Dragonwriter (8 page)

Annie's consideration for others reached far beyond her extended adopted family to her fans. She loved to meet her public and had endless patience and good humor to share with them. She was well-known at conventions all over the world, where she threw herself headlong into the action and was genuinely interested in everyone who was interested in her and her work. But it didn't stop at conventions. I remember one afternoon sitting in the bay window of the kitchen in Dragonhold-Underhill, chatting with Alec, when a strange car pulled up outside.

“Fans,” Alec said, shaking his head. As her eldest, Alec always felt a need to protect his mother, often from herself. But nobody ever stopped Annie from doing precisely as she pleased. The fans, it turned out, had flown into Dublin airport from the United States, looked up Annie in the phone book—where she was proudly listed as Anne McCaffrey, Writer—and called her up, at which point Annie invited them to Dragonhold for the night. I could sympathize with Alec's viewpoint, but you simply had to smile and shrug and say, “Typical Annie.”

Also typical of Annie was her excitement over her achievements and her ability to share her enthusiasms. I remember another day, yet again at that kitchen table, when a package arrived in the post. It contained books from Japan—author copies of her first Japanese translations. She ripped open the box excitedly and pulled them out to show everyone, with a huge grin spread across her face and a sparkle of glee in her eyes. They were in Japanese, and
they were printed back to front.
These books had made her day. The accompanying royalty check hardly even got a glance.

For me that table was the center of the second Dragonhold, and although I spent a lot of time in that house while I was in business with Alec in the mid-'90s, the good times happened in the kitchen. My kids would give you an argument on that one. For them, memories of Dragonhold and Annie revolve around her pool. Almost nobody in Ireland has an indoor heated swimming pool in their house, but Annie had one. My daughters, Vickie and Danielle, learned to swim in it, and while they were kids, they loved it. They still have the fondest of memories of it almost twenty years later.

Considering how much time I spent with Annie over the years, it is odd to think that I was only ever at one science fiction convention outside Ireland where she was a guest. In 2007 I was invited to Eurocon in Copenhagen to launch a short story collection. I was proud to see my name on the poster, almost like I was a real guest, especially so as the Guest of Honor was the venerable Anne McCaffrey.

Denmark took us seriously, unlike Ireland, which treats science fiction as, at best, a slight embarrassment. The convention guests were treated to a reception by the city in a beautifully appointed municipal building as though we were
real
writers—in Ireland
real
means “literary,” though not necessarily good. At the reception, I snuck up on Annie from behind and took her by surprise. And she had one of those moments when she drew a complete blank. Her minder was no help—a fan volunteer who didn't know me from Adam. I was a little taken aback myself. But I smiled and said, “It's Bob.” And suddenly everything clicked into place, and she said, “Bob Neilson.” She proceeded to list the names of my wife and kids and my address and every other fact she knew about me. And we grinned and embraced and chatted for a while. The next day I bumped into her at the convention. “Bob Neilson,” she yelled across the room. “Husband of Stacey. Father to Victoria, Danielle, and Christopher. Want the pets too?” She grinned. And the same when we met on the plane to fly home. Same wicked grin, same list of names, same sense of fun.

It was also in Copenhagen that it was brought home to me just how big a star she was.
Albedo One,
my magazine, had been allocated a free table to sell our wares, so whenever I wasn't on panels, I hung out at the table. The dealer beside us sold nothing but Anne McCaffrey collectible books and did a roaring trade until he ran out of stock. Signing sessions had been set up in the dealers' room, and as I was launching my collection, I was put onto the list of authors to sign. This I was not looking forward to, but as I watched the other authors signing a half dozen or a dozen books in their allotted hour, I felt it wouldn't be too embarrassing—I had a handful of friends from Ireland at the con who could pretend to get stuff signed in a pinch.

When my signing came along, I was paired with Harry Harrison. I was introduced to Harry by Todd in the early '80s and knew him quite well at this stage, so we chatted with a few interruptions for book signings for our hour. It was pleasant, and I didn't feel that I had acquitted myself too badly—hell, I'd have been horrified if I'd signed more books than Harry.

