TABLE OF CONTENTS

Issue 137, October 2021

FROM THE EDITOR

Editorial: October 2021

SCIENCE FICTION

Memoranda from the End of the World
Gene Doucette

Tidings
Rich Larson

Those Who Went
E. Catherine Tobler

Every Single Brian
Yang-Yang Wang

FANTASY

The Black Menagerie
Endria Isa Richardson

The Ash-Girl and the Salmon Prince, Part I
P H Lee and Rachel Swirsky

The Ash-Girl and the Salmon Prince, Part II
P H Lee and Rachel Swirsky

The Right Dragon
Coral Alejandra Moore

EXCERPTS

Light From Uncommon Stars
Ryka Aoki

NONFICTION

Book Review: Destroyer of Light by Jenn Marie Brissett
LaShawn M. Wanak

Book Review: The Year’s Best African Speculative Fiction (2021), edited by Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki
Arley Sorg

Book Review: How High We Go in The Dark, by Sequoia Nagamatsu
Chris Kluwe

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHTS

Gene Doucette

P H Lee

Yang-Yang Wang

MISCELLANY

Coming Attractions

Stay Connected

Subscriptions and Ebooks

Support Us on Patreon, or How to Become a Dragonrider or Space Wizard

About the Lightspeed Team

Also Edited by John Joseph Adams

© 2021 Lightspeed Magazine

Cover by Chainat / Adobe Stock

www.lightspeedmagazine.com

Published by Adamant Press

Editorial: October 2021

John Joseph Adams | 225 words

Welcome to Lightspeed’s 137th issue!

We’re starting off the month with a memo—a science fictional memo, and lucky for all of you, it’s by the hilarious Gene Doucette. Not everyone can make an apocalypse funny, but we think “Memoranda from the End of the World” will have you chuckling to the bitter end. Our other original SF short comes from Yang-Yang Wang, whose story “Every Single Brian” digs into the painful and personal realm of human cloning. E. Catherine Tobler brings us a riveting SF flash piece in “Those Who Went.” Our reprint is from Leah Cypess: “On the Ship.”

On the fantasy side of the magazine, we’re taking you all back to P H Lee’s the Great Sweet Sea for their new novelette “The Ash-Girl and the Salmon Prince.” This fairy tale of family, love, and loss is so much fun we’re serializing it over the course of two weeks. Our fantasy flash piece is the tremendously affecting story “The Right Dragon,” from Coral Alejandra Moore. Our reprint is Endria Isa Richardson’s “The Black Menagerie.”

Our nonfiction team has put together a great selection of author spotlights and book reviews. We also have an excerpt from Ryka Aoki’s new novel, Light From Uncommon Stars.

It’s another terrific issue—thanks for reading!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Joseph Adams is the series editor of Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy and is the bestselling editor of more than thirty anthologies, including Wastelands and The Living Dead. Recent books include A People’s Future of the United States, Wastelands: The New Apocalypse, and the three volumes of The Dystopia Triptych. Called “the reigning king of the anthology world” by Barnes & Noble, John is a two-time winner of the Hugo Award (for which he has been a finalist twelve times) and an eight-time World Fantasy Award finalist. John is also the editor and publisher of Lightspeed and is the publisher of its sister-magazines, Fantasy and Nightmare. For five years, he ran the John Joseph Adams Books novel imprint for Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Find him online at johnjosephadams.com and @johnjosephadams.

Memoranda from the End of the World

Gene Doucette | 5400 words

[For internal use only]

RE: YOUR COMPANY-ISSUED BREATHING APPARATUS

Attached, please find your personal company-issued Breathing Apparatus, for immediate use within all corporate campus unfiltered air locations!

This includes all outdoor locations, such as: the parking lots; the parking garage; the smoker’s hut; the paths between the buildings; the shuttlebus waiting area; the tennis court; and the corporate golf course. It also includes a limited number of indoor locations, such as: the shuttlebus; any area listed as “Under Construction”; and the employee bathroom on level two in the north wing of building H.

(Note: If you are reading this memorandum at any of the above-listed unventilated locations, please skip to the section entitled “How to Wear Your Personal Breathing Apparatus” immediately and follow the prescribed steps.)

As detailed in the prior memoranda, “ON THE UNFORTUNATELY HIGH PARTICULATE MATTER COUNT IN OUR COOLING TOWER EJECTA” and “WHY YOU MAY BE COUGHING MORE THIS WEEK,” per policy, all employees must wear their personal Breathing Apparatuses when at risk of inhaling unfiltered air while on the corporate campus.

(For more information, please consult the updated Policy on Breathing in the online corporate handbook.)

FAQ

Q: How long will this policy be in effect?
A: Hopefully not for long! Air quality tests are being conducted constantly by our on-campus team of researchers and the legal department. We will provide a timeline shortly.

Q: In addition to experiencing shortness of breath, I have also experienced some of the following: redness and itching of the eyes; excessive saliva; skin irritation; panic attacks; and dissociative episodes. Are these symptoms related to the air quality concerns expressed by the corporation?
A: These symptoms cannot be positively linked to the corporation’s unfiltered air quality issue at this time.

Q: Should I be concerned for my family?
A: If your immediate family resides more than ten miles from the corporate campus, then no! Otherwise, please contact your supervisor about signing the litigation waiver and obtaining additional Breathing Apparatuses for your immediate family members.

Q: I’ve heard rumors that the high particulate matter count in the coolant tower ejecta is related to work on Project ExtraSolar. What can you tell us?
A: As always, everything relating to Project ExtraSolar is classified as Top Secret. Please refer to the Policy on Denying the Existence of Project ExtraSolar in the online corporate handbook for more information.

• • • •

[For internal use only]

RE: THE IMPORTANCE OF NOT BREATHING UNFILTERED AIR AT THIS TIME

It has come to the attention of Corporate Safety and Security that the mandatory Breathing Apparatus guidelines are not being strictly adhered to by all employees.

As previously outlined—see: “YOUR COMPANY-ISSUED BREATHING APPARATUS”—the wearing of your personal Breathing Apparatus is required whenever inhaling non-filtered air while on the corporate campus.

Many have noted that in the course of issuing Breathing Apparatuses to all employees, we have neglected to explain why it was important to not breathe unfiltered air while on the corporate campus. There are a number of litigation-adjacent reasons we did not do this (and why we still cannot). However, we can discuss a number of the quite dangerous theories that have recently come to our attention.

Theory #1: “This is actually a psychological test and there’s nothing wrong with the air.”
This is false. There very much is something wrong with the air. Please also note that our psy-ops department was defunded two years ago.

Theory #2: “The air is toxic and if you’ve already breathed it you’re going to die anyway, so why bother?”
This is false. Corporate would not issue Breathing Apparatuses if we knew the air was toxic and it was already too late for everyone. The truth is we’re still running tests.

Theory #3: “The air grants people special abilities and corporate is trying to keep it all for themselves.”
This is false. This theory—and the similar “freedom air” theory—are the most popular and the least plausible of the theories we have encountered. We cannot at this time confirm the nature of the pollutant in the corporate campus’s unfiltered air, but—as is true for any industrial accident—the air does not grant special abilities.

(Note: We can neither confirm nor deny that there was an industrial accident.)

It has also been reported that some of the employees who have inhaled unfiltered air on our corporate campus—whether by accident or intentionally—claim to have experienced a kind of euphoria. Like the above theories, this is false: Euphoria is not a recognized symptom.

Again: Euphoria is not a recognized symptom.

Any employees caught “chasing the euphoria” by “breathing the freedom air” and/or encouraging others to do so will be referred to H.R. immediately, and may face termination.

• • • •

[For internal use only]

RE: MEDIA INQUIRIES

In the wake of recent events, the corporation felt it important to address what is becoming an increasingly common problem for our employees: dealing with the media.

It’s important to remember that all media inquiries should be directed to our Public Relations department and/or the Legal department. When a member of the media asks you a question about the corporation, you must refer them. (Contact information for both is attached to this memo.)

We also strongly urge all employees, when faced with media inquiries, to ask themselves: are you the person within the corporation best qualified to speak for the corporation?

Almost without exception, the answer is no. This is irrespective of the question, the questioner, or the circumstance by which the questioner and the questioned happen to encounter one another.

However, we also recognize that under extreme duress, employees may not have the presence of mind to ruminate on the appropriateness of an in-progress media interaction. Likewise, not all media members readily identify themselves, and some circumstances do not permit time for an employee to ask if their interrogator is speaking on behalf of a media conglomerate.

This is why we at corporate headquarters are advising that all employees learn to apply the following phrase—“I don’t know”—to all external inquiries regarding the company.

This phrase has been approved by the legal department for use in all circumstances in which an employee is asked a question relating to the company by a non-employee, and it is to be used at all times regardless of the question.

Here are a few real-life examples of how saying “I don’t know” can help both you (the employee) and the corporation as a whole continue to succeed.

Example #1:
Five quarantined employees escape containment and exit the campus in a heightened state of euphoric dementia. After sacking the local police station, their leader—“Nigel”—declares himself king. The five escapees are eventually contained, but only after killing seven people and biting another twenty-two.

A member of the media reaches out to known employees of the corporation. You, an associate of “Nigel,” are asked to comment.

Option 1: “It was only a matter of time. We’re all going to [expletive] die. Do you own a gun? Get a [expletive] gun. (crying) Those poor bastards . . . Look, go underground and maybe you can hold them off for a while. It’s worth a try, right? Right? (more crying.) I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Option 2: “The corporation strongly denies any connection with these individuals, cannot explain why they have employee badges, and only learned about the unfortunate attack on the police station just now when you asked about it.”

Option 3: “I don’t know.”

As we can see, the real-world response shown in Option 1 is inappropriate. Option 2 is ideal, but difficult to reproduce without legal assistance. Option 3 is therefore preferred.

Example #2
An old college friend asks if there’s any connection between the company’s drastic increase in security fencing, the breakdown of local government, and the spread of “Euphoric Fever.” Unbeknownst to you, this old college friend now works for an international media organization.

Option 1: “This is what happens when you try to play God with alien microbes. Jesus Christ. This [expletive] company, man. Hey, I gotta run, they’re having a problem with the flamethrower again.”

Option 2: “True or not I must assume that you, old college friend, are currently employed by an international media organization. The corporation’s updated fencing was purely aesthetic, we have no comment about local government, and we’ve never heard of ‘Euphoric Fever.’”

Option 3: “I don’t know.”

As before, option 3 is preferred, option 2 is better but challenging for most employees, and option 1—the real-world response, unfortunately—is highly damaging to the reputation of the corporation and should be avoided.

Example #3
While off duty and after being relocated to a secure facility, during the course of waiting in line for rations you overhear an army general discussing the use of napalm for an upcoming counterstrike. Concerned, and with information regarding the viability of fire, you approach to discuss it with him.

You do not notice that the general is currently on live television.

Option 1: “WE TRIED FIRE! NOTHING WORKS! THEY’RE NOT HUMAN ANYMORE! [garbled ranting] [expletive] [garbled ranting] [incoherent shrieking]”

Option 2: “These corporation-supplied rations are healthy and delicious!”

Option 3: Do not approach the general. Do not discuss what you know with the military at all.

Option 4: “I don’t know.”

You are correct: this example is actually a trick! The best option is 3. Options 1, 2, and 4 all feature interrupting a live television broadcast, which draws unwelcome attention regardless of what one says following that interruption. However, if you find yourself completely unable to avoid doing this, options 2 or 4 are far better than the real-world option 1.

We hope this advice and the provided examples prove useful to you, our valued employees, in navigating the challenging times we are currently experiencing.

Also note: If you think you have said or are going to say something to a media representative, we ask that you reach out to your supervisor immediately for further guidance.

• • • •

From: the office of the Search for Non-Terrestrial Intelligence (SNOTI)

To: all SNOTI-participating observatories

RE: POSSIBLE NON-TERRESTRIAL SIGNAL IDENTIFIED & PNTL WARNING

Dear participating members:

We here at the main SNOTI office hope that this message reaches you, and that you are well and not currently infected with the PNTL contagion (about which: more below.) Tragically, the latest information has it that our observatories in North America and Western Europe have, much like the rest of society in those regions, collapsed. (So, if you are reading this and located in one of those regions, it’s likely you are not entirely yourself. If this is not the case, cheerio! We hope you have adequate food and water. Please let us know if we can help.)

We have two important pieces of information to share with our members at this time. First, current evidence indicates that our New South Wales observatory, in conjunction with our Guizhou branch, have confirmed the receipt of a message from a non-terrestrial source!

This may sound very much as if we’ve discovered the existence of water moments before drowning. However, despite the very real global threat the Parasitic Non-Terrestrial Lifeform contagion represents to us all, many of our SNOTI observatories have continued to work hard in the search for intelligent non-terrestrial life that is also not currently on the planet. To that end: we appear to have succeeded!

We’re attaching the coordinates for the signal source to this memorandum. Please note that the coordinates do not correspond to anything in particular; the signal is either being sent from a previously undiscovered planet, or a local non-terrestrial object.

If you are able, have power, and are of sound mind, please direct your array to the coordinates. Be aware that we have not been able to discern what the signal is saying at this time, if anything. However, it is repeating and non-random.

(In what was a gesture of wishful thinking—the stress has gotten to us all—the NSW office did craft and send a response, in the unlikely event the signal origin was somewhere nearby, astronomically speaking. We welcome you to do the same, if it lightens the mood.)

Secondly, it has come to our attention that those inflicted with the PNTL contagion are uncommonly attracted to observatories. If you have not already done so, we strongly recommend you fortify your facility as well as is possible.

Happy signal hunting! We promise to share any new findings as they happen, for as long as we are able.

Sincerely,

Your SNOTI administrators

• • • •

[For internal use only]

RE: SAYING GOODBYE TO OUR SOUTHWESTERN CORPORATE CAMPUS

It is with a heavy heart that we must formally announce the closing of the corporation’s main campus, effective immediately.

This is not a decision lightly made! Despite the trying times of the past several months, we here at the Corporate Shelter have been attacking the problem daily in the hopes of coming up with a solution.

(Note: As mentioned in the previous memo, “WE ARE UNABLE TO DISCLOSE THE LOCATION OF THE TOP SECRET CORPORATE SHELTER”, we are unable to disclose the location of the top secret corporate shelter at this time. We continue to log your requests!)

However, recent satellite surveys of our southwestern campus have brought us to the same conclusion many of you no doubt already reached: the campus technically no longer exists in any meaningful physical sense.

This was ultimately due to the military’s firebombing campaign, although the riots were a proximate cause. We have also been notified that the upcoming nuclear strike is likely to render any insurance claims moot.

And so: we have decided it would be in the corporation’s best interests to close the campus permanently, write off the loss, and move on.

Unfortunately, this means we will also be initiating a mandatory attrition for all employees assigned to that facility who have not already self-furloughed by way of premature death or infection.

