. In its place is a locket. His locket.
He opens it up and sees the knot of hair. He brings it to his lips. It gives him an electric shock. Grabbing his coat and slipping on his boots, he runs into the night.
There is no moon, and the stars are sharp and cold, each one a bright pin holding up the sky. Their beauty begins to break his heart.
No, he thinks, it is already broken.
He presses the knot of hair against his sternum. Unaccountably, his heart feels more whole than it ever has. He feels as though he is floating. (And who knows? He may well be. The world is changing, after all.)
The town sleeps. No one is out. No one but Jonah.
There is a statue of the Sparrow next to the fountain. She is holding a Most Remarkable Hen. There is a butterfly on her back. Her hair billows behind her like a storm. Red flowers grow at her feet. It is the first time he has seen it, and he nearly collapses in grief. He hardly knew her. He loves her anyway.
Throw it in the fountain. That’s what she said.
And then what? is what he asked.
He doesn’t stop to wonder now. He throws the locket and the knot of hair into the fountain—a great, wild hope surging in his chest, like a wave.
“I remember you,” he whispers. “I remember and remember and remember. Now and forever, I remember you.”
He closes his eyes and waits.
Acknowledgments
Putting together a short story collection is a strange task. It is dizzying, frankly, to go back to fiction that has long since gone out into the world. It requires a writer to think backward and sideways and inside out all at once, holding each moment of story creation and execution like beads unleashed from their string, rolling each one over and under in the hand, trying to be both inside and outside at the same time. I feel that I have become, as Vonnegut would say, unstuck in time.
Except, no. That’s not really it.
It feels, more, I think, a little like excavation, a little like exploration, and a little like the myriad of tasks set to the infinite number of women who came before me—saving, sorting, arranging; dusting off, polishing up, finding the shine that once was lost; gathering, protecting, clucking, preening and finally tucking everything up and herding it to bed.
I started my career as a short story writer, and will probably continue being one, despite the novels. Or maybe because of the novels. The short story requires an entirely different set of muscles to build, and uses an entirely different part of the voice. They are, hands down, far more challenging to write than a novel, which is why it’s important that we write them. And read them. For those of you who are reading these words right now, it means that you have taken the time to read some, or maybe one, or maybe even all of the stories collected in this volume. And for that I thank you.
A couple more thanks are in order, though, if you wouldn’t mind indulging me:
First and foremost, I need to thank both Ann Vandermeer and Jeff Vandermeer—whose giant intellects and brave spirits have lit every corner of our beloved genre. They bought the second story I ever sold and were the first stalwart champions and supporters of my work. They remain, and they will always be, a bright inspiration for my career. It would have been harder, way back then, for me to continue the heartbreaking process of creating and submitting work without their support, and I am not entirely certain that I would have. Ann and Jeff, you guys are amazing. I am grateful forever.
Also, I’d like to thank Sean Wallace, Neil Clarke, Matthew Kressel, Pete and Nicky Crowther, John Joseph Adams, Beth Wodzinski, and Mike Allen—generous and tireless and brave editors, all. There is a special place in heaven for the folks who edit short fiction, and there’s an even specialer place for those who edit short fiction of a Speculative nature. O Captains, my Captains, I salute all of you, and am happy to follow wherever you may lead.
I especially need to thank Genevieve Valentine for her careful and thorough reading and analysis of The Unlicensed Magician, as well as “The Insect and the Astronomer: A Love Story.” That she is a brilliant writer is, of course, commonly known, but perhaps you do not know that, as a reader, she is perspicacious of mind and capacious of heart. And right about everything. Thank you, Genevieve. Those pieces are better because of you.
Also in need of thanks are the following women: Tracey Baptiste, Anne Ursu, Laura Ruby, Linda Urban, Laurel Snyder, Martha Brockenbrough, Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich, and Kate Messner, for their keen wit, their sharp tongues, their boundless spirits, and their muscular support. Never underestimate the power and capacity of women to support women. Especially women writers. You ladies are my heart’s dear darlings.
And of course I have to thank Steven Malk, my extraordinary agent, who responded to my horrifyingly timid email saying that maybe I might have a collection and probably no one will want to read it so maybe we should just forget the whole thing with his usual deep reading, incisive comments, and grand plans. I’m so lucky to have him in my corner.
And lastly, but dearest to my soul, is Elise Howard, who sees inside the story that I thought had died and finds its hidden, beating heart, and who knows my work better than I do myself. It is my dearest wish that every writer can have an editor with that much intelligence, analysis, wisdom, wit, and kindness. I’m awestruck to have her in my life.
It should be noted that I am, always and forever, in a state of awe and gratitude for the fact that there are readers in the world. There is, at its center, something immutably miraculous about the substance and process of reading stories. We read because we hunger to know, to empathize, to feel, to connect, to laugh, to fear, to wonder, and to become, with each page, more than ourselves. To become creatures with souls. We read because it allows us, through force of mind, to hold hands, touch lives, speak as another speaks, listen as another listens, and feel as another feels. We read because we wish to journey forth together. There is, despite everything, a place for empathy and compassion and rumination, and just knowing that fact, for me, is an occasion for joy. That we still, in this frenetic and bombastic and self-centered age, have legions of people who can and do return to the quietness of the page, opening their minds and hearts, again and again, to the wild world and the stuff of life, pinned into scenes and characters and sharp images and pretty sentences—well. It sure feels like a miracle, doesn’t it? I thank you, readers, and I salute you. With an open heart and a curious mind, I, too, return to the page. Let us hold hands and journey forth.
Kelly Barnhill lives in Minnesota with her husband and three children. She is the author of four novels, most recently The Girl Who Drank the Moon, winner of the Newbery Medal. The Witch’s Boy received four starred reviews and was a finalist for the Minnesota Book Awards. Kelly Barnhill has been awarded writing fellowships from the Jerome Foundation, the Minnesota State Arts Board, and the McKnight Foundation. Visit her online at kellybarnhill.wordpress.com or on Twitter: @kellybarnhill.
Also by Kelly Barnhill
The Mostly True Story of Jack
Iron Hearted Violet
The Witch’s Boy
The Girl Who Drank the Moon
Published by
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of
Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2018 by Kelly Barnhill.
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Published simultaneously in Canada by Thomas Allen & Son Limited.
Design by Carla Weise.
Grateful acknowledgment
is made to the following, where these stories were first published: to Tor.com for “Mrs. Sorensen and the Sasquatch”; to Clockwork Phoenix (Mythic Delirium Books) for “Open the Door and the Light Pours Through”; to Sybil’s Garage (Senses Five Press) for “The Dead Boy’s Last Poem”; to Shimmer for “Dreadful Young Ladies”; to Clarkesworld for “The Taxidermist’s Other Wife”; to Fast Ships, Black Sails (Night Shade Books) for “Elegy to Gabrielle—Patron Saint of Healers, Whores, and Righteous Thieves”; to Fantasy for “Notes on the Untimely Death of Ronia Drake”; to Lightspeed for “The Insect and the Astronomer: A Love Story”; and to PS Publishing for “The Unlicensed Magician.”
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
Dreadful Young Ladies and Other Stories Page 22
