The Wind From a Burning Woman: Six Stories of Science Fiction (8 page)

Now, boy, why did you make up that story?

I thought for a moment, men shook my head. I dont know, I said. It just came up.

What are you going to do with the story?

I didnt have an answer for that question, either.

Got any other stories in you?

I considered, then said, Think so.

A car drove up outside, and Mom called my name. The old woman stood and straightened her dress. Follow me, she said. Go out the back door, walk around the house. Return home with them. Tomorrow, go to school like youre supposed to do. Next Sunday, come back, and well talk some more.

Son? You in there?

I walked out the back and came around to the front of the house. Mom and Auntie Danser waited in the station wagon. You arent allowed out here. Were you in that house? Mom asked. I shook my head.

My great aunt looked at me with her glassed-in flat eyes and lifted the corners of her lips a little. Margie, she said, go have a look in the windows.

Mom got out of the car and walked up the porch to peer through the dusty panes. Its empty, Sybil.

Empty, boy, right?

I dont know, I said. I wasnt inside.

I could hear you boy, she said. Last night. Talking in your sleep. Rabbits and hawks dont behave that way. You know it, and I know it. So it aint no good thinking about them that way, is it?

I dont remember talking in my sleep, I said.

Margie, lets go home. This boy needs some pamphlets read into him.

Mom got into the car and looked back at me before starting the engine. You ever skip school again, Ill strap you black and blue. Its real embarrassing having the school call, and not knowing where you are. Hear me?

I nodded.

* * * *

Everything was quiet that week. I went to school and tried not to dream at night and did everything boys are supposed to do. But I didnt feel like a boy. I felt something big inside, and no amount of Billy Grahams and Zondervans read at me could change that feeling.

I made one mistake, though. I asked Auntie Danser why she never read the Bible. This was in the parlor one evening after dinner and cleaning up the dishes. Why do you want to know, boy? she asked.

Well, the Bible seems to be full of fine stories, but you dont carry it around with you. I just wondered why.

Bible is a good book, she said. The only good book. But its difficult. It has lots of camouflage. Sometimes She stopped. Who put you up to asking that question?

Nobody, I said.

I heard that question before, you know, she said. Aint the first time I been asked. Somebody else asked me, once.

I sat in my chair, stiff as a ham.

Your fathers brother asked me that once. But we wont talk about him, will we?

I shook my head.

* * * *

Next Saturday I waited until it was dark and everyone was in bed. The night air was warm, but I was sweating more than the warm could cause as I rode my bike down the dirt road, lamp beam swinging back and forth. The sky was crawling with stars, all of them looking at me. The Milky Way seemed to touch down just beyond the road, like I might ride straight up it if I went far enough.

I knocked on the heavy door. There were no lights in the windows and it was late for old folks to be up, but I knew these two didnt behave like normal people. And I knew that just because the house looked empty from the outside didnt mean it was empty within. The wind rose up and beat against the door, making me shiver. Then it opened. It was dark for a moment, and the breath went out of me. Two pairs of eyes stared from the black. They seemed a lot taller this time. Come in, boy, Jack whispered.

Fireflies lit up the tree in the living room. The brambles and wildflowers glowed like weeds on a sea floor. The carpet crawled, but not to my feet. I was shivering in earnest now, and my teeth chattered.

I only saw their shadows as they sat on the bench in front of me. Sit, Meg said. Listen close. Youve taken the fire, and it glows bright. Youre only a boy, but youre just like a pregnant woman now. For the rest of your life youll be cursed with the worst affliction known to humans. Your skin will twitch at night. Your eyes will see things in the dark. Beasts will come to you and beg to be ridden. Youll never know one truth from another. You might starve, because few will want to encourage you. And if you do make good in this world, you might lose the gift and search forever after, in vain. Some will say the gift isnt special. Beware them. Some will say it is special, and beware them, too. And some

There was a scratching at the door. I thought it was an animal for a moment. Then it cleared its throat. It was my great aunt.

Some will say youre damned. Perhaps theyre right. But youre also enthused. Carry it lightly and responsibly.

Listen in there. This is Sybil Danser. You know me. Open up.