(Note: employees afflicted with Euphoric Fever are ineligible for severance. Please read Corporate Stance on Non-Human Status of PNTL-Infected Persons in the online corporate handbook for details on this policy.)

If you believe your employment status has been impacted by this change, but have not yet been contacted by Human Resources, let your immediate supervisor know immediately so that we may begin the mandatory attrition process.

We would like to apologize to all affected employees, and thank you all for your years of service. None of us at the Corporate Shelter would be here without your hard work and many sacrifices.

• • • •

WELCOME TO YOUR GOVERNMENT-SPONSORED BUNKER

Hello and welcome to Long-Term Subterranean Housing Bunker #7, or as we like to call it, “The Bunker!”

Before we go over some very important rules about your new long-term housing, we would like to congratulate you on having made it this far, and to thank you for being here! The total collapse of society is difficult on us all, but we are sure that in time you will adjust, just as we have, to the changed circumstances!

Now, a brief questionnaire, to bring everyone up to speed as quickly as possible! Don’t worry, there are no wrong answers. Take your time and have fun!

Entrance Questionnaire

Q: What is your age, and are you medically capable of fathering/bearing children?
A: __________

Q: What is your unique/special skill/knowledge base that was considered critical in rebuilding civilization? Are you the only one who can do it, or can it be taught in the event something should happen to you?
A: __________

Q: Do you have a fever?
A: __________

Q: Are you happy right now? As in, very happy?
A: __________

Q: Please list all the weapons you are proficient in the use of. (Provide as much detail as possible. Ex: instead of “guns”, say “Sig Sauer P320” or “Winchester Model 94 carbine 30-30”.)
A: __________

Q: Have you ever killed a person? (In self-defense or otherwise.)
A: __________

Q: Are you sure you’re not an unreasonable degree of happy right now?
A: __________

Q: Please list any skills not already mentioned above. (Ex: truck driving; masonry; flamethrower maintenance.)
A: __________

Turn in your completed form to the bunker sergeant. Note that this questionnaire is mandatory.

Important Rules About Your New Housing

It’s critically important that all bunker residents be aware of each of these rules, and to follow them exactly, at all times!

Rule #1: Do not go outside. If you are not an active member of the assault team or the fire squad, do not leave the bunker at any time, for any reason. You will not be allowed back inside.

Rule #2: No smoking. We appreciate that this is a challenge for many of you, but please keep in mind that the air filters are the only thing keeping the bunker safe from the contagion; any unnecessary stress to the filters should be avoided. Also, there is no supply of tobacco products in the bunker. If you plan to step outside for a smoke, please see rule #1.

Rule #3: Report happy people. Parasitic Non-Terrestrial Lifeform contagion, AKA PNTL, AKA PANTAL, AKA PANTALOON, AKA Euphoric Fever, has the following easily-identifiable symptoms: 1) overwhelming euphoria, 2) a mild fever, 3) delusions of grandeur, 4) a strong urge to bite people. These symptoms generally present in this order, which means that happiness is the first sign that something may be wrong. If you encounter someone in the bunker who appears to be happy in a way that makes no sense to you, trust your instincts! Report unnaturally happy people to the bunker sergeant so that they can be isolated and tested.

Rule #4: Do not ask for more food. Your daily assigned rations have been apportioned precisely to provide enough calories for all of us to survive. Do not ask for additional helpings, or for seasoning or condiments. What you have been provided is all there is. Keep in mind that our bunker nutritionists are calculating not only how much food each of us can have per day, but for how many days, based on how much food we currently have. Additional helpings now may mean a total lack of food later.

Thank you for your time! Please see your bunker sergeant for your sleeping assignment. We wish you luck as a new and productive member of The Bunker!

• • • •

[This missive translated from [Untranslatable] to English.

When only the best [Untranslatable] will do, choose [Untranslatable] for all your galactic translations!]

NOTICE OF IMPENDING FUMIGATION

People of Earth:

Your planet has been designated for fumigation. Please see below for details.

Why is this happening?

The Galactic Corporation at [Untranslatable] has determined that Earth is currently in the midst of an outbreak of [Untranslatable] Flu. (You may also know it as the [Untranslatable] Fever, [Untranslatable] Plague, or The Crazypants.) As you are aware, this disease is caused by a highly infectious, sentient pathogen, commonly known as [Untranslatable] or George.

As there is no known cure for [Untranslatable], the best recourse once an outbreak has occurred is to eradicate the infected populace.

Is there a cure?
There is no cure.

Eradication seems drastic?
Eradication is the only viable option to halt the spread. Those infected with [Untranslatable] seek only to find others to infect. Once a planet has run out of host candidates, the afflicted will exhaust all options to leave the planet for other worlds.

Any of those infected who are still capable will acquire spacecrafts, while the later-stage infected will instinctively gravitate to higher ground for as long as higher ground exists. We at the Galactic Corporation’s corporate headquarters at [Untranslatable] have a responsibility to our shareholder planetary systems to step in before a runaway outbreak of [Untranslatable] Flu jumps planets.

How will the planet be fumigated?
Employing the latest and best technology, our expert team of fumigators will surround the planet with our patented Neutron Shield and irradiate the surface with high doses of gamma radiation.

This process uses 1/3 less gamma radiation than our competitors, with twice the effectiveness in half the time. (Ask for a brochure!) Your planet should be ready for repopulation in fewer than twenty-thousand galactic standard years, which is a lot better than the thirty-five thousand the competition can promise!

When will this begin?
The fumigation has not yet been scheduled. Expect a second notice closer to the date.

FOR SPECIAL CIRCUMSTANCES ONLY

What do I do if my entire species is located on this planet?
We at the Galactic Corporation at [Untranslatable] recognize that some less advanced species may be facing total extinction as a consequence of this outbreak. (Although this is rare.) If you have reason to believe our fumigation program will result in the cessation of your lifeform as a whole, please take the following steps.

1: Collect.
Gather all individuals you can prove, credibly, are uninfected.

2: Evacuate.
Leave the planet’s surface immediately.

3: Assemble and remain self-isolated.
Find the nearest uninhabited orbital object—a moon, or a nearby asteroid—land and wait. You are now self-quarantining.

[IMPORTANT: Do not attempt to land on another inhabited planet. Now that the Galactic Corporation of [Untranslatable] has identified your world for fumigation, all craft originating from your home planet will be treated as hostile.]

4: Notify.
As soon as you’ve touched down, send word to your local Galactic Corporation corporate representative. Tell them what planet you are from and whether you require retrieval. Once the mandated quarantine period has elapsed, a representative will arrive to tend to your further needs.

Thank you for trusting the Galactic Corporation at [Untranslatable]!

• • • •

To Whom It May Concern—

If you’re reading this and I haven’t shot you yet, it means I’m dead. Assuming the cabin I’ve attached this note to is still upright, you’re welcome to what’s inside.

I’m sure you’re thinking this is real neighborly of me, and you’re right, except that’s how I got the cabin, and how the fellow before me got it too. Basically, somebody way back at the beginning of the contagion (probably before the contagion) stocked this place with everything needed to survive the end of the world and then the end of the world came and he didn’t plan near as well as he thought he had, seeing as how he’s dead now.

Anyhoo, it’s a pretty sweet little place.

Probably. I mean, I may be dead inside, or alive but so happy I want to bite your face off. If I’m dead, bury me or whatever and I hope I didn’t stink it up too much. If I try to bite you, I apologize for that but you know how it is with these Pantaloonies.

Here’s some things I worked out about your new home.

First off, there’s a bomb shelter under the cabin floor. I wouldn’t’ve found it if the last guy hadn’t tipped me off, so now I’m doing the same. You gotta roll up the rug. The handle’s under the loose floorboard with the splintered end. Give it a good tug and there you go.

It’s a decent shelter, not that I have any to compare it to. Damn shame the end of the world didn’t involve bombs—not including when the government nuked New Mexico which, I mean, didn’t even work. It’s cement-lined, got its own generators, and that’s where all the food is.

Second, there’s no goddamn can opener.

I don’t know what happened to it; maybe the first guy had one of them special pocket knives with an opener on it or something, but I have gone through this entire house top-to-bottom and it’s just not here. The guy before me used a hunting knife to pop the cans, so I did that too. It’s hard work, and I nearly lost a finger one time, but unless you’ve got an opener of your own it’s probably the best you’re gonna do.

Third, there’s plenty of ammo, but not a single note about what goes where. Hopefully, you know from guns, but aside from the rifle I was planning to shoot you with I never worked out much. (I’ll tell you one thing: smaller gun does NOT equal smaller bullets.) I’d have probably gotten further along, but I was afraid of using the guns too often. I didn’t want to call attention to myself.

Fourth, there’s some kind of coordinated gang of Pantaloonies roaming the countryside. Not sure why, because there’s not a lot to see out here other than the observatory on the hill. (Which is locked, incidentally. I think there’s people holed up in it, but I headed there before finding this cabin and I can tell you that if they’re alive, they aren’t open to visitors.) If you’re going to spend a lot of time out of the shelter, I’d recommend figuring out the timing of that pack first; they’re pretty regular.

Fifth, you’re not gonna be able to spend all your time in the shelter, as much as that seems like a good idea. I think the designer messed up with the filtration system. Either that or something died in it. So unless you’ve got an HVAC degree and can fix it yourself, I’d moderate my time down there if I was you. (Then again, I didn’t make it, so what do I know?)

Finally, and this isn’t really related to the cabin, I’ve been seeing some pretty weird lights in the sky around here. Like, “alien spaceship” weird. They’re probably here for the observatory too. I wasn’t brave enough to send a flare (the flare gun’s in the shelter next to the peaches) on the chance they’re on some kind of rescue mission or whatever, but maybe you’ll be braver’n I was.

Oh, and the wood stove works, but you’ll probably need wood for it, depending on when I died. There’s an axe near the door.

Best of luck to you!

• • • •

[This missive translated from [Untranslatable] to English.

When only the best [Untranslatable] will do, choose [Untranslatable] for all your galactic translations!]

APOLOGIES FOR OUR ERROR

People of Earth:

We at the Galactic Corporation at [Untranslatable] would like to apologize for our recent NOTICE OF IMPENDING FUMIGATION. Receipt of this message undoubtedly caused a panic.

It was sent in error.

Due to a clerical misclassification, your planet was categorized as Advanced. This was based on a survey of your unpopulated orbital satellites, frequent concentrated radiographic bursts directed away from the planet, and trace evidence of habitation on your nearby moon.

Now that we have received your numerous frantic (and profane) responses to our initial notification, it has come to our attention that you are not Advanced, and currently lack the technology to self-sustain off-planet for long periods.

The correct classification for your species is Intermediate. Had we known this, we would have sent no notification at all.

We apologize for the confusion.

Thank you for trusting the Galactic Corporation at [Untranslatable]!

• • • •

[This missive translated from [Untranslatable] to English.

When only the best [Untranslatable] will do, choose [Untranslatable] for all your galactic translations!]

WE WILL OF COURSE HELP IN ANY WAY WE CAN!

People of Earth:

We apologize for the last two messages—NOTICE OF IMPENDING FUMIGATION and APOLOGIES FOR OUR ERROR.

Please allow us to explain.

Galactic Corporation’s corporate policy dictates that we only notify species categorized as Advanced or higher of impending fumigation. Galactic Corporation’s corporate policy also dictates that we make no contact with species categorized as less than Advanced under any circumstances. Finally, it is—as previously stated—Galactic Corporation’s corporate policy that under no circumstances are we to directly interact with a planet with an [Untranslatable] Flu outbreak.

The previously-outlined accommodations in the event our fumigation was to cause the total extinction of a sentient species has been our only alternative assistance plan. However, we now recognize that proceeding with the fumigation as planned—and as policy dictates—creates significant reputational liability for the Galactic Corporation at [Untranslatable].

We have heard your complaints! And we are listening! (Indeed, it appears every remaining uninfected person on Earth has a radio transmitter and a colorful vocabulary. There is a lot to listen to!) Your spirited interest in remaining alive has captured the attention of our legal and public relations departments in particular, as well as the attention of the Office of Endangered Sentient Species on [Untranslatable] Six.

Very shortly, we will be dispatching five ships to Earth in advance of the fumigation, to the locations disclosed following this message. These locations were chosen because they appear to be empty of any humanoid lifeforms, which is the only way we can (hopefully) avoid anyone carrying the [Untranslatable] Flu.

All uninfected members of your species who can make it to one of the five locations at the specified time will be removed from the planet, quarantined remotely and then [Untranslatable] for long-term care.

We hope this solution is satisfactory, and that you are encouraged to stop using your radiographic devices.

Thank you for trusting the Galactic Corporation at [Untranslatable]!

• • • •

WE’RE SORRY WE MISSED YOU

From: The last of the human race

To: Everyone else

Hello!

We’re sending this from aboard the last spaceship leaving Earth!

We’d like to say we hope this finds you well, but it probably doesn’t.

We’re sorry about this, but we tried to convince the aliens to make another trip, and we don’t think we got through. Their translation program isn’t all that hot and they’re not a hundred percent sure which species they’re even supposed to be talking to. I mean, they let us bring our dogs (dogs made it!) but then they spent our first three hours of the trip trying to talk to them instead of us. This was a real problem when it turned out they didn’t know we needed to breathe oxygen.

If we’re being honest, this whole rescue thing has been a fiasco from end to end. The aliens—they call themselves something that sounds like gargling, so we’ve been calling them the Gargles—seem pretty advanced, but not super-well-organized.

Just look at where they landed their ships. All of us here got on at the one that landed in Northern Canada, and we’re pretty sure at least two or three people made it to the Sahara location, but that’s about it. I mean, obviously, right? One landed on top of Mount Everest, another at the bottom of the Atlantic (they really didn’t know what kind of species they were picking up,) and the fifth one in New Mexico, which is still super-radioactive.

They honestly looked surprised anyone showed up at all at the Canadian location. That is, if we’re interpreting their facial expressions accurately. (Provided we’re even looking at their faces; there are three anatomical possibilities.) The more cynical among us think the Gargles weren’t really trying to rescue anyone at all, and they just guessed wrong about Canada.

Anyhow, we’re here now and like I said, we’re being told they can’t go back to rescue anyone else, and we’re really sorry about that. I guess the fumigation is impossible to reschedule, and they are really worried about this viral whatever, which is fair. Assuming you’re listening to this live, they should be arriving to sterilize the whole planet in twenty-four hours.

So I guess this is it.

We wanted you to know that some of us made it. The human race will survive. Yes, all we have are Canadians—and whoever the Gargles scooped up in northern Africa (assuming they retrieved humans and not a bunch of camels)—but we’re here, and we’re okay.

We don’t know where they’re taking us, but they seem all right. I mean, we’re not exactly in a position to do much if they decide we look delicious or whatever, but so far so good!

And hey, it sounds like the planet will be habitable again in about twenty-thousand years, so that’s something to look forward to, right? Something for our descendants to inherit, if they want it. Also, the fumigation won’t destroy things, so if you want to write back, go ahead. Nobody will be able to read it for a really long time, but, I mean, it’s something to do!

