by Tim Pratt
“Your turn,” she said, smiling.
Sprayed across her shirt was blood that had dried almost black.
I nodded, gave my weight to her, let her heave me into my chair, pull me backwards through the trees, dump me into a clearing behind the car I was pretty sure was Billy’s.
The reason I say this is that, hanging from a thick limb above the car was a man of no more than twenty-two. A boy, really. His hands had been tied behind his back, and his throat had been carved out. From years of handling knives, I instantly understood the angles: someone had sat on his chest and worked on his neck with a blade. Calmly, deliberately.
And then he’d been strung up, with a knot only a sailor would know.
Which was of course what she needed me for.
She pulled the empty wheelchair back into the darkness and I looked where she was looking: to Billy’s car, its vinyl roof pattered with blood.
Through the foggy glass, facing forward—away—there was a girl.
I shook my head no, no, and, because the sea was close and because it didn’t matter anymore, I found the strength to pull myself forward with my left hand. It was torturously slow, however, and filled my loose pants with twigs and dirt which nettled my bed sores. But the girl. I had to tell her, had to get her to leave, to live.
Because I couldn’t stand, I of course latched onto her bumper with my left hand, and then on the fourth try was able to hook my right under her wheel well, pull myself forward by inches.
By this time she was aware of the sound I was, had locked the door, had, even though it wouldn’t help her see, turned on the dome light and started grinding the starter.
She was saying her boyfriend’s name louder and louder, and then shrieking a little.
It didn’t matter, though. All I had to do was pull myself up level with her window and tell her about Margaret, that we had to go now, that, that—
I didn’t even know what. But something.
With my left hand I gripped the ledge of her back door, and with my right, the large functional hook the doctors were trying to teach me to use, I pulled hard on her door latch, my head rising even as the car started, pulling me up, up.
I couldn’t hold the car there, though.
It dragged me for maybe ten feet, and then the straps on the hook let go of the stump my forearm had become and I was rolling in the dirt, Billy swinging above me, Margaret in the darkness all around, and this is how stories begin, yes.
But none of you were there for the part after the girl left, my hook clattering in her door latch, the part where I crawled arm over arm through the trees until first light delivered to me a beach, a surf, which I rolled in for hours, and have never really left since. Not longer than overnight, anyway. And, no, the name I had then, it’s not the same I have now—the world is the world, after all—but my ship, my lady, she is the Margo. Not in honor either, but in defiance: six years after my escape from dry-dock, I read the account of that night, and found that the authorities had managed not only to scrub any reference of Margaret from the public records, but, because of the violent, infectious nature of her crime perhaps, they’d also erased the very hospital I’d convalesced in, so that all that was left for the newspaper to report was that a patient, deeply disturbed by having had to cut off his own arm off with the neck of a bottle to escape drowning, had escaped the mental hospital the town was built around, and succeeded in killing and hanging a young boy named William Jackson before disappearing, presumably, into the sea.
I’ll admit to that last part anyway.
Stephen Graham Jones’ latest novel is Ledfeather. His short fiction is in textbooks and anthologies and annuals and everywhere else, times two.
BIRDWATCHER
Garth Upshaw
I was poisoning crows the day the aliens arrived. They’re smarter than you might think—crows, not aliens—and they don’t go for any of the easy stuff anymore. I had some good roadkill, two squirrels and a raccoon, but I couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for using it. The crows would caw and peck at the corpses as carefully as a dowager entering her bath. Nowadays, I had to mash D-Con into a virulent green powder, mix it with honey or peanut butter, and spread it on the underside of a flashy piece of metal. Crows love the sparkle and glitter, and they must know it’s bad, but they pick it up anyway.
My mom’s backyard stretches towards a narrow gully choked with blackberry and old-man’s beard. Right before the ground drops out from underneath you, a gnarled old walnut tree stands guard. The trunk’s as solid as a cement pillar, but covered with head-sized lumps that weep a yellow sap, trapping twigs, dead leaves, and insects in a sticky gruel. The branches are treacherous, thick as regular trees, and jut out at all angles like arthritic fingers. They break off with no warning, crushing the ferns and hosta underneath. The crows love the walnut tree, gathering like impudent black leaves, squawking and shouting in a raucous tumult.
