"You know better than to expect me to listen,” the sorcerer said, “especially after you took away the woman I loved."
"She was not yours to have, not that way,” Sakera said quietly. “A ghoul can do as it is told, but it cannot love, not the way the living do."
Tamim didn't want to hear any more of the sorcerer's history. He sliced his hand through the air. Ifayad's hand moved correspondingly.
The sorcerer said, unfazed, “Has it never occurred to you, son of Liathu, to wonder why I didn't raise the giants as ghouls myself? Do you know who it is you have been allied with all this time?"
Tamim stopped. The hand stopped short of the sorcerer and his uncanny mount.
Once it would not have mattered. But if he didn't find out now, he would never know.
"Go ahead,” Sakera said to the sorcerer. “Tell him.” She raised her chin as if in challenge. Her hands were trembling. For once, Tamim thought it was out of anxiety.
"It is perhaps unforgivable that Liathu's child should be so ignorant of necromancy,” the sorcerer said, “but she was never much of a teacher. A necromancer can only raise people who died during his life-span. And the giants became extinct before any humans came into being. They were possibly the first to walk the world. What does that tell you about the woman you have been traveling with?"
Sakera was certainly no giant.
Then he knew. “Death,” Tamim said. “Death is the oldest necromancer of all."
"Would you rather be ruled by Death,” the sorcerer said to Tamim, “or by someone who is likewise human?"
"The Pit was never meant to be ruled by mortal man or woman,” Sakera said. “Did you think your conquest solved anything? There must be a place in the world where Death has a home, and that is the Pit, else there is no rest for anyone when the last breath flees, when the heart finally stills."
"Choose,” the sorcerer said harshly. “Choose by numbers, if nothing else: fight and fight though you may, even after my death, the Vulture Corps will track your every footstep.—Do you make no argument, Sakera?"
"It has to be a real choice,” Sakera said. “His choice, because he is a child of life and death both."
Tamim didn't believe in facing violence with his eyes closed. He knew what he had seen, all his life in the rimlands, the unclean animals and the countdown ghouls, bleeding earth and ashen fruit. Once he would not have had the courage to imagine something better—if not for himself, then for whatever generations might follow.
He twisted both hands and stabbed his fingers into his right palm. Ifayad's hand lunged down. The sorcerer spurred his mount, charging slantwise forward. Tamim moved Ifayad to block him; Ifayad swept the sorcerer from his mount.
The sorcerer screamed as he fell. His rage shook Tamim, even though Tamim was safe inside Ifayad. The man landed upon the spears of his own ghouls, despite their efforts to move aside. They were too densely packed.
Tamim stared down at the man's broken body, thinking, Was that all?
"There will be no rest for—” said the ghouls in one voice.
Sakera knelt and pounded her fists against the ground. All the ghouls fell silent, then shuddered and collapsed. It seemed to Tamim that the clattering sound went on halfway to forever.
"You couldn't have done that before?” Tamim demanded.
"Not while he ruled the Pit, no,” she said. She stared out over the fallen bones. “That was your part. Do you know how many his vultures killed?"
Tamim almost said, I didn't think it would matter to you. But she was Sakera. He had come to know her. Of course it mattered to her.
* * * *
In no hurry at all, he made Ifayad lower him to the ground so he could stand next to her. “Now what?” he said.
She raised her face to him. The expression in her eyes was uncharacteristically solemn.
I will give you the death you desire, she had promised. In their time together, he had forgotten his original purpose.
Sakera was Death, the Pit made flesh. There was one promise Death always kept.
Tamim squared his shoulders. “I'm ready."
"Silly,” Sakera said affectionately, standing. “I never said the death you wanted had to be right now."
"I was going to kill myself."
"Why do you think I came for you, out of all the people in the rimlands?” she said. She stretched up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Her lips were cool, though not unpleasantly so. “You may not know my face when I come for you next. But I will come, at a time of your desiring."
"I don't know how to live."