Anyway, we’re all really sorry about how this worked out for the rest of you.

All the best!

Sincerely,
The last of the human race

©2021 by Gene Doucette.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gene Doucette is the author of over twenty sci-fi/fantasy titles, including The Spaceship Next Door and The Frequency of Aliens, the Immortal series, the Tandemstar books, and The Apocalypse Seven. Gene lives in Cambridge MA.

To learn more about the author and this story, read the Author Spotlight

Tidings

Rich Larson | 3619 words

Grist is a nonprofit, independent media organization dedicated to telling stories of climate solutions and a just future. Fix—Grist’s “Solutions Lab”—builds on that mission by connecting and elevating the people who make change happen through storytelling, events, and network-building. To that end, Fix invited authors to look beyond this moment in the climate crisis and share their dreams of the next 180 years of equitable climate progress. More than 1,100 people from 85 countries submitted stories that elevate diverse voices and bring new perspectives to the increasingly vital genre of climate fiction. The result is Imagine 2200. Lightspeed got an early look at the winning stories and are excited to reprint one of them here. Read all 12 stories at grist.org/fix.

Maradi, Niger: 2038

“It’s not working,” Tsayaba says. She shakes her head in disgust. “Kai!”

“Just wait,” Ouma says, adjusting her scarf with shivering hands. “Yi hankali. Give it a minute.”

It’s a cold, dusty day—harmattan season is so unpredictable now, even with the weather drones they balloon up from Zinder and Niamey. The sky is choked gray, so full of dust that the sun is a smeary yellow blob that makes Ouma think of a lemon candy.

She takes one from her jacket pocket and hands it to Tsayaba, who stares at it. “This has a plastic wrapper, Ouma,” she says. “Are you trying to drive me crazy?”

Ouma unpeels it and pops it into her own mouth instead. She knows her older cousin is already a little—not crazy; Ouma has been reading e-flets on why that is a stigmatized and offensive term—but a little different. In a good way, a driven way, a furious-thrumming-brain-too-big-for-her-beautifully-braided-head way.

That is why she made money moving memes, why she went away to Nigeria to study biochem in Kano and then biotech in Lagos, why she dropped out to set up her own tiny genelab. But she never stopped messaging, and calling when she could.

And now she is back here, in dusty Maradi, where she and Ouma grew up together, to test out the little biological machine she has been tinkering with for a year and a half. Or for a whole damn century, depending on when you ask her.

The nameless thing is about the size of Ouma’s clenched fist, modeled after a waxworm’s digestive tract, slick-skinned and perched on cilia that should let it scuttle easily through the sand in a way jointed Bostobots still struggle with.

But the thing is not moving.

“It was perfect in all the sims,” Tsayaba mutters. “In the lab tests, too. I filled my whole room with sand and trash.”

She punches a few rubbery keys on her brute of a laptop, the one Ouma knows she tried to build only from old parts, to avoid unethically mined gold and tungsten, but finally had to buy new semiconductors for. Hopefully this will not be a giving-in day, too.

“Lots of things don’t work out here,” Ouma says, bracingly. “My blockphone glitches sometimes, too.”

She winces after she says it, because she doesn’t think blockphones and crawly genelab things work the same way, and she doesn’t want Tsayaba to think she is stupid. But her older cousin is too kind to think things like that, and too distracted anyway.

“I wanted to do it here,” Tsayaba mutters, rubbing her eyes. “I wanted this to be the place it starts, because it’s the place I started. Where our family started. Where you taught me I can do important things.”

Ouma feels proud of that, because she always assumed that the important things were learned in Kano and Lagos. She wants Tsayaba’s thing to work, so she crouches down and presses the wrapper from her lemon candy against its membranous skin and hopes hard.

The wrapper slides through an unseen mouth and dissolves into tiny grains that swirl through the thing’s rubbery body, like a little sandstorm. The thing wriggles its cilia feet. It notices the flimsy black shopping bags all around, sticking up from the street like blooming flowers, and suddenly it is hungry. It starts to move.

“It just needed to whet its appetite,” Ouma says.

“I was going to try that next,” Tsayaba says, but she beams. She wraps her arm around Ouma. “Thank you. And thank you for coming outside with me. I know you are freezing.”

Ouma squeezes her back, imagining Tsayaba’s dream: a whole swarm of the biomachines crawling through the sand, swimming through the ocean, breaking down tons upon tons of low-density polyethylene without a wisp of greenhouse gases escaping. It’s a thrilling vision.

“What will you name it?” she asks. “Maciyin roba? Plastic eater?”

Tsayaba smiles without taking her eyes off the thing. “I don’t know. I’ll think.”

Prague, Czechia: 2044

Kat meets Jan off Lask@, one of those local splinter apps that only takes NFT payments and swears to never memorize your face and biometric data and send it straight to the Devil. The rub with going splinter is that the dating pool shrinks to a dating puddle; the un-rub is that the people splashing around in it tend to be more interesting.

Like Jan the nouveau-anarchist, who brought his own bottle of bacteria-brewed beer to the top of Letna Hill and is somehow pulling off a floral-printed suit. He offers an elbow—Prague is post-vax, but the Big One hit hard here and the greeting hung on.

“Which is for the best,” Jan says. “Because the Bigger One, you know, it’s around the corner.”

Kat doesn’t want to think about that, not tonight. She thinks about it enough during the daytime, where her job is prepping samples and lab equipment at Charles University, for the researchers working on plug-and-play mRNA to tackle whatever superbug pops up next.

She thinks about it every too-hot summer, whether she spends it here in Prague or back home in Rotterdam. Climate shift means people shift means overcrowding and deforestation and more vectors for disease and —

“Let’s get drunk,” Kat says, because it’s been a long week.

Jan’s amenable to that. They finish the bottle and refill it at the garden brewery; Kat orders in her clumsy Czech, without needing to consult her babelapp, and Jan applauds in a way that would feel sarcastic if not for his beaming smile.

Three or four bottles later, they take a walk around Holešovice. It’s beautiful at night, in the blurry orange glow of the streetlamp: the old Communist-era architecture is retrofitted with solar windows and rooftop gardens, green and gray measures. The parks have all been expanded.

They wander through one with the backs of their hands not quite brushing, then Jan looks at her in a particular way and Kat really wants to kiss him right on his beer-smelling mouth, so she does it. The electricity of it makes her forget about all the incoming disasters.

Three or four minutes later, they’re at Kat’s apartment. The make-out starts in the cramped lift and continues into the cramped flat. She clears off the couch and then helps Jan peel his shirt off, both of them fumbly and excited, and when it clears his tousled head Kat is face-to-face with a hollow cheeked woman in a boat.

Kat blinks. The woman blinks back. The crisp image, rendered in nano ink, is a livestream.

“Uh, Jan? Who’s on your stomach?”

Jan glances down. “Oh. I forgot.”

He prods his slightly beer-wobbly gut. A name appears in the nano ink: Tharanga Mendis.

“It is hard for me to read upside down,” Jan says. “But that. She is a refugee from Negombo. The wet bulb temperature is 38 now. People cannot sweat, so they leave or they die.”

Kat loses her booze buzz to the old cycle: guilt, annoyance at having to feel guilt on a night where all she wanted to do was hook up, guilt for the annoyance.

“You shouldn’t be skincasting people’s suffering,” she says sharply. “Or sharing their faces. It’s gross.”

Jan’s slate gray eyes turn solemn. “It’s only sort of gross,” he says. “Her face is already known. This is a feed from border surveillance. I’m watching them watching her, and everybody else in the boat.”

Kat frowns. “Accountability?”

Jan shakes his head and grins his lopsided grin. “Better,” he says. “Catalonia is only letting in migrants with proof of employment.”

The smart tattoo shifts, showing a child now. They pull faces at whatever border drone is circling their vessel.

“With enough people streaming them, they can be classified as performers,” Jan says. “We had a legal AI do up the contracts.” He holds up his phone, and Kat sees the same feed. “I have it going everywhere,” he says. “Not just the tattoo.”

“If that works, it’s only going to work once,” Kat says, slumping down onto the couch. “You know that, right?”

“That’s OK,” Jan says. “We have lots of ideas. We just have to keep, you know, implementing. One little thing at a time.” His forehead creases. “Did you still want to have sex?”

Kat rubs at her face. “I don’t know. Kind of.” She glares. “How do you forget you have that playing on your stomach? How can you keep things—partitioned, like that?”

“Because it’s not my responsibility,” Jan says. “It’s everybody’s responsibility. And not everybody is doing their part, but a lot of people are, and I trust those people a lot.” He shrugs. “So do what you can, let go of the rest.”

Kat shuts her eyes. The last thing she wanted to think about tonight was climate refugees battling draconian border security, but the world is too small, too hot, too claustrophobic, to avoid thoughts like that anymore—even for a night.

“Shirt stays on,” she says, pushing it back into his chest. “But, uh, send me the stream first.”

This is just how things are now. Kat does what she can, and lets go of the rest.

Site of IDC-59, Australia: 2066

It’s so strange to be back at the detention center, to walk along the barbed wire fence and past the somber gray tents. Eli’s grandson pleaded with him not to come, because he is learning about trauma responses in school and thinks the place might trigger a panic attack Eli’s old hard-thumping heart can no longer take.

But Eli wanted to come, badly. He wanted to remember. Now he leads the way toward E-Tent, where he grew up with his abbá and ammá and the ghosts they had brought with them when they fled Myanmar for their lives. He scuffs his feet in the red dirt, and remembers pretending the rippled sand was a wave-tossed sea. He fantasized about water a lot. There was never much of it in the camp.

There still isn’t. The sun is blistering hot and the new refugees, splayed in the scant shade of the tents, have salt crusted around their lips. They move their mouths in the way Eli knows means their tongues are dry, bone-dry. Their faces are tired, and familiar even though he doesn’t know them.

The new guards, mostly men, wear the same old dark green jackets. Eli knows that most of them are lounging inside with a fan, but the ones patrolling outside are drenched in sweat, irritable from the heat and ready to displace their annoyance at the slightest provocation.

Their heavy boots are red from the dust and black fobs hang from their belts like ticks. All the children daydreamed about stealing one of those fobs, but instead of leaving the camp, which was the entire world, they mostly wanted to get into the kitchens to find the chocolate bars one particular guard always ate right in front of them.

That was the same guard who tripped him, once, when their game of tag got too close to him. Eli remembers sprawling in the dirt and smacking his head on a piece of gravel. He remembers seeing the surprise and regret on the man’s bristly face, but only for an instant, before he sealed it up with the usual scowl and told Eli to go have his cut cleaned.

Eli’s ammá told him, later in the tent, that cruelty filters downward—like the mercury in the fish she used to study. She said the hardest thing in the world to do is absorb someone else’s cruelty and not pass it along.

“How are you feeling?” little Mohib asks, squeezing his hand. “Dada?”

“It’s very well done,” Eli says, and pulls off his sweat-suctioned goggles.

The virtual memorial disappears, leaving only a tracery of AR guidelines in the red dirt, a few scuttling oumas hunting down traces of plastic.

The actual camps vanished more slowly, through years of policy battles fought by second-generation migrants and certain Indigenous politicians. First the off-shore detention centers were dismantled, then those of the mainland, and now, at last, they exist only as a bad memory.

Eli thought it was better to forget completely. The idea of the memorial—splicing the same surveillance systems that kept so many desperate souls contained, all the footage from those miserable years—somehow seemed like moving backward.

But now that he has seen it, the forgiving without forgetting, he realizes its power to ensure the cruelty is not passed along.

“Your heart, though,” Mohib says, blinking. “How is your heart?”

Eli looks down at his grandson. For a moment, despite the crisp clean runners and bioelectric shirt, he sees himself at the same age: scrawny, dark-eyed, still full of a restless energy. But he will never have fences around him.

“Full,” Eli says. “And good.”

Mohib breathes a big sigh of relief that implodes his small chest. Eli breathes, too.

Cygnet Community, Dënéndeh Territory: 2099

Suma’s idea is ridiculous, when Cade takes a step back from it, but they’re fully invested now. They’ve both been scrounging materials for weeks, digging through every tech-tomb in walking distance of the commune, hunting down everything the printer needs to make a tweaked babeltech rig.

So when Suma comes skipping out of the solar-coated printer shack on Thursday afternoon, waving the final product in the air, Cade is chest-choked with hope and anxiety for the ending of their kid’s latest dream. Suma is bright for a ten-year-old, but the blueprint was complicated as shit and she’s not Tsayaba Issoufou.

“It’s going to work,” Suma says sternly, and Cade realizes she somehow ferreted out their doubt.

Cade considers managing expectations. “Su,” they say, “I’m really, really proud of you.”

Suma’s brown cheeks flush, and she does the little wriggle she does to absorb excess praise.

Cade helps her set up the rig right along the garden fence, where the moose has been doing the most damage. At first the young bull was content to crane over the top and snatch gene-tweaked apples from the spindliest tree branches, but lately he prefers smashing through the metal mesh and trampling all over the rhubarb.

The commune was about to reach a unanimous vote for printing up a swarm of botflies to keep the moose away—their little electric stingers pack enough punch even to deter the occasional pizzly bear that wanders south—but Suma proposed negotiating. Which meant establishing a channel of communication.

Cade watches as Suma checks all the wireless ports and makes sure the responder is safely encased in its rubber box. Their daughter has always been fascinated by non-human persons: The orca colony off the coast of Old Vancouver, which used babeltech to negotiate fishing territories with the Northwest Coalition of First Nations. The roving corvid communities that sometimes fill the talknet with jumbled stories and legal disputes.

As far as Cade knows, nobody has ever successfully used babeltech to talk to a moose before. But improbable doesn’t mean impossible—every time Cade looks around, they see improbable things that got done. Replacing the vast canola and wheat fields with polycultures. Dismantling the bones of the ancient oil industry, all the wells and rigs and derricks, to build wind farms and supply commune printers with raw materials.

Absorbing the countless climmigrants from flooded islands and deadly heat, settling them across the prairies instead of the vanishing coastal cities, establishing hundreds of small villages like the one Cade and Suma call home.

So when the bull shows up the next morning, and bed-headed Suma grabs her tablet and races to the porch, Cade hopes they can add talking to a moose to the list. Their daughter links up to the babeltech. They both watch as the bull ambles up to the fence, as per usual, and starts sniffing.

He feels the static field from the babeltech, and wriggles his big bony shoulders in a way that almost reminds Cade of their daughter.

“Hello,” Suma says, voice shaking a bit from excitement. “My name is Suma.”

The moose swings his big head left, then right. Snorts.

“Can you stop wrecking the fence?” Suma asks. “We could give you a bucket of apples to eat, if you like. And some spare rhubarb to step on.”

The babeltech kicks in, and the synthesized representation of the moose’s non-human person neural processes comes blaring through Suma’s tablet.

“FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.”

Suma blinks in surprise. “Cade?” she says, in a low voice. “Why’s he saying that?”

Cade tries to keep the laugh down, and it nearly bursts their belly. “Uh, I think it’s rutting reason,” they say. “Maybe he’ll be more conversational in a couple weeks.”

Suma purses her lips. “If the moose is allowed to say it, can I say it, too?”

“Just once,” Cade says. “Since you got babeltech to work with a cervine. You earned it, kiddo.”

Suma grins. “Even if he only cusses at us, this is still so fucking cool.”

Ko Phangan, Thailand Republic: 2132

Nam takes her boat out in the late afternoon, when the sky is travel-holo blue and sunshine is sparkling the water. She takes 112 net-friends with her. They fill her goggle lenses with animated hearts when they see the aquamarine waves, when they feel the salt spray on her nerve suit.

She cuts against the swell; the motor hums, converting solar charge to forward motion to sheer happiness. The clear water teems with shoals of technicolor fish and the occasional ouma straining microplastics. Sometimes she still comes across megaplastics, too: ancient Singha bottles and disposable gloves, relics of a time that sometimes feels mythical to her, that even had a king.

When her net-friends catch sight of the dolphins, their animated hearts explode. Nam feels her real heart beat a little faster, how it always does when she sees the pod cutting through the water, eight sleek pink acrobats racing and leaping then plunging back under. She knows each of their names, or at least she did last week. The dolphins like to change them, and give each other nicknames, which Nam told them is very Thai of them.

She switches off the motor. Her little boat sloshes forward on the afterkick, drifts. The pod comes closer, squealing and chattering. In her goggles, Nam sees more net-friends joining her, hopeful today will be one of the special days.

Some come from as far away as Nueva Gran Colombia—she visited a paisa girl’s goggles once, and marveled at the lush green city with its every spare surface coated in carbon-catch moss. Another comes from Nuuk, the colorful capital of Kalaallit Nunaat where the buildings perch on telescoping legs.

Each person brings a small trickle of netcash, which is how Nam bought her extra nerve suit, and a pair of flutterwings for her littlest sibling’s birthday, and any other things that were not voted as food-shelter-health-happiness essentials.

As Truth noses up to the boat, grinning, Nam feels a grin spreading across her own face. “Sawadee,” she says. “How are you, Truth?”

Truth is the oldest dolphin in the pod, around 40 years old, but still the quickest and most playful. She’s always teasing the young calves, swimming upside down beneath them or blowing little air rings at their bellies.

“Squid squid squid,” Truth says, her chattering squeal turned to synth-speech by Nam’s goggles. “Delicious sea. Nam?”

Nam recognizes the last chirp, even without the synth-speech translation, and it always flutters her stomach to know the pod has given her a name. She reaches back into her cooler and pulls out a few of the freshly caught bobtail squid Truth prefers.

“Here,” she says, dropping them into the water. “Would you like to wear the suit today, Truth?”

Truth gobbles down the squid first, then circles the boat, then finally surfaces to squeal her answer. “Suit day! Yes. Yes. Rebarbative suit day!”

Nam blinks—sometimes the babeltech goes far afield with dolphin vocabulary. But the enthusiasm is clear, so she takes the extra nerve suit, the one she dissected and reassembled and waterproofed, and helps web it across Truth’s rubbery pink body. The other dolphins swirl around, curious.

“There are 308 net-friends watching,” Nam says. “Is that OK?”

“Friends,” Truth chitters. “Many swim. Nam swim. All swim.”

Nam caps the stream, then sits back in her boat and becomes the 309th. Her heart thrums with anticipation as the nerve suit links up, and then —

Nam is in the water, feeling the cool lap against Truth’s blubber-sheathed body, seeing through Truth’s low-light eyes. Nam is a good swimmer. She relishes the feel of a perfect stroke, her whole body working in harmony, from her cupped hand biting the surface to her flexed feet knifing through it.

Swimming as a dolphin is that, factor 10. One of the young bulls rockets down toward the seabed and Nam-with-Truth rockets after him, snout pointed for the sandy bottom. She scrapes her belly against the bottom, sends sand swirling everywhere.

Then up, up fast, tail threshing her toward the gauzy sunlight. The bull hurtles clear of the water and Nam-with-Truth does the same trick. There’s a beautiful never-ending moment of suspension, up in the sky, shedding the sea off her fins and flukes, perfectly weightless in a cloud of soft shattered glass.

Nam is flying through the air. Nam is lying in her boat. Nam is all around the world, joined to 300 other electric heartbeats. She knows it should probably feel mythical, like the age of ancient plastic, the age of gas-guzzling planes and freighters crisscrossing the oceans.

But instead, it just feels true.

©2021 by Rich Larson. Originally published in Grist Magazine’s Imagine 2200: Climate fiction for future ancestors. Reprinted by permission of the author and Grist Magazine, Inc.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rich Larson was born in Galmi, Niger, has lived in Spain and Czech Republic, and currently writes from Grande Prairie, Canada. He is the author of the novels Ymir and Annex, as well as the collection Tomorrow Factory. His fiction has appeared in over a dozen languages, including Polish, Italian, Romanian, and Japanese, and his translated collection La Fabrique des lendemains won the Grand Prix de L’Imaginaire. His short story “Ice” was recently adapted into an Emmy-winning episode of LOVE DEATH + ROBOTS. Find free fiction and support his work at patreon.com/richlarson

Those Who Went

E. Catherine Tobler | 520 words

The wide yawning sky.

We stare at unfamiliar stars, seeking familiar patterns in their strange configurations. Here is a cup and there a bear. A queen reclined and all the fish in the endless seas.

The universe is more boundless than we know. Maybe than we can know. We left everything behind for this, everything. We won’t return home—can’t return home, for the way is too far and home, well, home is fading, dying. One way—out and gone and far and they say they know why we do it.

We plunge through these stars and surely know nothing; instruments report all is well, all is normal: stars and asteroids and blooming nebulae. There is no air beyond these walls, no air but what we might find on this distant blue-green world. Everything is maybes; everything is possibilities. Instruments reach ahead of us, but even they do not know—they cannot yet tell us.

We don’t wait even as we do. There is all the time in the universe. I dream of air, of wind in my hair and snow pelting my face. I dream of a sky fragmented with the colors of an alien sun, of squinting and feeling the burn of warmth against my skin. I dream of the lake and the slip of mossy stones beneath my bare feet.

This ship contains not even the memory of these things; there are no children to draw trees of rivers. We carry images of our homeworld—what if this planet we approach is already claimed, occupied, loved—we should tell them from where we came, won’t they want to know? Arrogantly, we think yes. Of course.

They say they know why we do it. We do it for the accolades—how we must love the crush of press, the attention, our likenesses framed in ink, in oil, in the timelessness of sculpture. We will never be forgotten, they say, even as this world dies. We who leave the dying safety of the known world to explore that which we can only imagine. They say they know why we do it—but they’re wrong.

When we stand on this unknown world, when our instruments tell us all we cannot otherwise know—the air is safe, clean, breathable—when we crack our helmets open and off and I feel the wind in my hair and the memory of your mouth across mine, then we all know why.

We radio our dying home, to tell of all we have found, empty landscapes and yawning sky. I tell them how the wind smells: that there is a far distant ocean and flowering trees threading salt and sugar through the air. There are no people here, until now, until us. Strange herds of animals run toward us, without fear.

Someday, long after we have reached the ocean and taken harvest from trees, they—not those who sent us, but those who may rise in their wake—will receive our transmissions and know why we do it. Why we have come. And it’s not ever what they think.

©2021 by E. Catherine Tobler.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

E. Catherine Tobler’s fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, and Interzone, among others. Her fiction was a finalist for the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award, and her editing work at Shimmer was a finalist for the Hugo and World Fantasy awards. Her first short story collection, The Grand Tour, was published by Apex Book Company.

Every Single Brian

Yang-Yang Wang | 3261 words

This Brian has blue eyes. It’s too bad, because everything else is the same—the dark wavy hair and high cheekbones, the slight wrinkle under his right eye. Even his beard is combed in the same neat, identical rows.

He was so close. So, so close.

For a moment, I fantasize about choosing this Brian. He’s almost perfect. Hell, I even prefer blue eyes over brown ones. But no, he’s not the Brian I remember, the Brian I love. He’s not my Brian.

This is just another clone, I tell myself, just another clone.

I close my eyes as I press the button on the Sleeper. The needleless injector hisses as microscopic streams of anesthetic penetrate his pores. My cheeks are wet as I turn away from the slackened body. A part of me knows it’s just a copy, a shadow cast off the source, an arrangement of flesh made similar. The other part sees my lost husband.

My hands fumble through my purse before I remember that my phone is in my jacket. I touch the numbers without needing to think.

Three rings then a soft click.

“Report, Dr. Bellman.” Rook’s voice is like the touch of an ice cube.

I take a breath. The air reeks of linen and lemon freshener. “The sixth subject is deemed invalid. Send the team, Rook.”

“Confirmed. A team will be dispatched, ETA ten. You are free to leave.”

I shake my head, a gesture that my handler can’t see. “I’ll stay here.”

“As you wish, Dr. Bellman.”

I toss my phone back into my purse. Bumps rise all over my skin. They don’t disappear even after I pull my jacket back on, so I walk over to the thermometer and change it to the highest setting.

By the time the team arrives, I’m shaking.

• • • •

There was once only one Brian in my life.

We met during my master’s program in genetics. My first glimpse was of his hand, carrying a textbook like a paperback.

I can’t qualify why my mouth went dry, or how twenty minutes of memorization became a blur. I only remember hiding my wristwatch under my notes as he passed by.

“Excuse me,” I asked. “Do you have the time?”

He looked around and, seeing no one paying attention, asked me if my watch was broken. My cheeks never felt hotter. I stammered some excuse, thinking he’d walk away. But then he sat down.

Our first date was at a local pizzeria. Because Italian was romantic, he said. I pointed out that pizza had origins in Greece. His chuckle, deep and gentle, made me blush. I don’t remember how anything tasted that night, only that everything grew cold by the time our conversation faded.

We lingered outside my apartment door. I searched through my clutch and joked about its contents, trying to spin yarn from straw, before I found my key. Eventually I ran out of delays.

“Good night,” I said.

Not yet, he said with a grin.

He took my hand and we walked around campus until we found a bench. There, with my head against his shoulder and a bottle of cheap Merlot between us, we gave the pizzeria a five star review and compared Facebook profiles. Then his lips found mine.

Two nights later, I discovered his warm skin and clever hands. Afterwards, wearing one of his thin shirts, sweat cooling under a half-formed moon, I traced the lines of his palm.

A deep line for love, a long line for life.

Years later, at our wedding, surrounded by friends and family, he told the story of our first meeting and my pickup attempt. As the laughter settled, he admitted that was the only time he’d gotten the best of me. He went on to confess his fear of how brilliant I was and he wasn’t, how he’d bored me, that I wouldn’t see him as an equal, and that I wouldn’t love him.

None of that was true. He was the one, the love of my life, my soul mate.

It took me twenty-two years to find him the first time. I will find him again.

• • • •

The eighth Brian is an inch shorter than my Brian. I’m sure of it as we sit across from each other in my hotel room, a comfortable silence settling between us.

He smiles, and the wrinkle under his right eye deepens. He reaches across and cups my hands in his. They’re as large as my Brian’s, and their warmth is familiar. I want to tell him that it’s unnecessary, that I’m not cold, and to ignore my shivering.

Instead, I smile and hope he doesn’t see through my facade. If he does, he gives no hint as he smiles back. I stand and pull him close to me. The top of his dark hair reaches below my chin, and I’m struck by how fragile he feels in my arms. A part of me resists pulling the Sleeper from my pocket.

A clone, I make myself still think. Not the real Brian but a simulacrum.

“Tell me,” I begin, “what you’d be doing if we hadn’t met tonight.”

I try to study how he talks, not what he says. The mannerisms aren’t identical, but there’s a similarity that makes the hair on my neck stand up. Then he laughs. His chuckle is indistinguishable from my Brian’s, and I can take it no longer. The Sleeper’s hiss and the slump of his body are a relief. I push him back into his seat, making sure to tuck a pillow between his head and shoulder before stepping away.

I’m appalled by how steady my hands are. I wait for myself to tremble, but it no longer comes. I’m more exhausted than during my first years at EpiGen, when I started the Facsimile project.

I dial Rook. He picks up after three rings.

“Report, Dr. Bellman.”

I take the empty chair. “The subject is invalid. Send the team.”

“Confirmed. A team will be dispatched, ETA thirteen. You are free to leave, Dr. Bellman.”

I don’t disagree tonight. I shut off my phone and let it fall from my fingers and into my bag. I watch the sleeping form for a moment before heading to the door.

• • • •

My Facsimile project was going to change the world.

Exact, accelerated human cloning in a machine the size of a car. A solution to infertility, birth defects, organ and blood shortages, perhaps even mortality. It could be adapted to preserve—or resurrect—animal species. The sky was the limit, I believe that still.

I had the dream, EpiGen the resources.

When the corporation first expressed interest, I thought they were kidding. Then they sent me the contract. The numbers alone made me dizzy. Unlimited funding, unrestricted supervision, and the freedom to build my own team. I was so excited. I thought I knew what to expect.

I fulfilled my part. We built thirty of them to start. They sat empty for years as we searched for the perfect trial subject.

When Brian volunteered, I should have said no. I didn’t. I knew everything about him, making him the ideal candidate in my quest for an exact copy. The two of us were to be the axis that changed the course of human history.

I was too consumed by if I could to wonder if I should.

Twenty different Brians were in the Facsimile machines when the Descendants of Eden attacked the facility.

One of them was mine.

• • • •

Some choices are made for me. That doesn’t make them easy.

• • • •

Sterility fills my nose. The thirteenth Brian lies in the center of a large hospital bed. His eyes and his skin are a spectrum of yellow. Straps run across his hollow biceps and forearms, with a thicker one across his chest. Tubes snake from the straps to the machines against the far wall. A monitor displays three oscillating green lines.

The clicking, chirping rhythm of the machine symphony is soft, but to me it’s deafening. The artificial respirator keeps beat with the heart pump. The monitor conducts the assembly, ready to warn of any deviation in the score.

The pacing of the song increases as this Brian sees me. A new spark lights his eyes as he recognizes my face. I hear the dull scratch of nylon rubbing nylon as he tries to lift his hands.

“Try not to excite him too much,” says his nurse. “Remember, you’ve got five minutes.”

She closes the door behind her as she leaves.

I’m alone with the thirteenth Brian. His nightgown hangs loose on his shriveled body. His sunken eyes are bright though, and they track me as I walk to his bedside. I wonder if it’s improper to keep smiling as I place my hand on his.

His once clever hand feels fleshy and cold. The bones underneath are as delicate as twigs. I turn his hand over. A deep line for love, a long line for life. It seems like a cruel joke now.