That day, I watched from mid-yard, hidden behind a sheet of gray weathered plywood I’d cut a viewing slit in. A faded pink-and-green lawn umbrella cast an oval of welcome shade, but kept the air close and hot. Binoculars pressed against my sweaty face. I shifted in the folding chair, thighs constrained by the unyielding metal arm supports, and took a long swallow of tepid cherry Slurpee. The sun burned a hole in the sky like the business end of a welding torch, flashing off the pieces of Mom’s hand mirror I’d shattered and arranged on a low, wide stump.
It’s not worth doing a project unless you do it right, and I’d placed each piece with an aesthetic eye towards the whole effect. A landing area free of glass on the side of the stump away from me. Shards tilted different directions to send reflected sunlight 360 degrees. A central triangular piece propped so as to give a curious crow a chance for self-examination. The back of each deadly shard was slathered with my peanut butter concoction.
A dozen big crows descended from the tree, cawing and gabbling. They pranced around the stump, hopping with wings half spread, cocking their heads at the bits of mirror. Their eyes drank in the light, black and shiny as a new coat of paint. An ant crawled up my right calf, and I reached down, slowly, slowly, and ground it against my leg.
The sky flashed orange and purple, like a years’ worth of sunsets had been dumped catywampus and stirred with a big stick. I looked up, surprised and mystified. Purple and orange. My high school colors. It was afternoon, four o’clock at the absolute latest.
“Doyle? Doyle, are you outside?” Mom’s high voice cut through the backyard like a mosquito’s whine. “What was that flash of light? I know you’re there.” Crows flew back to the tree, their flapping wings sounding like half-hearted applause.
I waited to answer, irritated that she’d violated my space. “I’m bird watching,” I finally yelled, twisting in my chair so I could see her. She stood at the sliding glass doors, bleached blond hair cut in an expensively retro style.
“Doyle, could you come here?” Her fingers tugged at her bathrobe, pulling it tighter around her surgically enhanced figure. “Something’s gone terribly wrong with the power.” She cocked her head at the swirling colors still leaking from the sky. “What’s all that? Northern lights?”
I sighed, levering myself out of my chair, and letting the binoculars swing free from around my neck. “Don’t be stupid. We’re too far south.” A wave of petulance swept over me. I trudged towards the stump. The afternoon was ruined.
I drew a tarp over my project, knocking a shard out of alignment in spite of my care. I tucked the corners down, and made my way up the lawn to the house, feeling like I was wading through hot syrup. I stopped at the back patio, peeling my T-shirt away from my belly and flapping the cloth to get a slight cooling effect.
A frown wrinkled the perfect skin of Mom’s forehead. “If you’d go on a diet, get some exercise, or maybe go out with a nice girl . . . ”
“You said the power was down?”
“How’d your interview go?” She flashed her white teeth at me. “For Mr. Perfect SAT scores,
the job should be a breeze.”
I turned, and pressing a finger to close one nostril, blew a viscous stream of yellow snot out my nose. Most of it landed on the wilted geraniums that fringed the patio, and I used my T-shirt to wipe the rest off the side of my face. “What do I need money for?”
Mom flinched and retreated inside. “Dad will be home soon, and I’ve been planning a pork roast.” Cool air poured from the house.
“Roger loves his dead pig.”
“He wants to be your friend.” Mom backed into the kitchen and took an invigorating swig from a tall glass. Ice rattled.
“Who needs friends?” I followed her inside, leaving the door open behind me.
Mom pushed several buttons on the stove. “See? Nothing.”
Détente, then. I flicked a light switch to no effect. “I’ll check the breakers.”
“Thanks, dear. I knew I could count on you.” Mom kissed the air near my head.