"But you do,” she said. “It's all about the distinguishing moments. It's about going from one to the next, no matter how small the interval of time, or how long. As for me, I have a home to return to. You can't follow me yet."
"I could—” Tamim stopped. Did he want to follow her?
"I think the hesitation is answer enough,” Sakera said.
"The giant?"
"That's up to you,” she said. “Choose wisely."
"Good-bye, then,” Tamim said.
"Good-bye, Tamim,” she said. Her hands shook, but less than they had. Or so he liked to think. She returned to her giant. It strode off into the horizon beyond the palace, toward the Pit.
Tamim stood for a long time, watching. Then he wrote Ifayad's name on its right tibia with his fingerprints. “Just a little longer,” he said, “and you can go to your rest.” He reentered the giant and began the long task of burial, a grave for the fallen—but not for himself.
Short Story: ICARUS SAVED FROM THE SKIES “ICARE SAUVE DES CIEUX" by Georges-Olivier Châteaureynaud
Georges-Olivier Châteaureynaud is one of the leading French fabulists of the last thirty years, with a score of books to his credit. While none of his novels have been translated into English yet, A Life on Paper: The Stories of Georges-Olivier Châteaureynaud is in the works for publication next year. His translator, Edward Gauvin, specializes in comics and the French fantastic.
Translated by Edward Gauvin from the collection Le kiosque et le tilleul (The Pavilion and the Linden)
The ironies of fate are infinite. Shortly after turning twenty and deciding to steer clear of both doctors and women, I met Maude, then a surgical intern, and at her pressing request became her lover.
Don't go thinking I've ever borne the slightest ill will toward the medical body, much less a woman's body. My prejudice extends only to the physician or female likely to see me naked, discover my misfortune, and make it even crueler to bear.
It all comes down to character, they say. In my place, someone else might've rejoiced at what seemed to me a catastrophe. After all, if I'd wanted at any price to rise above the human herd or leave my mark on the world, I certainly could've. But I didn't give a flying fig about being thought original or unique; my only ambition was to blend in with the crowd, flank to flank with my brethren and fellow creatures in the cozy stable of the species. Alas! I was a brother to no man, and no creature was my fellow. In the course of a few days I sprouted wings or, rather, wingbuds. At first naked, pinkish, coarse, and altogether repugnant, these excrescences were soon covered in a chick's yellow down. Thank God for small favors. When I craned my neck to see my back in the bathroom mirror, the down honestly made those extra extremities easier on the eye.
On my first date with Maude, my appurtenances weren't too cumbersome yet. Unfurled, they spanned about seventeen inches. Folded and pressed flat by a tight undershirt, they could be hidden beneath roomy coats or large, loose-fitting sweaters. My profile suffered a little, but I didn't care. Given the choice, I'd probably have preferred a hunchback's honest hump to these wings which seemed no less suspect for having fallen from the sky, so to speak. What did the heavens want with me? I admit to being terrified. I hid myself away from the world. A rare breed of beginner bird, I feared in every doctor the fowler, if not the taxidermist. Wouldn't they commit me to be studied at their leisure, exhibit me at conferences and, why not, even wind up dissecting me to find
out more? As for women ... I'd just turned twenty. At an age when people still hesitated sometimes to show themselves as nature made them, where would I have found the courage to show myself as it should never have made me?
It turned out I didn't need courage; Maude took care of everything. Not long after we'd gotten to know each other—that too, was her doing—she said she'd seen in my eyes when our gazes first met that I wasn't like the others, that “I had something.” As it happened, she wasn't far off. I had wings. Her reaction on seeing them played a great part in the continued happiness of our relationship, which lasted for quite some time.
She called me her beautiful bird and, chirping sweet nothings after making love, smoothed my budding feathers. We didn't go out much, nor did we miss it. I felt uncomfortable in public and she hated the half-pitying, half-repulsed looks I got for my apparent hunchback.
"Idiots! They think you're handicapped,” she raged. “If they only knew!"
