With a Tangled Skein (47 page)

And there it was. Niobe faced Satan. "When Atropos cuts a thread out of turn, after it has been measured and woven into the Tapestry, that thread will end despite the destiny Lachesis has measured for it. An unfated end is a suicide. What Atropos does, in effect, is terminate that person's impulse to exist-eliminating the instinct of selfpreservation. Without that instinct, the average person will soon get tired of the routine frustrations of life, and decide to try the Afterlife instead. Especially if he believes he is going to Heaven-or has a promise of preferred treatment in Hell."

"I don't treat suicides any better than the others!" Satan exclaimed, his flames brightening indignantly.

"But you have promised preferred treatment to those who do your bidding on Earth," Niobe said. "Such as the ones slated to replace the senators who have returned to enjoy their newfound youth. Well, those folk may come to you sooner than you anticipate."

"I'll assign them double torture if they do!" Satan raged. "I need them on Earth!"

"For twenty years or so," Niobe agreed. "But when Atropos cuts their threads early, so that they lose their indomitable desire to live, they won't care to waste all that time waiting for their reward."

"There is no reward!" Satan was almost engulfed in flames now.

"In which case, why should they agree to your bidding?" she asked sweetly. "You will have a lot of trouble garnering the votes you want if those folk realize that your promises are meaningless."

"You're bluffing!" Satan cried. "You wouldn't abrogate your own threads!"

"To save mankind?" she asked. "Perhaps I would not-but I suspect practical old Atropos would."

"You bet I would!" Atropos cried from the audience. "And without those corrupted votes, twenty years hence, the final decision will be left to the powers that will be-and the swing vote will remain with my granddaughter Luna!"

Satan didn't answer. He stood there, glowering, as the circle of fire closed in on them both. It ignited the last demon-the one who was the Magician. As the demonsemblance went up in smoke, her son stood there in his natural form. A slow, grim smile was spreading across his face.

Then the flame engulfed her, blotting out the rest of Hell. But Niobe felt no heat.

In a moment the air cleared. Hell was gone, and with it the audience. She stood in Mars' castle, where she had started this strange challenge. She was back in her physical body, her soul safe as an Aspect of Fate. Mars was standing before her, his smile very like that of the Magician.

You did it! Clotho cried in thought, kissing her internally.

Good job, woman! Atropos thought next. Niobe laughed with relief and delight. "Upon my soul!" she exclaimed. She knew she had a long and satisfying role ahead of her as Lachesis.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

In the first Incarnations novel, featuring Thanatos, I explored the subject of Death in a manner not commonly seen in fiction. That novel seems to be doing reasonably well, commercially and critically, and my fans have reacted favorably. But I noted in the "Author's Note" for that book that Death seemed to be lobbing shells at me while I worked on the novel. This was disquieting. Next year I wrote the sequel, featuring Chronos, and explored aspects of Time that other writers may have overlooked. I was then besieged by problems of time, and really had to struggle to complete the novel on schedule. I don't believe in the Supernatural-I regard it as fantasy-but I dreaded what I would encounter when I wrote the next, on the subject of Fate.

Well, now it is done, and this is my report on the manner Fate has affected me. I am broadening the scope here, for as I trust this novel shows, Fate is not a matter of a few months or particular episodes; it is an ongoing tapestry of interacting life, fashioned from the tangled skein of reality. So herewith my usual warning: the entertainment portion of this book is over, and this Note is of a more introspective nature. If you are not interested in the musings of anonymous writers, don't bother to read further; the novel can stand perfectly well without this.

How did I come to write Skein? Well, of course I went the usual route, presenting a summary of the notion to the editor, who put out a contract on it, and in the winter of 1983-84 I settled down to write the first drafts of the third Bio novel for Avon and the third Incarnations novel for Del Rey. You will remember my system: I so arrange my year so as not to have to type in my unheated study in winter, preferring to sit by the warm woodstove and pencil the first drafts of two novels, then type them in spring. This really is no answer, though, because the question is too limited. How did I, an established science fiction writer since 1963, come to be writing fantasy? How did I come to be a writer at all?