I pick up his chart with my free hand and read it. This Brian watches me while I blink away the tears. He squeezes my hand as I replace the chart.

Rook picks up after three rings. “Report, Dr. Bellman.”

My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “The thirteenth subject is invalid. There’s no need to send a team this time.”

There’s no hesitation. “Confirmed. A team will be dispatched, ETA eight. You are free to leave, Dr. Bellman.”

This Brian squeezes my hand tighter as I grit my teeth. “Liver failure. Heart failure. Immune system failure. Two localized cancers, one regional. Don’t bother sending a team when you should be sending flowers.”

“I’ll prepare an autopsy team for his arrival.” The cadence of Rook’s voice is unchanged. “Or are you verifying that subject thirteen is the real Brian? If not, then the subject is EpiGen property and subject to retrieval and possession.”

When I don’t respond, he says “Team ETA six.”

“Leave him alone!” I yell. It’s too late though. The phone’s already dead in my hand.

There’s a squeeze on my hand again. I look down at this Brian and marvel. He’s the one trying to comfort me. I think about dialing Rook again. I think about validating this Brian. But I don’t.

The real Brian’s still waiting for me somewhere.

I kiss the subject’s forehead before I walk out the door. I force myself not to look back.

• • • •

Each and every Brian recognizes me. It’s clear to see in their bodies—the minor shift in posture, a change in breath, the sharpening of their pupils as they focus on me.

I don’t know how, I only know that it’s true. Genetic memory, biomorphic resonance, monozygotic telepathy—they’re all myth or fringe science. While the Brians share identical DNA, the variance in their genetic manifestations is far too great for them to be considered replicas. They’re closer to brothers or even cousins.

It was a result I initially refused to accept. I thought I could tame nature. But little can be predicted from the various factors comprising heritability. Just because we replicate the DNA doesn’t mean the same genes get expressed. Genetic, environmental, social, luck—countless factors spin and crash together to form the soil in which each new seed is planted. Sow just an inch away and the results will be different. Nature inserted enough chaos to ensure we cannot program it to our specifics.

My Facsimile project failed to create replications of their subject. Except that, somehow, all the Brians recognize me.

Do I still recognize him though? Sometimes I wonder.

• • • •

The seventeenth Brian’s shoulders are broader, his arms well-defined. His stomach is deliciously flat where it should protrude, and his nose is strikingly proud. His skin is effused with so much heat that his embrace burns.

I settle into his arms, drifting in and out of sleep, as I listen to the rain beat against the windows. What started as a gentle patter is now an insistent drumming. I run my fingers along his supple body, enjoying the hard lines of his arms and chest as he slumbers.

I can’t help it. It’d been so long, and he looks so much like my Brian. I know he’s not—his beauty marks him as artificial—but that doesn’t keep my pulse from racing or my hands from exploring his body.

Could this be my Brian though? The thought slips through before I can stop it. There were only three subjects left now. If I just made the call to Rook, if I just said yes, could this Brian become my Brian? Then my part would be over. Rook could capture the rest without me. I could go on with my life.

Except I know that the real Brian—my Brian—is still out there. He’s one of the last three. He’s waiting for me.

I kiss the proud nose and subject seventeen wakes with a sigh. His exhalation brushes by my ear with a warm tingle. I rest my head on his chest and listen to the slow beating of his heart. With my eyes closed, I count them.

“Thank you for the wonderful night,” I whisper. “I really needed it.”

His chuckle vibrates his rib cage. It’s a pleasant rumble against my cheek.

I’m so tired. Too tired for three more.

I kiss him again, this time on the lips, and extract myself from his arms. He turns over and I take a moment to admire his back. I slip out of bed and throw my clothes on, phone in hand. I walk downstairs and lock myself in a bathroom.

I dial.

Three rings. Rook’s voice. “Report, Dr. Bellman.”

“Subject seventeen. He could be the one.”

The pause stretches. “Are you confirming validity?”

I hesitate. “No. Maybe. I don’t know anymore.”

Rook’s pause is longer now. A part of me wonders if I’ve actually surprised him. “A team will be dispatched. ETA nine. You are free to leave.”

My stomach sinks. My free hand tightens into a fist. “Rook? I think I need more time. With this subject.”

“You’ll receive the next target shortly,” he says.

“Wait,” I reply. “We’ve been doing this for so long. I need a break.”

Silence, save the rain. “As you wish, Dr. Bellman.”

• • • •

I miss him so much. Which one, sometimes I’m not sure.

• • • •

They called themselves the Descendants of Eden.

From the name, I guessed they were religious. From their attack, I learned they were organized.

It was a two-prong effort. As their agents infiltrated our facility and stole the Facsimile machines, others hacked our systems and deleted or corrupted decades worth of research.

Their parting words were sprayed across the walls of our ruined facility in red, white, and gold: Only God Creates.

We thought they killed the clones. I thought they killed Brian. Then, years later, EpiGen located the first one.

I agreed to help find my husband among his clones. It’d be easy, I knew everything about him.

Seventeen iterations later, I’m not so sure.

• • • •

I hate coming to Rook’s office. Not a single decoration hangs on the black lacquered walls. There’s his ironwood desk and no chairs for visitors.

My steps echo off the hard floors as I approach his desk. Rook’s seated, staring at the flat screen of his computer with a grimace. His gray eyes never move as he addresses me.

“Good morning, Dr. Bellman.”

“It’s been more than three years since you lost Brian,” I say. “I’ve been through seventeen subjects. Isn’t my part in this over?”

“There are still three more,” he replies.

I slam the Sleeper down on his desk. “Why didn’t you let me validate subject seventeen? Then we’d have Brian back.”

Rook lifts his gaze from the computer screen. “Because I want you to find my best friend, Dr. Bellman. Not an imitation, however beautiful, but my actual best friend.”

I lift my hand from his desk. “It’s not easy seeing them, spending time with them, validating them. I try so hard to think of them as subjects, as things, but I can’t. If you think it’s so easy, you go out there.”

“You think I haven’t tried?” The grimace on Rook’s face turns into something familiar and haunted. “I found the first ones. They didn’t recognize me. They didn’t care. They only responded to photos of you. Why did you think I called you back into this mess?”

I can’t think of a reply. I stare at the desk top, avoiding the reflection on its glossy surface. “I can’t keep doing this. They’re each so different, but they all remind me of him.”

Rook’s hands tighten into fists. “None of them were Brian.”

Only then do I begin to understand Rook’s burden. “Were? What happens to the ones we capture?”

“That’s not for you to know.” His fists loosen. The friend Brian and I once shared retreats back to a mask of ruthless efficiency. “Only three left, Dr. Bellman. One of them is our Brian.”

I’m shivering again. “I still love him.”

Rook’s eyes narrow. “Who?”

“You know who.”

“I do. Make sure you do too.” He returns to his computer screen. “EpiGen will shift its resources to hunting the Descendants of Eden as soon as all the clones are processed.”

They’re covering up the evidence first. But I can’t blame them. I’m one of the guilty too. I pick up the Sleeper and my finger slides to the button. “I haven’t forgiven you for subject thirteen, you know.”

Rook doesn’t look up. “I’ll never forgive you for seventeen.”

“It hasn’t been easy for either of us.” I turn to leave the office. I stop at the door. “Three more subjects, Rook, and then we’ll have him back.”

“Yes, Dr. Bellman.” Rook pauses. “And thank you.”

• • • •

I try not to think about the other possibility.

Perhaps my Brian is dead. Maybe EpiGen is just using me to validate if the Facsimile project succeeded. They want to see if we made a perfect counterfeit, one that would fool even its maker.

There were over 300 attempts before the first successful sheep cloning. I don’t think I got it right in twenty.

A part of me wishes I had though. It’s the same part that takes out my old wristwatch every night and lies in my bed watching the seconds tick by. That part of me wishes for a lie so real, I can’t tell the difference.

• • • •

The bell chimes four times before the door opens.

My breath catches in my throat as I see the last subject. He’s got the same dark wavy hair, high cheekbones, brown eyes, the same height and build.

“Brian?” I say.

My legs feel weak when he smiles with recognition and the slight wrinkle appears under his right eye.

“I finally found you.”

The world spins as I take his large hand into mine. Their familiar warmth feels so good. My tears make everything blurry as I pull him close. He brushes the tears from my cheek, and I’m about to tell him how much I love him, how much I missed him, when my vision clears and I see his palm.

A deep line for love, short line for life.

My mind races through all twenty subjects. How did I miss him?

Did I miss him?

The real Brian. My Brian. Sometimes I wonder if they’re one and the same.

©2021 by Yang-Yang Wang.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Yang-Yang Wang is a writer, producer, and director from Seattle, WA. A graduate of 2014 Clarion West, he is a lover of brevity.

To learn more about the author and this story, read the Author Spotlight

The Black Menagerie

Endria Isa Richardson | 6965 words

What is the woman but a keeper of fear?

What is the woman but a gate?

If all goes well, when the story ends, the woman-who-is-a-gate will be opened.

Where will the fear go then? Who will hold it, who will keep it safe?

• • • •

Alta owns the Menagerie: a twin-gabled, brown shingled colossus. The whole house sits on the eastern edge of a square green park on Larkin Street, and is teethed with a row of white windows that overlook the street where Alta stands, having walked this early morning from North Beach to Russian Hill. Her reflection gleams in oiled blacks and white, caught in a larger dormer window inset beneath the gabled roof. The new sun sketches the line of distant rooftops behind; roughly, and then fine. The reflection in the window bleeds, burns in the new light, and twists into something no longer a woman.

Alta has lived in San Francisco for many years, though nowhere near her whole life. She has watched the city bloom and wilt and bloom again. She likes it most in the early mornings, when she counts the stars that blink out of the auroral sky. The counting is like breathing, something she hardly notices.

Still, it is nice to stop. Once the door has shut behind her, once she crosses the threshold, she can. She moves quickly up the stairs. What she reaches, on the landing, is the closest thing to church that she can enter. The ceiling yawns over her, a cathedral. Honey bright beams of redwood steeple overhead, as though she is standing beneath a forest that has decided, all at once, to bow its heads together.

Inside of the large dormer window that overlooks the street, three live rabbits, two white and one brown, startle inside an elaborate glass display. They hop back and forth through their transparent world. They smell her; and what they smell, they fear. Alta watches the rabbits flick their velvet ears. Her lips curl; her yellow fangs gleam.

• • • •

I meet Alta through Victoria. Victoria knows Alta because they are both black, both watching their city wilt and bloom; bloom and rot. Victoria and I have been together for seven months. We met on a dating app.

Last month, Victoria inherited a lot of money.

It’s from her white mother’s side. A grandmother died, left a half million dollars to Victoria, her brother, and her sister. Each. I am quietly impressed.

She tells me she wants to invest it, to make money off of having money. She doesn’t ask if I will help her invest, but I think she should. I’m good with money. I tell her, of course babe. And take your time. You know, I’m happy to give you some pointers. She looks at me with one eyebrow raised. I smile, place my hands on either side of her face and kiss her lips.

The morning I meet Alta, she tells me she wants to take me somewhere. There is one thing she wants to do first, she says. An investment that she now has enough money to make.

“Alta asked me to bring you,” she says. “She wants to see what you’re like.” I try not to flinch, but I know my face twitches, just a little, before I smooth it again.

This is how I learn about the Menagerie: about its secrets, about its fear.

• • • •

It is 1815 in what is now called San Francisco, and a woman has arrived by water. It is forty-four years before California’s first governor tries to pass a law banning black people from the state. It is the same year that Sara Baartman, also known as the Hottentot Venus, is being ordered to sit, stand, and turn in the cage she inhabits alongside a baby rhinoceros, in Paris, France. She is studied by the French, led by one George Cuvier, a naturalist. They find her to be, in many ways, more interesting and exciting than the baby rhinoceros. They find her horrifying, exhilarating, and humiliating. They keep her, and they watch her. In the end, she dies: of syphilis or pneumonia, it is said. Really, she dies of their fear.

The woman in San Francisco is both long in the tooth and broad in the shoulder; brown as a long summer, and strong. And though the phrase long in tooth means she is old, there is also something about her teeth. How they flash when she bears them against the men who grab at her as she walks through the hills of this new city at night. She carries a pile of furs on her shoulders. When she gets to the neighborhood she has been told to visit, she mentions her Russian mother. She speaks fluently, can even recite poetry to the particular delight of some of the older women and men. They ask if they are her own verse. She demurs. This is the era of Pushkin: a rumor spreads, like a virus, that she is an estranged sister or cousin. They ask her how she gets her furs. She tells them, meeting the eyes of the men who have gathered around, that they are the skins of her family, dropped at their feet like robes when they changed into humans at daybreak. The group of men laugh and hit their knees and shake their heads. When she laughs, it is not with them.

• • • •

Alta is covered in tattoos. This is what I notice first. Leopards rendered in fine black and gold hover on her chest, snarling and dangling heavy paws beneath long bellies. A peacock spreads itself up her left arm in deep blues and shimmering silver. When she opens her arms to Victoria, it is like I am watching the bird unwrap itself; as though Victoria disappears beneath her plumage. “Hey baby,” Victoria says from within the embrace.

Alta releases her with a shake of feathered skin and turns to me. On her right arm, now angled toward me, a brace of jackrabbits leap from a steel trap, splattering scarlet blood from a severed hind foot. A corded vine of flowers winds from beneath the V of her black t-shirt, slips behind the leopard to circle her neck. For a moment, as she leans to hug me, I think it is rope, rough, real. I smell metallic dirt, cotton fiber. I see the indent where it tugs against her brown skin, can see dark drops of blood. But no, it is sweat sliding down her neck to collect in the hollow of her clavicle. I look at her, and she is an animal I want to taste the salt of; to lick, to suck.

“Is something wrong?” Alta asks.

“Your tattoos,” I say, straightening. I trace the curve of a leopard’s belly on my own chest. “They interest me.” Victoria grips my hand and shakes her head. I squeeze back. I smile.

“My siblings,” Alta says.

“You keep your siblings quite close.”

“Sometimes they try to get away.” She holds up her arm to show me the rabbits, the bloody foot twitching as she twists her wrist back and forth. The rabbits gaze forward into nothing as they move this way and that. I grab her arm to hold it still. Her fingers, when they pinch my wrist, squeeze until it hurts. “Don’t do that,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just wanted a better look.”

Victoria apologizes for me. She explains that I am a writer, that I grew up in the Midwest, that I am still learning about boundaries. I think about the feel of Alta’s arm in my hands: muscle and blood; a constellation of ink; the family twisting over her skin.

“So this is the Menagerie,” I say, when I feel Victoria has said enough. I imagine what it will be like when I meet her mother, the white queen whom Victoria only talks about sideways. I’ll deal with that meeting when it happens. For now, I look at Alta. I think about being a leopard on her chest. I think about the wilderness beneath her skin.