Now stand by the stairs, in the dark where she cant see, Jack said. I did as I was told. One of themI couldnt tell whichopened the door, and the lights went out in the tree, the carpet stilled, and the brambles were snuffed. Auntie Danser stood in the doorway, outlined by star glow, carrying her knitting bag. Boy? she asked. I held my breath.

And you others, too.

The wind in the house seemed to answer. Im not too late, she said. Damn you, in truth, damn you to hell! You come to our towns, and you plague us with thoughts no decent person wants to think. Not just fairy stories, but telling the way people live and why they shouldnt live that way! Your very breath is tainted! Hear me? She walked slowly into the empty living room, feet clonking on the wooden floor. You make them write about us and make others laugh at us. Question the way we think. Condemn our deepest prides. Pull out our mistakes and amplify them beyond all truth. What right do you have to take young children and twist their minds?

The wind sang through the cracks in the walls. I tried to see if Jack or Meg was there, but only shadows remained.

I know where you come from, dont forget that! Out of the ground! Out of the bones of old wicked Indians! Shamans and pagan dances and worshiping dirt and filth! I heard about you from the old squaws on the reservation. Frost and Spring, they called you, signs of the turning year. Well, now you got a different name! Death and demons, I call you, hear me?

She seemed to jump at a sound, but I couldnt hear it. Dont you argue with me! she shrieked. She took her glasses off and held out both hands. Think Im a weak old woman, do you? You dont know how deep I run in these communities! Im the one who had them books taken off the shelves. Remember me? Oh, you hated itnot being able to fill young minds with your pestilence. Took them off high school shelves and out of lists burned them for junk! Remember? That was me, Im not dead yet! Boy, where are you?

Enchant her, I whispered to the air. Magic her. Make her go away. Let me live here with you.

Is that you, boy? Come with your aunt, now. Come with me, come away!

Go with her, the wind told me. Send your children this way, years from now. But go with her.

I felt a kind of tingly warmth and knew it was time to get home. I snuck out the back way and came around to the front of the house. There was no car. Shed followed me on foot all the way from the farm. I wanted to leave her there in the old house, shouting at the dead rafters, but instead I called her name and waited.

She came out crying. She knew.

You poor sinning boy, she said, pulling me to her lilac bosom.

<>

* * * *

PETRA

God is dead, God is dead .

. . . Perdition! When God dies, youll know it.

-Confessions of St. Argentine

As near as I can discover, Mortdieu occurred seventy-seven years ago. Learned sons of pure flesh deny that magic was set loose, or even that the Alternate had gained supreme power. But few people could deny that God, as such, had died.

All the hinges of our once-great universe fell apart, the axis tilted, cosmic doors swung shut, and the rules of existence lost their foundations. I have heard wise men speak of the slow decline, have heard them speculate on the reasons, the process. Where human thought was strong, realitys sudden quaking was reduced to a tremor. Where human thought was weak, reality disappeared completely, swallowed by chaos.

With the passing of Gods watchful gaze, humankind had to reach out and grab hold of the unraveling fabric of the world. Those conscious beings left alive those who had had the wits to keep their bodies from falling apart with the end of the useful constants became the only cohesive force in the chaos. Imagine that time, if you will:

When every delusion became as real as solid matter. Blinding pain, flaming blood, bones breaking, flesh powdering, steel flowing like liquid, the sky raining amber. Crowds in the shifting streets, gathering at intersections, not knowing what to do, trapped by their own ignorance. Their weak minds could not grab hold. And where human thought gave way, gradually the ancient order of nature returned, with its own logic, its own way of adapting. People watched, horrified, as city blocks became forests. When they tried to stop the metamorphosis, their unorganized mentality only confused things further. With the first faint suspicion that they had all gone mad, the first crack in their all-too-weak reserves of will, they projected their nightmares. Prodigal crows perched atop the trees that had once been buildings. Pigs ran through the streets on their hind legs, pavement rushing to become soil behind them. The forest prevailed over most of the city.

Legend has it that it was the arch existentialist Jansard crucifier of the beloved St. Argentine-who, realizing his error, discovered that mind and thought could calm the foaming sea of reality.