The next day Annie was down to sign. Just one author signing this hour as she was Guest of Honor—or so I thought. But actually it was a masterstroke of logistics by the con committee. The queue began to form before the start of the hour. Anyone who wanted signatures from the poor devils that were on the hour before had to fight their way through. I watched the signing begin as Annie smiled and chatted with each fan and signed as many books as they had brought. After a while, I wandered out of the room and followed the line along the hall and down the stairs and out of the building altogether. To me it looked as though there were more people in the queue than there were members signed up for the con. I was glad I wasn't on a panel that hour.

I grabbed a coffee and went back to the dealers' room. The hour was up, but the line was still halfway along the hall. Annie dismissed the concerns of her minder and kept signing until every one of the fans in line had had their moment with her and their signatures. By the end she was worn out, but nobody had been shortchanged. She had put her fans first as always.

Every year in October there is a craft show in the Royal Dublin Society where Yellow Brick Road, our family business, takes a stand. As the talented one in the family, Stacey runs the stand and meets our public. Last year Annie turned up at the show. She was being wheeled around by one of that extended adoptive family of hers, Anne Callaghan, and they stopped to visit with Stacey and my daughter Vickie. It had been a while since Stacey had seen Annie, and they had a long chat about old times. That evening when Stacey was telling me about her day and her conversation with Annie, she said, “I was delighted to get a chance to chat with Anne.”—To Stacey, she was always Anne. “In all the years, I had never told her how much she meant to me. I told her today. I'm so glad I did.”

Two weeks later Annie passed away. It was fitting that Stacey, who had been first, was the last of our family to see her. When I told her the news, she said once again how glad she was to have been able to tell Annie how much her friendship and example had meant. I hope many others had this opportunity over the past years, and I hope that Annie realized how profound an impression she made on the lives of everyone who knew her.

In Ireland we have a farewell that comes in three parts, and it is particularly fitting for Annie, I feel: May the road always rise up behind you. May the wind ever be at your back. And may you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead.

Sleep well, Annie. It was a privilege to know you.

BOB NEILSON is married with children and lives in Ireland. In partnership with his wife, he runs a successful retail business in Dublin city. His short fiction has appeared extensively in professional and small press markets, and he has had two radio plays performed on RTE and one on Anna Livia FM. He also presented a SF radio show on Anna Livia for a year. He has had two short story collections published,
Without Honour
(1997, Aeon Press) and
That's Entertainment
(2007, Elastic Press), as well as several comics and a graphic novel. His nonfiction book on the properties of crystals is a bestseller in the United Kingdom and Ireland. He is a founding editor of
Albedo One
magazine. Visit his site at
www.bobneilson.org
for more information.

W
hen I was first approached about this tribute to Anne McCaffrey, Elizabeth Moon was on the short list of people I hoped we could get to contribute. She shared with Anne a love of horses, cooking, and fencing and a military background. They got along on a level that was subtle and sublime—I think they communicated on that special “mom” wavelength or something. Certainly, Elizabeth was considered by all to be the
ideal
houseguest. When she rightly won the Nebula Award for her amazing
The Speed of Dark
, we all cheered.

I WAS IN
my junior year of college when “Weyr Search” appeared as the cover story in
Analog
(October 1967). I couldn't afford
Analog
every month, but that month the cover illustration and McCaffrey name made it essential. Once I started reading, whatever class work I was supposed to be doing languished until I'd finished.

I read the story as science fiction, not only because the story appeared in
Analog,
but because the “dragons” were so clearly not fantasy dragons but bioengineered creatures. Telepathy was then a popular element in many science fiction stories—had been for years—so the telepathic abilities of humans and dragons—or watchwhers—also didn't slide into fantasy. “Weyr Search” felt like science fiction, but particularly rich and evocative science fiction.

Another reason it felt like science fiction and not fantasy was the characters, the earthy reality of them. Retrograde societies weren't unusual in SF of the day, so the more primitive “holds” and premodern cultural behavior did not signal fantasy. Science fiction included characters whose lives were anchored (even if over a long span of time or space or both) in our reality.

But “Weyr Search” offered something new even for science fiction: Lessa, the rightful heir of Ruatha Hold, who broke the mold for women characters in both the science fiction and the fantasy I'd read. Far from the cool, pale, untouchable elven queens or fairy princesses of fantasy, elegant in their robes, Lessa is 100 percent human. Yet she is not the beautiful but biddable helpmeet of so many science fiction stories or the rational/practical sort found sometimes in Heinlein.