I turn to the house that has stood above us while we talk, listing forward to remind us of its own silence. I pull Victoria with me toward the front door. A wide brass plaque to the left says:

The Black Menagerie

Est. 1967

Above and below the signage floral filigree twines around muscular bodies of monkeys, lizards, tigers, a snake.

“Are you ready?” Alta asks from behind us. I don’t know what to be ready for: what to hide, what to reveal. Victoria nods but doesn’t check with me. I catch my face; it’s her money, her thing, I’m just here for the ride. Still, I reach for the doorknob, turn it without asking.

• • • •

What is a body but a keeper of fear? Let me tell you about two bodies. The first is a man. Or at least the sheddings of a man. His remains are found inside his apartment: a deflated sack. There is blood. Something about it suggests an animal attack. A lion or a tiger; or maybe a giant bird of prey; or an animal you and I have never heard of. It depends on where we are in the world. It depends on what kind of stories are told.

The police who investigate must knock down the door; it is locked from the inside. The apartment is empty, save for what remains of the man’s body. The doctor who performs the autopsy notices the strangest thing: the way the flesh has been torn almost in one long sleeve. It is as clear as it is preposterous. This man’s skin was pulled from the viscera and skeleton in one smooth movement—like shucking an ear of corn—by something with long teeth, bone-breaking jaws. There is no sign of the animal. Where did it go? Where will it live?

The second man is found dead outside of his apartment. His body is mangled beyond recognition. It does not even appear human. The crowd describes a terrifying scene.

It was a tiger, says one.

A crazed baboon, leaping at my face, says another.

A rhinoceros. It came directly at me, one woman swears.

At you? I ask.

Of course, I say, backing up ever so slightly. I know what did this. They regard me curiously. Isn’t it obvious? I say. What is more ferocious than fear?

Maybe the first man was a cage, ripped open from the inside by something he could not control. But the second man? Maybe the second man could not protect himself from what escaped. Maybe the second man stood outside an open door.

Do you sense my judgment? It is true, I am not neutral. I am a storyteller, I am a keeper of things. Let me tell you something: a door doesn’t open on only one side.

• • • •

Alta shuts the door behind us. Her fingers brush my arm as she moves past me to start up the great, winding staircase. Green ferns and broad-leafed trees squat in planters, extend from the ceilings, and spiral along the staircase. In the center of the main room, a large brass bed with a stretched canopy is made with draping silk sheets, and dozens of soft pillows. Everything else is wood in dripping, hypnotic grain patterns, and decadent burnished copper. Light plunges through the double row of windows along the front and slants in rectangles across the floor. It gives the impression that we are standing on a smooth, light-filled pool.

I feed the rabbits while Victoria and Alta sprawl on the bed, talking in low voices. I look at my phone and see a text. Call me when u can. I tap the number, and hold the phone to my ear.

“Why don’t you take that privately?” Alta appears at my side, and leads me to the southern wall, pushing at an accented panel in the wood. It swings open. She presses me gently inside, assures me that she and Victoria have things to discuss anyways. The door swings closed behind me and I panic as the seams disappear into the floral wallpaper—throat jumping, vision narrowing—until my eyes find the silver door knob set into the wall.

I press the dial tone up against my ear and pray she won’t answer. She picks up, voice strained and abrupt. No pleasantries. Over the phone, my mother tells me that my father is losing too much weight, his skin is sagging from his face. He cannot keep his muscles from melting off his bones.

“And what is the next step?” I keep asking.

She ignores my question and tells me more about the weight, the color, the feel of his skin. “Like paper,” she says, “He feels like a paper bag that can blow off in the wind.”

Let him blow away then, I think. Everybody in my family leaves. They exercise themselves away, or drink themselves away, or work themselves away. My father is drinking himself away. I tell her I will come home soon. I tell myself I will come home soon. I hang up, I let go. I’m done with being left.

I take in the room around me. A library mezzanine flooded with light. Rows and rows of books, a sliding ladder set on rails; so many stories. I trace my fingers along the spines of a row of books as I walk. Beside me, the floor drops away into an atrium lit by panes of glass set aslant in the eaves above me, and a wall of windows around the lower floor. It is full of so many plants I wonder whether I have found a greenhouse, an indoor jungle, whether I have wandered into the menagerie proper. It is so beautiful.

Whose money is this? I wonder. Who can keep so many stories? So many living things?

I hear fronds rub wetly below me. Palm fans twitch as their lower leaves are tugged out of place. Something snorts, low and vulgar. Or perhaps I imagine that. I am not in the city; I am not in California; I am nowhere I have ever been. I lean over the railing. I whisper, “Who is there? Why have you come to spy on me?”

When I re-enter the main room, Victoria has finished talking to Alta. She stands, outlined against an open space, and looks out the window. She turns when she hears me come in and reaches for my hand.

“Baby,” she says. “We can go.”

“Where’s Alta?” I ask.

• • • •

I wonder aloud when I’ll be let in on the secret of “the ménage-a-trois.” Victoria does not answer; just flicks a look in my direction. I also wonder what Alta thought of me, but I’m not going to come out and ask. She walks a couple of paces ahead of me, heeled leather boots clacking on the sidewalk, fists tucked into balls at her side. When she stops, it’s so abrupt we almost collide.

“Who were you talking to?” she asks. Hands on my shoulders, eyes knuckling into mine. She’s only a few inches taller than me, but I find myself leaning back slightly.

“Editor,” I say lightly.

“Oh yeah?” Her eyebrow raises in . . . pleasure? Skepticism? “What’d he say?” She cocks her head and smiles. Pleasure, then.

“He says I’m good at telling stories.” I smile without my teeth or my eyes, but I still get a laugh from her. I watch her square shoulders sashay away from me, watch her launch a bodily assault against the cold. Her confidence magnetizes me. I realize, not for the first time, watching her body that belongs only to her that I want to keep her. I want her to be mine.

I want her never to leave.

• • • •

There is a current, a salted drink, an ocean of something running through this story. It is cold, and black, and deep. It has teeth. The teeth do not belong to the ocean; they belong to the prehistoric, rough finned sharks that use the ocean to get to where they need to go. But as long as they are in the ocean, the ocean can use them, too. Imagine a hand, long and trembling, reaching into the ocean. Imagine it picking up a small, clear pebble: salt-smoothed, tumbled by time. The pebble, too, has used the ocean, its currents, to travel more slowly than the fish, from one place to another. The hand has been waiting, it feels like forever, to pick up this pebble. To use this stone for a conjure. Imagine the shark, whose purpose, for now, is to find a use for their teeth. Now imagine the hand, bloody. Now imagine the ocean, red. Now imagine the body, frantic. Now imagine the shark, sated. Now imagine the pebble, tumbling. And what has become of the conjure?

• • • •

I wake in the middle of the night to somebody calling my name. Victoria’s back is curled, warm and comforting, against mine. By the time my mind has followed itself up and out of sleep, I hear only my own heartbeat and Victoria’s breathing. But no. There is something else: heavy, and wet, and large. I try to turn to face Victoria, to push my lips against her ear.

Baby, I whisper; I think I whisper. Can you hear it? It’s coming. It’s here.

She mumbles in her sleep, reaches around to grab my arm and pull it across her. Sleep baby, she says; I think she says.

I see something move in the corner, by the door. A dark shape: a woman covered in fur, a tooth gleaming in the moonlight. I try to sit up, but my chest is heavy, like an ocean of water is being pressed upon me. I try to cry out, but my mouth is full of pebbles; slippery, salty.

When I wake the next morning, I remember wild dreams of glistening fur and shining teeth. I turn to look for Victoria and find the bed empty and cold on her side.

My memory slides into place and it’s like a hand clamped over my mouth. I stop breathing. I remember Victoria putting on her jacket. Victoria saying, “Night baby, get some sleep.” Victoria closing the door on her way out. She did not spend the night. She went home.

I try not to think of Alta, of wrestling a pair of leopards, of being tangled in feathers, of suffocating.

• • • •

The woman in San Francisco in 1815 goes to the Farallons for ten years. The stories say that she traps the seals that hump the rocky shores with her bare hands and her teeth. They say that she is half-woman, half-beast; that she swims through the icy waters with a family of sharks; that she hunts, eats, kills with them. They say that the ink black nights are filled with the dying screams of seals, with the woman’s deepthroated laughs. They say that she steps from the black waters at daybreak, naked as a baby, water slipping from her body, eyes bright as eels. They say she is responsible, single-handedly, for driving the seal population to near extinction. By the time she is ready to leave the islands, in the mid-1820s, San Francisco has become a colony. It is a site of genocide and enslavement, and will be hostile to her if it discovers who and what she is. She has wrung this coast of its seals, in any case, has exchanged their furs for a fortune. And so she disappears.

• • • •

A week later, we stand on the porch of The Menagerie, waiting to be let in. It is cold; I can feel the fog through the canvas of my jacket, through my jeans, along my scalp. Victoria has just reshaved my head. I wish I had worn a hat. The cold in Tulsa is different. It grips you, it throws your body up and down its hills, and when you land, you don’t get up. But the cold in San Francisco feels like it has moved into my bones, as though it is turning me into fog from the inside out. I am tired; I have not been sleeping well at all. My body aches; I feel bruised at my hips.

“You sure she said I could come?” I ask again.

“She asked that you come. I told you.” Victoria is annoyed that I am asking her again. And still, my stomach twitches, my throat feels like something’s grabbed it from the inside. I know that she sees the shadows beneath my eyes, that she has noticed how sunken my cheeks have become. She doesn’t ask about it.

Alta opens the door. I haven’t seen her face since the last time we were here. And yet, I feel like I know her. I feel like I have seen her, again and again and again. Her face unsettles me somehow, like I am remembering a dream. But my stomach kicks with pleasure. I smile, I can’t help it.

When Victoria goes into the room behind the closed door, Alta stays. Whether to watch me, or be watched, I don’t know. She sits herself on a window seat, and looks. No phone, no book, just sitting and looking. I guess she must be watching me.

“What do you do, actually?” I fidget with my notebook. I had thought I would write, but with Alta so near, I can only fumble out questions, one after the other. “Is there a pet store in back? Will Victoria bring me a dog? Why do you call it the Menagerie?” I can’t remember the last time I spoke so much.

“If she didn’t tell you,” she says. A smile opens her face, and she raises her arms, as though she is helpless to do anything. As Alta shrugs, her leopards stretch, like they are waking up. “As for the Menagerie . . .” She pauses. “A bit of a joke.”

“I don’t understand.” Another smile, and one of her shrugs. I would be annoyed, if there wasn’t something enchanting about her. Her face, the way she looks at me. “That’s how it is?”

“That’s how it is.”

“I see. So where are your people from?” I ask.

“Do you really want to know? Why?”

“Is there something wrong with wanting to know about you?”

“No,” she says, and as she says it, I feel that she is debating whether to tell me a truth or a lie. An impulse to assure her, rises in my mouth. Yes, I can be trusted, tell me a truth. It is a strange impulse. “But my people,” she continues. “We were all from far away. Everyone else is gone now.”

“But you keep them on your body?”

“Oh these? These are to remember.” She shifts against the light, and for a moment she is only an outline against the glare of winter light behind her, the sun entering the room and giving me her shape only, the remark of her body, sitting here for me. Before I can ask her what she means, by remembering, she asks where I am from, where my people are.

“Oklahoma. Tulsa.”

“And you came here?”

“I did, didn’t I?” I feel that I am being played with, that something is padding beneath our words, winding itself around my feet. Tilting me off balance.

“Well, clearly.” She raises an eyebrow at me.

“And you, you enjoy reading?” I ask. She laughs, shakes her head at me, and there is something so natural, so guileless in the gesture that I forget to be guarded. To be inscrutable. “Not even with all those books?” I nod toward the library.

“Those belong to the person who sold this house to me,” she says. “They are the one who loved stories so much. You must, too. If you write them.” As she keeps her eyes on mine for longer than necessary, flicking her gaze down and over me, I feel that she is flirting with me. I realize, with pleasure, that she wants me.

“Yeah, I do,” I say, without even deciding. “I love books. I love writing them. Maybe this sounds weird, but it’s a way to make things, or ideas, or people, stay. Once I’ve written something down, it can’t leave. Not in the same way. It’s how—well, it’s my way of keeping my family close. Like your tattoos.”

For a moment, something flickers in Alta’s face, like a curtain twitched open. I have tilted her balance, too. I am startled and disappointed when Victoria returns, shifting something, as though on purpose, as though she has thrown a stone into still water just to see it break. Resentment, surprise at it, spreads through my chest.

“Okay,” Victoria says to Alta. There is something hard at the bottom of her voice; a warning.

“Okay,” Alta says back. And I see it again, the rope, its catch against her skin. I do not know how to meet her eyes before I leave, I do not know what to say. As we are leaving, Victoria and I, something sags in Alta, like whatever is beneath her skin has deflated.

• • • •

Once, there was a woman who could turn into a witch. She would step out of her skin at night, and take the form of whatever most scared the people she haunted. She became so used to changing her skins, that over time she forgot which skin was her own. This is an old story, this is a very old story.

• • • •

When Alta leaves the Menagerie for the night, she begins to count again. This time, she counts the stars that emerge in the sky above her, one by one by one. She thinks about her family, about her old betrayal. She thinks about Victoria, and the money she has paid for her service. She thinks about me. And for the first time in many years, she thinks of pleasure.

• • • •

When the woman returns to San Francisco, nearly one hundred years have passed. It is the early 1920s. And yet, her body looks no older than it did when she last left. It looks, in fact, younger. A young woman, broad of shoulder, brown as summer. She considers, first, landing in Los Angeles, where there are more people like her. In the end, she returns to the place that feels most like home. She goes to the old neighborhood, and she finds a house that she loves: brown-shingled, twin-gabled. She purchases it for cash, double the asking price.

Since she left, she has traveled through many countries, listened to many stories, and been received by many people. She has felt how these people react to her broad shoulders, her strong manner, her sharp teeth. Mostly, she learns about fear. She learns that people do not understand fear: they do not know how to care for it. She learns that people do not know that fear, like an animal, must be tended, must be kept safe.

When she arrives back in her city, she feels the changes that have occurred over the past century, since she was last thought of as Pushkin’s lost relative. She is now thought of as “black,” as though a color could contain her. Over the next forty years, more and more people—black, both like and unlike her—arrive in the city to find work in the area known as Hunter’s Point. And as more black people arrive, fear circles them like sharks.

White people, lighter brown people, react to their skin like a haunt. When the woman goes out, walking through this city that she thought of as her own, in the body she has thought of as her own (the woman, broad and brown) the people she passes tense their shoulders and widen their eyes. They stiffen their bodies, and ready their fear to leap at her, claws outstretched.