I rummaged through the utility drawer, found a flashlight, and checked the batteries. The breaker box was on the far side of the garage wall, an obstacle course I was loath to traverse in the dark. “Wait here.”
The hot, stale air of the garage sucked my remaining energy away. I played the yellow flashlight beam over the cobwebs on a jetski that blocked the breaker box, analyzing my path through the detritus of aborted recreational attempts to “bring our family together.”
I’d just flipped the metal latch when a voice whispered in my ear. “Hello, Doyle.”
I jumped, knocking a box of deck screws clattering across the cement floor. A clean-cut man of about forty, dressed in brown slacks and a purple and orange button-down shirt, stood beside me. I spluttered in surprise. “Who the fuck are you?”
“We arrive today.” He nodded his head. Every hair stayed in place. “All at once. From far away. For everybody.” He smiled, teeth shining in the gloom like a row of mirrors.
“How’d you get in?” I inched my hand closer to a plumber’s wrench.
“We bring greetings, gifts for you.” He held out a glowing white egg, folding my hand around its warmth, and pressed the top with his thumb.
I sucked in my breath. The garage had vanished. I stood on a beach, waves swishing in and swirling around my ankles. The cool water splashed to my knees. My arms felt firm and strong. A bright orange Frisbee sailed over my head and I jumped, catching it one-handed and flicking it back before I landed. My real father laughed and ran into the surf, diving into an oncoming wave after the flying disk.
“See?” The man’s smile gleamed in the darkness. “You can choose anytime.” He let go of the egg, pressing its smooth heaviness into my hand, before stepping aside and walking away, growing smaller and smaller without ever leaving the garage until he winked out and was finally gone.
I stumbled backwards, abandoning the breaker box. My heart beat so hard I thought my chest would burst. I pushed the door to the house open, brushing spider webs from my face with the hand that still held the egg.
My mother stood in the hallway, hair pressed flat on one side of her head. I looked away from her open bathrobe, not wanting to see more. She raised her arm. An egg, twin to mine, glowed at me from her hand. Tears leaked from her eyes. “Sorry, Doyle. I haven’t been the greatest mom.” She pressed the top of her egg and vanished.
I sit in the lawn chair, hot air leaden and heavy on me. I try to suck more Slurpee through my straw, but I’ve reached bottom, and the rattling sound echoes in my ears. I can’t hear any cars, and the burnt blue sky is empty of con trails. I stroke the smooth outside of the egg in my lap, and then slip it into a pocket. A crow lands on the stump, cocking its black head sideways. Its feathers are mottled, mangy. I press the binoculars hard into my cheekbones, trying to recover the sense of excitement I used to feel watching the birds take my bait.
I leap up, flailing my arms and knocking the plywood blind over. Crows scatter in a flapping black cloud, cawing their disapproval at me. I lurch to the stump and sweep the shards of glass onto the ground. The tip of one piece cuts my palm, and I bring my hand to my mouth. My blood tastes hot and salty. I hitch my shorts up and turn towards the gully, wondering if any blackberries are ripe.
Garth Upshaw lives in Portland, Oregon with his brilliant, gorgeous wife, Katrina, and his three super-genius children: Chris, Kami, and Luken. He’s had jobs ranging from foundry drudge, bell packer, and tarantula minder to .com CEO, and has recently embarked on a guinea pig breeding project. Garth is an avid biker, refusing to remove his feet from the pedals even in the icy rain that mars the Mediterranean climate of the Pacific Northwest only six to nine months a year.
THE BURIED YEARS
Loreen Heneghan
Dearest Marcella,
My love, in the course of our letters I may not have told you how distressed I become upon seeing skeletons. I find myself revolted by their empty eyes and the unhinged way they walk through the streets at dusk. A better man would be respectful, but—imperfect soul that I am—I’ve never put flower-crowns on the bare skulls of the dead. Why should I? Scholars have proven the dead do not care for our flowers.