Most humans were entirely too irrational to begin with. Whole nations vanished or were turned into incomprehensible whirlpools of misery and depravity.

It is said that certain universities, libraries, and museums survived, but to this day we have little contact with them.

Our Cathedral survived. Rationality in this neighborhood, however, had weakened some centuries before Mortdieu, replaced only by a kind of rote. The Cathedral suffered. Survivors-clergy and staff, worshipers seeking sanctuary-had wretched visions, dreamed wretched dreams. They saw the stone ornaments of the great church come alive. With someone to see and believe, in a universe lacking any other foundation, my ancestors shook off stone and became flesh. Centuries of rock celibacy weighed upon them. Forty-nine nuns who had sought shelter in the Cathedral were discovered and were not entirely loath, for (so the coarser versions of the tale go) Mortdieu had had a surprising aphrodisiacal effect on the faithful. Conjugation took place. No definite gestation period has been established, because at that time the great stone wheel had not been set twisting back and forth to count the days. Nor had Kronos been appointed to the chair, to watch over the wheel and provide a baseline for everyday activities. But flesh did not reject stone, and there came into being the sons and daughters of flesh and stone, including me. Those who had fornicated with the gargoyles and animals were cast out to raise their monstrous young in the highest hidden recesses. Those who had accepted the embraces of the stone saints and other human figures were less abused but were still banished to the upper reaches. A wooden scaffold was erected, dividing the great nave into two levels. A canvas drop cloth was fastened over the scaffold, to prevent offal from raining down, and on the second level of the Cathedral the more human sons of stone and flesh set about creating a new life.

Im an ugly son of stone and flesh; theres no denying it. I dont remember my mother. Its possible she abandoned me shortly after my birth. More than likely she is dead. My father-ugly, beaked, half-winged thing, if he resembles his son-I have never seen.

The moment my memory was born is very clear to me. It was about thirty years ago, by the swinging of the wheel, though Im sure I lived many years before that-years lost to me. I squatted behind thick, dusty curtains in a vestibule and listened to a priest intoning Scripture to a gaggle of flesh children. That was on the ground floor, and I was in great danger; the people of pure flesh looked upon my kind as abominations. But it was worth taking the risk. In time I was able to steal a Psalter and learn to read. The other books I stole defined my own world by comparing it with others. At first I couldnt believe the others existed, only the Cathedral. I still have my doubts. I can look out a tiny round window on one side of my room and see the great forest and the river that surround the Cathedral, but I can see nothing else. So my experience with other worlds is far from direct.

No matter, I read, but Im no scholar. What concerns me is recent history.

I am small-barely three English feet tall-and I can run quickly through most of the hidden passageways. This lets me observe without attracting attention. I may be the only objective historian in this whole structure.

Like any historian, however, I have my favorite subjects within the greater whole. Naturally enough, they are events in which I played an important role. If you prefer history in which the historian is not involved, then look to the records of larger communities.

At the time my history begins, the children of stone and flesh were still searching for the stone of Christ. Those of us born of the union of the stone saints and gargoyles with the bereaved nuns thought our salvation lay in the great stone Celibate, who came to life, as all the other statues had.

Of smaller import were the secret assignations between the Bishops daughter and a young man of stone and flesh. Such assignations were forbidden even between those of pure flesh; because they were, of course, unmarried, their double sin was interesting to me.

Her name was Constantia, and she was fourteen, slender of limb, brown of hair, mature of bosom. Her eyes carried the stupid sort of divine life common in girls of that age. His name was Corvus, and he was fifteen. I dont recall his precise features, but he was handsome enough and dexterous. He could climb through the scaffolding almost as quickly as I. I first spied them talking when I made one of my frequent raids on the repository to steal another book. They were in shadow, but my eyes are keen. They spoke softly, hesitantly. My heart ached to see them and to think of their tragedy, for I knew right away that Corvus was not pure flesh. And Constantia was the daughter of the Bishop himself. I envisioned the old tyrant handing out the usual punishment to Corvus for such breaches of level and morality-castration. But in their talk was a sweetness that almost blanketed the powerful stench of the lower nave.