Let me start at the beginning, because the true course that took me to Niobe was more devious and difficult than most folks would care to realize. If parts of this narration seem uncomfortably personal-well, this is my nature.

There is an element in my fiction that appeals to certain readers who claim they don't find it in most other fiction, and much as I might be tempted to call it Competence or Quality or Genius, I really can't. There are other writers with these traits who are less successful than I am. I regard myself as a good writer, not a great one, and my current success has as much to do with the efforts of the publisher and its sales force as it does with my skill as an author. This isn't modesty on my part, false or otherwise; it's observation based on my desire to know the truth, whatever its nature may be.

I have what some others would call an obsession with truth, which manifests in a lively curiosity about practically everything that exists or fails to exist, a very strong desire for integrity-and contempt for its absence-and an ornery attitude about ascertaining the facts and making them known. This attitude has gotten me in a lot of trouble in the past, but is paying off now, because I am working my way closer to comprehension of the nature of ultimate reality, and it helps. Of course I have a way to go yet, before that comprehension is complete; let's give it a millennium or two and see where I stand.

Anyway, I suspect that special element in my fiction is the personal touch. I am not content to follow the standard rules of plotting, characterization, and style, though these are good rules; I want my fiction also to live. When I succeed, it does live for me, and I hope for my readers, too. I do feel what my characters feel and I can cry, literally, when they hurt. I can suffer pangs of parturition when I finish with a novel; of course the words remain, but I am no longer in it; it has ceased to be an ongoing aspect of my life and has become part of the record of my achievement. Its thread has been cut, and I must proceed to the spinning and measuring of the next one. But while I'm in, I am involved.

Sometimes I dream about my characters. I love Niobe, I love Cedric, I love Luna and Orb; they live in my fancy much as living people do. Is it foolish to care for nonexistent folk? Then leave me to my foolishness! There is too much insensitivity and isolation in this world; there should be no shame in caring, even if only for constructs of the imagination. Indeed, in certain respects, I prefer imagination to reality and shall explain why. But this entails some baring of the nerves and is uncomfortable for some folk, including some writers. I happen to be more introspective and expressive than most, so I do get personal in these Notes. Bear with me

I was born in Oxford, England, where both my parents had their degrees. Ours was a Quaker family, and my father worked with the British Friends Service Committee in Spain, supervising their relief program there during the Spanish Civil War. As I understand it, this was largely concerned with the feeding of hungry children, who had the worst of it during the ravages of combat. Generals like to speak of conquering territory and reducing the enemy's combative ability, but this is rough on the children whose territory it is; their houses are destroyed arid their families killed and their food disappears. That is the real meaning of war, after the generals have played their games and moved on to new challenges. I will have a good deal more to say on the subject of the suffering of innocents in war in the next novel in this series. Wielding a Red Sword; too often it is the blood of children that accounts for the color.

This war in Spain went from 1936 to 1939 and presaged World War II; the Nazi regime used it as a kind of testing ground for new weapons, then turned that experience into something that caused the rest of the world to take note. Many people were affected by the war in Spain, including such literary figures as Ernest Hemingway and George Orwell, and science fiction writer Ted Cogswell . . . and me.

My father was arrested by the victorious Franco government; he disappeared, in the manner that has more recently been popularized in Latin America, but was fortunate enough to manage to smuggle out a note. It reached my mother, and, armed with that proof, she was able to get the authorities to admit that my father was in custody; they had, of course, denied it. Truth is the first casualty in war and in its aftermath. They agreed to release him conditionally: that he depart the country. That way the dictatorship did not have to admit to making a mistake- dictatorships just don't make mistakes-and got to take over the stores of food intended for children. I doubt that much of it reached those children thereafter. Thus it was that we came to America. It is entirely possible that had this false arrest and eviction not occurred, I would be living today in Spain, perhaps trying to write fantasy in Spanish.