She is no stranger to what fear can do to a body. She knows how to pull fear from people, to ride it out of them—because fear needs to be kept, and her body can keep it better than ours—but it has always been a choice, a relationship. Rituals are followed; roles are acknowledged. A door or a window is left open, and thus she is invited in to complete the haunt. Afterwards, they are tired, sore, with sunken eyes and cheeks. But the fear is no longer amorphous, uncontained. It is kept by her; and in her, it is transformed. It becomes story, myth, tale. It binds people together, does not rend them apart.

Here, she watches as one man, walking home late at night, is accosted by white police. They beat him without mercy, and later claim that they feared for their lives. She sees a young boy, small and lively, skin brown as earth, chased for miles through city streets by a white man who claims the boy was threatening him. He barely escapes with his life. She sees white women cross streets away from black men; sees the same white women cross the street away from her. After these encounters, fear is left to stalk the streets—kept by no one, wild and mad and ferocious.

She has no power over this new fear, wide and choiceless and destructive. She does not understand its mechanism. She has never seen people act in this way, so uniform in their destruction. Despite everything she knows, she begins to wonder whether she (whether Blackness) is causing their reactions. Whether beneath her exquisite skins—the smooth brown human, the slick gray wolf, the rough silver shark—there lives something horrible. She wonders whether this may be her truest self. When she realizes she is wondering this, she feels a shame so profound that it threatens to erase her, to swallow everything and anything else that she might be.

She spends days alone in her mansion, stalking skinless through its glass paned atrium, hovering at its cathedral ceiling, trying to change herself from the inside out. She spends another century thus, alone and uncontained. There are moments when she feels a breakthrough, when she feels, certain in her solitude, that she is not who they think. Maybe she is something different entirely, something quite as large but not as terrible. And then she goes out; her reflection twists and distorts, bleeds and burns, and she is a woman no longer.

If this is how they see her, this is what she will be, she decides. She will haunt them, without their permission, without their consent. She will take as much of their fear as she can, though she cannot possibly take all of it.

She will keep one thing for herself: her name. She calls herself Alta, for the mountain she met in Spain, for the trees, the sky, the stars.

• • • •

Alone in the Menagerie, past midnight, Alta stalks from room to room. She is so, so tired of this. Tired of a million nights of shedding her skin, a million dawns of returning, a million nightmares kept inside her body. Over the years, she has become known for her service, sought after, and paid (bought) to haunt. But she is tired of taking without asking. She is tired of relationships without mutuality.

And she is thinking of someone else for the first time in a century; about a body as something other than a thing to be used, to be taught a lesson. She thinks about it as a thing that could be touched. She thinks about someone with smooth, pale skin that is hot with pleasure, rather than damp with fear. About all of the subtle ways to make a mouth gasp for air. She thinks about what it might feel like to run her fingers down my stomach. About how my skin could be delicious and my body could be a joy. She thinks about how she could ride me.

Still, she has made a promise. So she does what she has done a million times before. She stands in the middle of the atrium, and pulls her shirt over her head, pushes her jeans down over her bare feet and steps out of them. And then she pulls off her skin, up and over her skull. She folds it, and leaves it in a safe place until she returns.

Some like her do not take on other shapes. They leave their skin and fly, pure spirit. In this city, she prefers to be a cat, black and powerful and six feet at the shoulders. She leaps and tumbles over the hills of the city, over apartment building roofs, up condominium fire escapes, through closed doors if she pleases, but mostly past sleeping bodies on the sidewalks that she sniffs, and licks, and purrs over, and pads beyond. Most people do not stop long enough to see her glide by; they feel a crackle in the air, like a firecracker has popped just behind them.

When she arrives where she has been sent, she drops her cat skin and becomes whatever that person she has been paid to haunt fears the most: spirit, or fairy, or hag, or ghost, or simply a crushing presence on their chest. She makes them gasp, makes them groan. Sometimes she grips their throats with her fingers, or paws, or claws, or long, coiled body, and whispers in their ears. She conjures their fear, draws it out of their bodies until it becomes almost a living thing, a spirit in the room with them.

Sometimes the fear, unlocked from human chests, chokes her. Stabs her in her heart. Shoots her, point blank, in each of her eyes. And still, she does not crumple.

Fear me, she says. Fear me. For I cannot be killed.

And then she leaves. She keeps the fear. She keeps her clientele safe.

The clientele are, exclusively, wealthy and black. The haunted are, usually, powerful and white.

• • • •

Think of fear, then, as an animal in its own sense. Think of it as something that lives in our bodies. That is trapped inside.

Alta is the woman who can shed her skin, who can slip into keyholes, who can ride a person as they sleep. The old stories say that she carries fear with her, that she brings it to her victims as they sleep: innocent, harmless. The old stories are wrong. The fear is already inside of them: locked, caged, and ready to explode. She sets the fear free. She rides it. When she’s done, the fear curls like a kitten with its head on its paws.

Why?

Have you seen what fear, set free, not tended to, not cared for, can do? Have you seen Sara Baartman, caged and killed by other people’s fear? We have all seen bodies punctured by fear. I don’t have to tell you what it looks like, feels like.

• • • •

Victoria rises from the bed where we have been lying, her eyebrows arched, the look of confusion on her face a moment ago replaced by still contempt. “What did you just say to me?”

“I didn’t say—I didn’t mean—” I stammer. My heart is racing, my mind blanking. She is misunderstanding me. I had been trying to explain how she could help me open. How if she just promised to belong to me, and only me, I would feel safe enough to let her in.

“Alta was right—you people can never feel fucking safe unless you’re in control. That shit runs too deep in you.” She stands and pulls her shirt over her head, slides in her pants.

“Alta?” I am confused. What does Alta have to do with this? “Where are you going?” I ask. I grab her wrist, my finger and thumb circling the whole narrow thing, and jerk her back towards me. I could break it, if I wanted to. All I would have to do is squeeze. Something is clamoring inside my chest: a thing with teeth and claws, pushing at my lungs, making it harder to breathe. And then I see Victoria’s face—fear, etched clean and harsh and plain. I drop her wrist. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave,” I say.

Of course she leaves, just like that.

I cannot keep her.

• • • •

When she is gone, I open my computer. I have been researching the house on Russian Hill, its title, who owns it, where they came from. I look up books—titles I saw in the library. When I am done reading, I write. A story about fear, about a beautiful woman, about love. I know how to tell stories. I know how to keep things.

• • • •

How will you end this story? Alta asks me, breathing in my ear. Her lips brush against my neck, she trails a finger down my stomach, she lays her body along the line of me, and suddenly I have expanded to fill the space my body fills; then the bed, the room, beyond the room. My entire body is alive, electrified. My pulse is a living drum between my legs. My heart is like a tiger, pressing itself against my ribs, waiting to be released. Let me in, she whispers.

And will I?

It can be a terrible thing, actually, to be open.

• • • •

I wake; I think I wake, my lips parted and waiting, my hands clutching my sheets, my body shrunken once again, pacing inside itself, clawing at its door.

My mother calls, and I answer. My father is gone, she says. She hasn’t been able to reach him in days. I need to come home.

Everyone leaves. What good is being open if people can walk right in and out of your life?

• • • •

There are many stories where the woman, her work, is not understood. Where she is burned alive. Or her skin is destroyed. Or her spirit flayed. She is destroyed, in order to destroy the fear that she keeps. There are other stories where the woman is kept. In these stories, there are words to say, salt to be spread, threats to be made.

• • • •

I have read the books about conjure women. I have learned the stories. I wait until past midnight. I creep into a front window of the Menagerie; I know she has left it unlocked for me. I search for what I am looking for: Alta’s skin, folded like a shirt. And then I wait.

I feel her before I hear her. A presence that is warm, and bright like a star. I hear her padding behind me, feel a warm, square head push into my shoulder. I pull back.

I hold her skin in my arms, my feet grit against the salt I have poured on the floor. I feel the surprise that ripples through her body before she tenses against me. I think, for a moment, of what it would feel like to hold her with love, rather than keep her with fear; to rub her arms, her stomach, her legs, her neck. I think of my tongue. I think of tenderness and asking.

And then, fear rises in my chest. I look up at her glittering amber eyes set wide above me. Hear the growl rumbling low in her throat. I do not think of her other body or of what it holds. I think of being alone—Victoria gone, my father in his own world, my mother lost in her search for him—and fear pools through me like water from a spring.

“You haunted me,” I say. It is not a question.

“I did.”

“You didn’t finish.”

Alta looks at me. I know she is giving me a chance to take it back, to undo what I have already done. My hand twitches, wants to hand her back her skin, and then stills. “No,” she says, long teeth flashing. “I wanted you to choose.”

“Why make me choose? Why not just finish it? Take the money and let us be.”

Alta raises a paw to her mouth and licks it. “I won’t answer if you insist on pretending not to know the why.”

I think about Alta, the way she looked at me and the desire in her eyes. I know the why. I wonder whether she believes I can become safe on my own, without her haunt, her magic. “Can I be safe? How can I be safe?”

“How can you be safe,” she says, and it’s like a purr and a laugh. “You ask about your safety while you hold my skin. I cannot begin to teach you how to be safe. How to ask. How to open. Will you give me my skin?”

“I can’t,” I say, and I feel I am being an infant, a terrible baby. “If I give it to you, you will leave.”

“Please, give me my skin.”

“Will you? Leave me?”

“If I can, yes,” she says. For a moment, I think she will lunge at me, will bare her teeth, will raise her claws. But I do not flinch.

I make up my mind. I have her skin, after all. If she will not stay with me, then I will keep her.

And just like that, I am no longer afraid.

• • • •

I said, if everything went well, the gate would be open.

I said, we split along our contradictions.

I said, there are teeth, there is blood, the pebble is lost, the conjure incomplete.

I said, I am not neutral. I am a storyteller, I am a keeper of things.

©2020 by Endria Isa Richardson. Originally published in FIYAH. Reprinted by permission of the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Endria Isa Richardson is a queer Black and Malay person taking her time and writing stories about ghosts, race, rocks, and the prison industrial system. She holds a JD from Stanford, but is doing her best to retire from lawyering. You can find her wandering among the redwoods on Ohlone land in Oakland, California, and you can find more of her work currently or forthcoming at FIYAH, Anathema, Clarkesworld, and Fireside magazines.

The Ash-Girl and the Salmon Prince, Part I

P H Lee and Rachel Swirsky | 6622 words

I have heard it on the rumors that when the tale-spinner’s guild gathers in their secret places, a full half of them are sworn to never tell the truth, and the other half to never tell a lie, even if it mean their life. Being one of that trade myself, I can tell you that’s more or less the shape of it, and I tell you so that you will know that the tale I tell you now is true, just as it happened and just as it was told to me, for I am one of the ones sworn to the truth.

The name I’m called is Dusty Boots, I come from the valley of Erwhile, and I am in love with a girl that I can never have. The tale I tell you now comes from the Brecan Fords, along the Icicle Coast, where the land is gray and green and the fishers pluck their living from the sea.

Once upon a time and not so long ago, there lived in a hovel on the shores of Wessord a fisherman and his wife with three daughters, the oldest as beautiful as the day, the next as beautiful as the night, and the youngest a plain girl of little account, with nothing to recommend her save perhaps obedience. The fisherman and his wife loved their first two daughters, but they were poor and there was nothing much that they could give them. As for the youngest daughter, they had nothing to give her but chore-work, not even a place to sleep, so in the end she had to sleep in the fire pit, amongst the ashes. She had a name—they had given her that, at least—but because she slept amongst the ashes they all called her “the ash-girl.”

One day, the fisherman was out casting his nets along the shallows of the ford, when his net caught upon some great form beneath the waters. He struggled and fought, and in no time at all his little boat was pulled far out into the depths, far beyond where he had ever been before, out beyond the sight of shore, where the waves lapped the edges of his boat and the winds blew shards of ice against his beard. With one look around him, he knew that he was lost, but all the same he was a fisherman, and proud of his labor, and so still he wrestled his nets, calling out to the fish in the ancient rhyme.

Oh, fish of the sea
Hearken to me.
Come from the waves
to answer my plea.

Once we were brothers
Above the sky.
Now for one to eat
The other must die.

Oh, hearken to me
Swift fish of the sea.
Give up your flesh
And set your soul free.

No sooner had he finished his rhyme then out from his net leapt the most brilliant salmon he had ever seen, steel-headed with scales in red and rainbow. As quick as he could, he leapt upon the salmon, holding it down with his body while he reached about for his leaded club. The salmon struggled and thrashed, but the fisherman held it tight against the boat, and in the end, just as he was lifting his club to end its life, the fish cried out, “Mercy! Mercy! I yield! I yield! Brother, do not strike me dead!”

“Well I’ll be,” said the fisherman aloud, biting off the blasphemy. “A talking fish! That’s not something you see every day.”

“I am no ordinary fish,” said the fish. “For I am a salmon, the prince of all fishes, lord of the seas and lord of the streams, endowed by ancient right and ancient custom with the primordial magics of the water above the sky. Spare me, brother, and I shall place my might and magic at your discretion. Spare me, brother, and I will promise you a boon.”

“Well,” said the fisherman. “I know better than to get involved with any part of a talking fish nor I want any part with any prince. This is just the sort of thing from the stories my dear old gran once told me, and not a one of those stories ever ended happily. No, my life is hard enough as it is already. Return to the sea, brother, and let us never speak of this again.” And, with that, he hefted up the fish and turned it over the side of the boat.

“You are wise,” said the fish, “and yet regardless you have spared me and regardless my life is in your debt. If you ever should wish a boon of me, brother, you must only let me know.”

“If you mean that truly,” said the fisherman, eyeing the waves and the weather, “then I ask no more than that you transport me safely to the shores of my hovel, which have been my home ever since I was bearn, for in our struggle you have pulled my little boat far out into the depths, far beyond where I have ever been before, beyond the sight of shore, and I fear that, without your aid, I will surely capsize and twice as surely drown.”

“It is done,” declared the fish, and even as he spoke those words aloud, the seas calmed and the waves withdrew. Presently there came a swell, gentle but strong, that lifted up the fisherman’s little boat and carried him all the way back to his hovel on the shores of Wessord. No sooner had he landed on the shore than his wife came out of their hovel. “Husband, you are back so soon! And where is your catch today? For if again you have nothing to put up then surely by this winter we shall starve.”

“Wife,” said the fisherman. “In truth, I do not think you shall believe me, but I promise you that this is the whole truth of it.” And then he told her the entire story, about how his boat was dragged out to the open waters, beyond the sight of land, about the prince of fishes and his magic and his promises.

When she heard what he had done his wife gasped, then cuffed his ears, then blasphemed aloud. “What a fool of a fisherman I’ve married!” she said. “I should have listened to my mother! I should have married a weaver!”

“I’m so sorry, my dear wife. How is it that I’ve failed you?” asked her husband, still smarting from her cuff. He knew better than to argue.

“You had in your power a salmon, the magical prince of all fishes, and what boon did you ask? Merely to return home? Think, for a moment, of us, your family. Think of the squalor in which we live. Think of our two beautiful daughters, and not a penny of dowry between them!” She did not mention the ash-girl. She did not often think of her youngest daughter, unless there was a chore still left undone.