While at the university, I read a treatise describing the scientific studies performed by the Institute of Eutrist. In these, a person in mourning was placed on the path walked by the remains of someone dear to them. The mourner, in their heated state, often interprets small stops and hitches in the movement of the bones to be signs of recognition. The study concluded that the dead show no more recognition for their mothers than they do for strangers. It is as old wives say: “Your dead will pause, and pass on by.”
By this, some fishwife might mean it’s time to give up old grief, but scientifically the phrase holds as much truth. A skeleton’s only measurable intent is to walk the gods’ road to the end. They only pause for those who stand in their way.
So is it odd for me to feel this way? When I see skeletons plodding back to the gate of the next world, I have never before seen them as a gentle reminder of life’s transience. I see only empty people—brothers, friends, lovers—all hollowed out to nothing.
I am sure that you, my dearheart, have no fear of bones. When we met, I noted how you are as lively and clear-eyed as a jay bird. I envy that. As a physician, even one untried and fresh from the university, I should be used to the dead.
Henceforth, I shall have to be stronger, particularly in light of recent events.
Allow me to explain: I chose for us a house where the main road runs by our doorstep. I could have found a place that wasn’t a thoroughfare built on one of the paths of the gods, but I do love to be in the hubbub of life. I love life far more than I hate to see the dead. I’m sure you will enjoy it here, sweet Marcella, when you return from the coastal temple and the terms of our betrothal are complete.
Here, both your family and mine have begun arrangements. Your eldest aunt has conducted several meetings of the family women. It has been made clear to me I must attend each meeting, though my suggestions on our marriage have yet to prove helpful.
Your aunt is particularly keen on the details of color and dress. She is hoping we will have caged butterflies at the service. Certainly, I can bear the expense, but I wanted first to ask you if butterflies were your wish as well as hers.
Please write to your dear lady aunt. I believe your own thoughts on insects and fabric would assuage certain arguments among the good ladies of our soon joined family.
But these small details are not why I’ve written. Indeed, I believe I am avoiding putting my revelations to the page.
What I truly want to tell you, my sweet one, is that a certain matter (indeed, one that has cast a shadow over our betrothal) will be resolved.
Last week I was returning from a dinner with friends from the old school. Jeoffry, you probably remember. He and I both met you in Utherdan while you were entertaining suitables.
Ah, but still I delay! No more, sweet one, for this is what has happened.
I left my companions after moon rise. The lamps a
long the god’s road had been lit and were burning brightly. The drinking houses overflowed with noise and laughter. The sweet-cake shop was still open, though it was long past eventide. I remember feeling more at ease than I had in many years.
An old woman called to me, “Take a flower, sir? A flower for a lovely lady?”
Even though you, dear one, are far away, I felt merry. I gave the woman a penny for a boutonnière of violets and secured them to my lapel. It was pure frivolity, since they would hardly be seen as I walked away from the lamplight, singing.
The half-moon had risen. It was much later in the night than anyone would expect to see the dead. So it was an unpleasant surprise when I noted a skeleton walking toward me on the road. The the bones were translucent, not solid like the newly dead. The fragile, near-luminance of the thing made me think it had walked a long way. Perhaps the bones had risen far from the road; perhaps it walked for months along a lonely mountain path. My only certainty was that they did not rise from a soft burial on temple hill.
It may surprise you, but I knew as soon as it approached that these were the remains of a woman. I am a trained doctor, but that is not how I knew her. Recognition did not come from the hip bone or some lesson of anatomy. I knew her by the way she moved.
Skeletons move in that unpleasant way of their own, but this one also stepped with a certain grace, a rolling firm-footedness. And I recognized that walk, if nothing else.
It almost stopped my heart to see it, and I stood in the road, reeling like one struck in the head. The skeleton did not pause, and as I watched I noticed a kind of pale, phosphorus light moved within what was once a body. The light throbbed like foxfire; first caged in her ribs, then flickering in her hollow eyes. I’ve heard of the ghost lights, but I had never seen them before that night. Nor had I believed in them.