"Please don't get all worked up, sweetie—people will stare.” I tried hard to drag her toward a deserted square or a quieter side street.
"Promise me you'll show them who you really are one day!"
I sank my head into my hunched shoulders. Who I really was? Did I even know? A cripple? A monster? A future carnival freak? An angel in the making? All I wanted to be was the plain old harmless and ordinary me from before my fateful election.
"One day you'll soar into the light,” said Maude, pressing herself against me.
"Yeah, sure.... Let's go home, okay?"
* * * *
My wings got bigger. Maude was constantly measuring them and sometimes lost patience with how slowly they grew. They were twenty-three inches across on our wedding day, and thirty the day our son was born. Soon they were pushing thirty-five which, while respectable for a buzzard or a seagull, was pathetic for a man. Worse yet was when Maude noticed they'd mysteriously shrunk a few inches. Not only surprised by the decrease, she was truly disappointed by what I, to the contrary, saw as a remission, or even the beginning of a recovery. This was the reason for our first real fight. Tired of hearing her repeatedly call my spontaneous shrinkage abnormal, I pointed out with some bitterness that the initial growth had been no less sudden. One word led to another, and soon we were quarreling in earnest. It wasn't long before I accused her of being more fascinated by my deformity than in love with me. To this she snapped back that I had the wingspan of a waterfowl and was birdbrained to boot.
She'd scored a point there and, beating a hasty retreat, I went to sulk in my office. For reasons fairly easy to grasp, I'd given up teaching to turn toward translation. I spent the better part of my day alone at home. In the days after the fight, I often stopped working right in the middle of something to measure my wings with a folding ruler and some painful contortions.
At first the trend Maude had noticed continued. My aberrant protuberances lost almost an inch a day: half an inch per wing. The next day I calculated that at this rate, taking into account the four inches already resorbed, in nineteen days everything would be back to normal.
I started getting my hopes up. In three weeks I'd be able to go out in short sleeves. Next summer I'd go to the shore again, and swim and sunbathe just like any other vacationer. And if, one of these days, someone else besides Maude were to show interest.... A poor way to thank the woman who'd taken me as I was at the worst moment of my life, but my own underlying ingratitude reassured me at heart: I took it as proof I wasn't on my way to being an angel.
Two more days went by, and my wings lost two and a half inches. The fifth, sixth, and seventh days my condition stabilized, just as it had for long periods before. Then the eighth day landed like a cleaver on the forehead of a lamb: I'd grown back almost an inch. The next day I grew back another, and the third an inch and a half. That night, when Maude came back from the hospital, I didn't even come out of my office to greet her. She respected my dejection, I must admit, without sharing it. Certain that I'd wind up giving in to her, she didn't insist on examining me. Yet the conflicting hopes we nourished no doubt did their part in digging the chasm that would later divide us.
This relapse—the first in a long series—left me exhausted and bitter. I'd thought I was “healed.” Far from it. I had to face facts: my “disease” was progressing. Or whatever it was—my notion of it remained quite vague. At worst, I was beginning to dread that my misfortune, though still secret, was doomed over time to be obvious to everyone. If my wings kept on growing, the day would inevitably come when I'd no longer be able to hide them beneath tight bandages and a big overcoat. Just how big would they get, anyway? Were they destined to uproot me from the Earth one day in the near or distant future? Even I saw myself as repugnant and laughable, my giant wings keeping me from walking.
One night, with tears in my eyes, I asked Maude to cut them off. She let out an exclamation.
"How hideous! And how misguided! An amputation would be a crime against science. You're unique, you—"
Beside myself, I put a stop to the noble words I knew were coming.
"As a doctor,” I shouted, “all you did was measure my disfigurement from shoulder to phalange! Please, Maude: I'm not asking you to understand, I'm asking you to save me."