I was not aware of such details at the time, but I felt their impact. I was not in Spain during the actual war; I remained in England with my sister, cared for by "Nana," a British girl hired for the purpose, as has been the custom there for perhaps a longer time than America has been colonized. Thus it is not surprising that some of my earliest and fondest memories are of Nana, whose actual name I never knew. Even my memory may be skewed; it was probably "Nanny." Then the time came for my sister and me to go to Spain. I learned to my chagrin that Nana, who I thought was my mother or equivalent, was not going. We were to be in the charge of two other people, who were in fact my parents. They had spared me the possible anguish of separation from them, before, by distancing themselves; they overlooked the discomfort of this separation.

I don't want to make more of this than it was, but my awareness of that separation has remained with me throughout my life. The echo of it is apparent in the separation of Niobe from her son; the things of my life do make their way into my fiction, though not in ways that any critic comprehends. I suspect the same is true for other writers.

In Spain I adapted gradually to the culture and the language; at age five I was beginning to speak Spanish. My sister had a pretty, lacy Spanish dress. I would wake in the mornings and see the moving shadows of palm fronds cast against my wall; I viewed this as an adventure, trying to guess which frond would dive farthest in the wind. I saw my first movie there. The Three Little Pigs. My memories of Spain are more populous and clear than those of England, though not as fond. But then, abruptly, we left. Oh, it was an adventure; we traveled to Portugal, to Lisbon-I remember the hotel room there-to board the ship Excalibur. No, as far as I know, that name has no connection to my later taste in fantasy, but perhaps it was a signal. As it happened, the Duke of Windsor-the former King Edward VIII of England-was taking that same ship to the New World to be Governor of the Bahamas; I remember seeing his car hoisted out of the hold at Bermuda. The Nazis had hatched a plot to kidnap or convert them to their cause, but that had been botched and he crossed the Atlantic unmolested.

Again, my memories of the time are more personal than historic; I was seasick, vomiting over the rail into the ocean-the Atlantic remains polluted to this day-and I had my sixth birthday at sea on August 6, 1940. The chef lacked sugar, because of the War, and so I was presented with a cake made of sawdust, nicely covered with icing and candles. It was a surprise when we cut that open! I was somewhat put out at the time. Today, ironically, when I can afford a genuine cake, I can't have it, because of my mild diabetes. I think my daughters are jealous; they've had many real cakes, but never a sawdust cake. For a present I received a harmonica, which I played ceaselessly thereafter; I trust the Duke appreciated the music. I have always liked harmonica music since then; it, too, appears in my fiction, most notably in the Adept series.

But this was my second uprooting, though not my last, as my family slowly fragmented and my parents eventually divorced. Gardeners will tell you that root-pruning doesn't hurt; I hesitate to agree. I did not understand the problem, though in retrospect I do. I had no continuing security of situation; both the people and the places closest to me kept changing. By day I got along, but darkness brought nightmare. I would lie awake at night, staring at the wan lamp that was my only security from nocturnal monsters.

If I were to personify my closest acquaintance of these years, it would be Fear; I have known it longer and better than anyone else would believe. I began to wet my bed at night, and this persisted, despite the efforts of others to shame, cure, or punish me, until I was ten years old; living folk simply lacked the leverage my nightmares had. I remember being in boarding school in first grade, when one of the bigger boys took off the sheet to expose me in my soaking nakedness. It didn't matter; what does one humiliation matter, when one is already in Hell?

My family moved again, and again, and I attended five different schools in the course of my three years in first grade. I learned how to fight, because I had to; I just couldn't learn how to read and I wasn't strong in math, either. That may explain why I was later to be a math instructor in the U.S. Army and an English teacher and professional writer in civilian life. In the throes of this childhood I developed nervous twitches of head and hands, and I counted things compulsively. I suspect early tests showed me to be of subnormal intellect. My physical growth slowed, then stopped; I became the smallest in my class, male or female. I suffered daily stomachaches, and every few months there would be a real gut-tearer that would incapacitate me all day. Not until I had a kidney stone at the age of forty-seven did I experience worse abdominal pain.