She stared at me incredulously. “Save you? By operating on you? Your wings are a gift, an incredible gift—"
"Oh really? For years I've lived completely shut away, I wait for night to go out for some air, I've wasted the best years of my life translating fairy tales—are those gifts? Can you tell me how any of that is a gift? What good are these accessories that weigh me down, itch constantly, and keep me from sleeping on my back?"
An unfamiliar smile spread over Maude's face. We were husband and wife, and I'd seen her happy before, but at that moment she was transfigured. Her eyes shone, and I seemed to hear in her voice what I could only call ardor.
"Patience, my love. You have to wait, take the burden on yourself and bear it all, and one day you'll use those wings to fly!"
"But I don't want to!"
"You don't?"
"Not for all the world! I get dizzy just standing on a stepstool! Don't leave me like this, Maude, I'm begging you: cut them off!"
Her reply came, determined and irrevocable. “Never."
"Then I'll go see someone else. There are plenty of surgeons in the world."
She shrugged. “You wouldn't dare."
* * * *
She was right. I didn't dare. Many years passed without me ever seeking out another surgeon. I grew old with my wings. At their largest, around my fortieth year, they measured four feet seven inches. Four foot seven! It was pathetic—clearly not enough to save a 170-pound man from Earthly forces. It was, however, enough to slow his fall a bit, if need be. My wings saved my life. Maude and I were on vacation in the Alps. For several months after I'd begged her in vain to cut off my wings, I feared she'd leave me, but she didn't, though we started sleeping in different rooms. I knew I'd let her down. She quite simply no longer believed in me. We carried on an odd relationship, no longer in love but unable to decide what to do next.
For hours we'd been making our way along a steep and sunny mountain path. The August sun had just passed its height, and I was bathed in sweat. Few people know just how hot a pair of wings can make you, especially under a polo shirt. The path led along a deserted ridge. I wound up taking my shirt off. I was walking in front. Without turning to Maude, I fluttered my wings for a moment, congratulating myself aloud for having taken off my shirt. It was delicious: the air ran through my feathers, cooling my back. At the very moment when, overcoming my lifelong fear of the void, I leaned over to see the edelweiss Maude had said she'd spotted, she shouted in my ear, “Fly, damn you!” And sent me hurtling forward with a forceful shove.
* * * *
My body shattered, I survived a fall that only I could've. Maude understood as much. Since that day, not in order to be forgiven, but out of love (a love grown stronger for having been cast into doubt and con
firmed), she has dedicated herself to me, and administers all the care my condition requires with a boundless devotion.
Novelet: THE OTHERS by Lawrence C. Connolly
Larry Connolly says he has been busy. He is publishing two books this year: Visions, which collects his science fiction and fantasy stories, and This Way to Egress, which assembles some of his horror fiction. His recent novel Veins has inspired an album's worth of music and you can find this soundtrack at www.VeinsTheNovel.com. Meantime, his next novel, Vipers, is coming along.
"The Others” is a direct sequel to “Daughters of Prime,” which first ran in our July 2007 issue and is reprinted on our Website this month. These stories concern several incarnations of Cara Randall, who has been sent to observe a distant planet with intelligent life.
A predawn downpour pelted the thatch roof, soaking the support beams and seeping down the walls. Aching dampness radiated from the floor, and even the fire, burning in a stone-rimmed pit in the center of the room, seemed to cramp beneath the chill.
Long-Eyes sat before the flames, neck arching from the raised collar of his tunic. He looked like a goose in a loose-fitting robe, but with arms in place of wings. He glanced at the dripping skylight, clucking idly at the drops falling through the smoke. Then he turned, abruptly swinging his head around to look at the damp cloth that hung across the door. “They're coming,” he said, speaking in the native tongue—all clicks and whistles.
"They?” Cara asked, trying to get the inflection right. This was only her third day of using the language without prompts from the orbiting database, and pronouns could be tricky. “Who is coming?"
"The others."
"My sisters?” Cara listened for the sound of approaching rovers but heard only the falling rain and crackling fire. “Are you sure?"
FSF, August-September 2009 Page 15