“Oh,” said the fisherman. “That is true.”

“So you agree,” said his wife. “You must go back to the fish and ask for a proper boon: a snug little cottage for us, with servants and dowries for our beautiful daughters.”

• • • •

The next morning, the fisherman went out onto Wessord in his little boat, but before he cast his nets upon the shallows, he called out to the salmon-prince.

Oh, prince of the sea,
Hearken to me.
Rise from the waves
to answer my plea.

My wife of the shore
sent me to implore:
She’s heard of your boon;
she wants something more.

Oh, hearken to me
Great prince of the sea.
You offered a promise.
I’ve come to agree.

No sooner had he finished his rhyme then out from the sea leapt the same salmon-prince that he had caught the day before.

“Brother,” said the fish, “you have spared me and my life is in your debt. What is the boon you would wish of me?”

“It is not for me, but for my beautiful daughters and for my wife, who has a will of her own. She wishes for a snug little cottage for us, with servants and gardens, and dowries for our two beautiful daughters.”

“It will be done,” said the fish. “But first, brother, because we are brothers and there should be nothing between us, I have a blessing to ask of you in turn.”

“Is that so?” asked the fisherman, skeptical.

“It is merely,” said the fish, “that I ask that you consider me as a groom for one of your beautiful daughters. Being as I am a prince, it is surely a good match for you.”

“But you are a fish!” said the fisherman. “What should you want with a human wife?”

“It is true that I am a fish, but it is also true that I am a salmon, and in our ancient rites and customs our conjugal-bed and our death-bed are one and the same. To marry is, for us, to die. In the course of the seas and streams, though, I have heard it told of humans and of human wives, of their love and their comfort and the magic of ‘happily ever after.’ So of course I wish to find such a match for myself, to live and love in bliss and until death do us part, an enchanted human marriage, not the struggles of the salmon, all fight and rot and death and the doom in every headwater.”

“Well,” said the fisherman. “I will have to ask my wife.” And, with that, he returned the fish to the sea.

When the fisherman returned to his hovel, his wife was already at the door berating him. “Look at this hovel! Does this look like a snug little cottage to you? How is it, my fool of a husband, that you have failed to gain a wish not only once, but twice? I should have listened to my mother about you! I should have married a weaver! I should have married two!” She cuffed him twice across the face.

“Wife, it is true, I have failed to gain your boon. But the cost, wife, was altogether too great. The magic fish, who has heard tales of human love and human wives, has asked for the hand of one of our beautiful daughters. Think of them, dear wife. Think of how beautiful they are, one as beautiful as the day and the other as beautiful as the night! How could we give one of them up to a mere fish, to live her years beneath the waves, so far away from us and the world of men? Surely a snug little cottage, even one with servants, cannot be worth so much to us as that.”

At that, his wife began to hit him in earnest. “Fool!” she called him, “Idiot!” “Good-for-nothing incompetent!”

“I’m sorry,” he cried, although he did not know what he was sorry for.

“Have you forgotten, my fool of a fisherman, that we have three daughters? Of course we could never give up our beautiful daughters—who of us could ever bear their loss?—but we have a third daughter, you know. She may be plain, she may be stupid, but at least she has the virtue of obedience. All she does is sleep in filth and get herself underfoot. Surely, for a cottage, we could spare her. Surely, for two daughters’ dowries, we could give her to the sea. Even if your fish is not as magic as all that, at least we shall be spared the mouth to feed.”

“But the fish did not ask us for a plain wife,” said the fisherman, who knew better than to answer back but nonetheless could not help himself. “He asked for a beautiful wife. Surely, he shall notice our substitution. Surely, we should not so invite the wrath of a salmon, the prince of all fish.”

“But that’s just it,” said his wife. “He is a fish. What does he know of a beautiful girl from a plain one? If we say that she is beautiful, surely he will believe us, and surely he will be content. And then, think! With a magic fish for a son-in-law, there is no limit to what we might manage ourselves.”

“Just as you say, my wife,” said the fisherman, and went inside to tell his daughters.

• • • •

After the fisherman told the ash-girl of her engagement, her beautiful sisters were furious. They shouted and screamed and tore at their hair, though they looked no less beautiful for all of it. “Usurping bitch,” they screamed at the ash-girl, who had not even said anything, “we are your older sisters, as beautiful as the day and as beautiful as the night. How is it that you, plain and stupid as can be, with only obedience to recommend you, are married before us? What kind of sister usurps her elders’ place? Clearly, we have not yet humbled you enough. Clearly, somehow, you have yet grown proud!” They surrounded her and pushed her back and forth until she cried.

“Now, now, girls,” said their father. “It’s not like any of that. Rather, consider this: that by our match with your sister we shall gain for ourselves, not only a snug little cottage and servants besides, but also the value of your dowries, that we might marry you to men as rich as your beauty deserves, men who will keep you in peace and comfort for all of your days. Do not be jealous of your sister’s lot, for she goes beneath the waters a sea-bride.”

With that, the beautiful sisters were mollified. The ash-girl, though, was terrified. She did not want to go beneath the waves. But what was she to do? Her only virtue was obedience. There was nothing for it but to cry, which she did, at least until her mother told her to be quiet.

The next morning, the fisherman got the ash-girl up before dawn. “It’s time to go,” he said quietly, so as to not wake his wife and beautiful daughters. “Bring your things.”

As she looked around the single room of theirs, she began once again to cry, but worried that she might wake her mother and sisters, she shut her eyes as her father led her out the door and down to his little boat on the shore.

Perhaps, when he saw her start to cry, he took her hand and gave her, at least a moment of comfort. Perhaps he felt something for her in that moment, some love or at least some short compassion. I would like to think so. I would like to think that he whispered in her ear some advice and some love, for even though she was not his favorite daughter, she was his daughter nonetheless. I would like to say that, but in truth, I do not know. If he ever felt such things, if he ever said such words, they are not told in this story, at least not as I have ever heard it. Perhaps he said those things, perhaps he did those things, but perhaps simply gave his daughter to the sea with no more caution than a trade-good and no more emotion than grim relief.

Once they had set out in his little boat, the fisherman cast his net once more upon the shallows, calling to the fish he’d promised:

Oh, prince of the sea
Hearken to me.
Rise from the waves
to answer my plea.

You asked for a bride
To love and to guide.
I bring you my daughter
To dwell by your side.

Oh, hearken to me
Wise prince of the sea.
Take your betrothed
I give her to thee.

No sooner had he finished his rhyme then out from the sea leapt the same salmon-prince that he had caught the day before.

“Oh brother,” said the fish once he had entered the boat. “It does my heart glad to see you once again. Have you given any thought to my proposal?”

When the ash-girl caught sight of the fish in her father’s net, her breath stopped in her throat. How beautiful! His red-and-rainbow scales! How noble! His princely countenance! She clenched her fists against her racing heart, and tried to look away, to hide her sudden love for him. But he was so beautiful that she could not bear to look away, not even for a moment.

Still, with her long-practiced complaisance, she did not make a sound. Or, if she did, her father didn’t notice it.

“I have, sir,” said the fisherman. “And I have brought for you my daughter. On account that she makes her bed in the coals of the day’s fire, we call her the ash-girl. Good sir, I hope that you like her well enough.”

From the bottom of the net, the fish looked the girl up and down with one cold fishy eye. “She’s wonderful,” he said. “And she is beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” lied the fisherman. “As beautiful as the sun and moon.”

“Hmm, yes,” said the fish, who was in the end a fish and in the end did not know a beautiful woman from an ugly one. “I can see how radiant she is. And I have her consent to marry her?”

The fisherman looked surprised. He had not considered this at all. “Well, uh, that is,” he said, unprepared to lie.

“Yes,” said the ash-girl. “Yes, yes, yes.”

The fisherman showed her the edge of the smile. “Well, then, that’s all done. Here you have her. Don’t forget: A snug little cottage.”

“With servants and dowries for your other daughters, yes, yes, of course,” said the fish. “It is already done. Go home now, and leave me with my bride.”

The fisherman didn’t have to be told twice. Leaving his daughter in the sea, he rowed as fast as he could back towards the shore. He didn’t once look back.

• • • •

As soon as her father’s boat had vanished over the horizon, the ash-girl, now floating as best she could in the cold sea brine, spoke to her new husband. “Oh, husband. I hope that you do not find me presumptuous while I say ‘I love you.’ I loved you as soon as I saw you, your beautiful scales and your princely countenance. I give myself to you now, to do with as you will. Please take me into your care and do not misuse me.”

“Oh wife,” said the fish, “truly I cannot imagine a greater happiness. If you want anything, you only need to say it.”

At first, not wanting to seem insolent, she said nothing. But, in time, her arms became tangled in the waves, and she could feel her strength leaving her, until at last she spoke aloud. “Beloved husband,” she said, “please do not think me insolent, but though I love you as your wife, your home is still the sea, and as I swim here my arms grow tired and tangled in the waves. I fear that soon I shall be drowned, and should I drown here there will be no marriage left between us, only the sorrowed edge of death.”

“Beloved wife,” said the fish, “do not doubt and do not fear. This matter is easy to resolve. Simply undo your dress and float freely in the water, and the waves shall tire you no more.”

“Beloved husband,” said the girl, “I dare not remove my dress. It is immodest, and without my modesty I shall surely die.”

“Oh wife,” said the fish. “Are we not husband and wife and is it not thus only right that we know each other’s nakedness? Undo your dress; I promise I shall make no matter of it.”

With that, the girl undid her dress until floated freely in the water beside her, and in no short time she felt herself restored. “Wonderful!” She laughed and swam in circles around her husband the fish, who leapt into the sun and splashed her playfully. The two of them kept like this for some time, until the girl’s skin began to twist in the cold, and she began to shiver.

“Beloved wife,” asked the fish. “What’s your matter now?”

“Beloved husband,” she said, “please do not think me insolent, but though I love you as your wife, your home is still the sea, and as I swim here my skin grows cold and twisted in the brine. I fear that soon I shall be drowned, and should I drown here there will be no marriage left between us, only the sorrowed edge of death.”

“Beloved wife,” said the fish, “do not doubt and do not fear. This matter is easy to resolve. Simply undo your skin and leave it aside, and the ice shall trouble you no more.”

“Beloved husband,” said the girl, “I dare not remove my skin. It is immodest, and without my modesty I shall surely die.”

“Oh wife,” said the fish. “Are we not husband and wife and is it not thus only right that we know each other’s nakedness? Undo your skin; I promise I shall make no matter of it.”

With that, the girl undid her skin until it floated freely in the water beside her, and in no short time she felt herself restored. “Wonderful!” She laughed and swam in circles around her husband the fish, who weaved between her legs and splashed her playfully. The two of them kept like this for some time, until the fish said “Wife, the hour is growing late. We must soon return to my palace beneath the sea, where I rule as prince of all fishes.” Together, they dove into the water, but no sooner did they dive beneath the waves than the girl began to choke.

“Beloved wife,” asked the fish. “What’s your matter now?”

“Beloved husband,” she said with the last of her breath, “please do not think me insolent, but though I love you as your wife, your home is still the sea, and as I dive here my lungs rend and tear for breath. I fear that I shall soon be drowned, and should I drown here there will be no marriage left between us, only the sorrowed edge of death.”

“Beloved wife,” said the fish, “do not doubt and do not fear. This matter is easy to resolve. Simply leave aside your bones and leave them aside, and the water shall trouble you no more.”

What could the ash-girl do? She did not have the strength to argue back. She left aside her bones and continued through the water as the wriggling fish of her pure soul, without clothes or skin or bones to hold her.

Once she had done so, and once she had swum ahead, her husband carefully gathered up her dress and her skin and her bones, and tied them together into a bundle.

In due course, they arrived at the fish’s residence, a great palace beneath the sea, room after room of it, swarming with servants, grown in the opulent colors of ivory and jewels. When the ash-girl saw the palace, she was astonished. “Oh, husband, this palace is much too grand for me. Only this morning I was an ash-girl, without even a proper bed to sleep in. Truly, I am not worthy of such things!”

“Nonsense,” said the fish. “I am a prince and you my bride. This is my palace. All this that you see and all that’s within is yours to command, save aside the particular room which is my own, and no one else may enter, for it contains the source of all my magic, and without it we would be lost.”

“Oh husband,” she began, but just then a swarm of anchovy-servants descended on them, greeting them warmly, cooing over the beauty of the ash-girl, dressing them both in fineries, bringing them everything to eat. It was late at night before they were once more alone, and by then she had quite forgotten what she was going to say.

Later, as they lay together in their bed of kelp, the fish spoke to his new wife. “Dear wife,” he said, “there is a thing that troubles me.”

“Oh my dear husband,” said the girl. “Now that we are wed, you should have no more troubles, at least not on this our wedding night. Speak, please. Speak, and it shall be done.”

“It is simply,” began the fish, “that you were once called ash-girl, because you slept in ashes. But now you are a fine lady, the wife of a prince, with a palace and servants to command. It does not seem right that we should still name you ‘ash-girl.’ But I do not know what you should be called.”

Being called “ash-girl” did bother her, at least a little. Even when her beloved husband said the name, she could not help but hear her cruel mother’s curse in it. But she did not want to seem presumptuous, so she said “oh husband! You are so kind to think of it, but you need not worry. My name is fine as it is. When you say it to me, with the love in your voice, I barely hear my mother’s curse in it.”

“My wife, I love you,” said the fish, “and I do not want you to hear even the edge of a curse in my name for you. So, if you will, I shall call you a name. Eleanor, I think, because you are beautiful.”

“Oh husband,” she said and embraced him happily.

• • • •

Months passed, and although Eleanor was happy living as a fish with her husband in his palace beneath the sea, still she thought from time to time of her family, and in due course she began to swim up towards where they dwelt in their snug little cottage by the shore, to watch them pass their lives and days on land. The joys and waters of her new home had washed away the pain of her memories, and so she longed to join them, to once again see her mother and her sisters and her father. She imagined that they would greet her, and praise her for everything that she had done for them, and weep with happiness knowing that they had given her into a happy life and a happy marriage, that she still lived, that she had not been left to drown.

She longed for all these things, but she was now only her pure and naked soul, without dress or skin or bones, so how could she return to the land and meet her family as their daughter once again? “If only I had my skin again,” she sighed to herself, “then I could return to my family on the land.” So she began to search through every room of the fish’s palace, looking for her lost skin. Weeks later, after she had searched in every room except the single room that was saved aside as her husband’s, she spoke to him over supper.

“Beloved husband,” she said, “truly your palace and our life within it is nothing but extraordinary. I do not want you to think that I want for anything. It is only that . . .” but here she lost her nerve. “It’s nothing,” she said.

“Oh wife,” said her husband, “do not set aside your heart for my sake. Is there anything that you desire? You need merely speak and it is yours.”

“Dearest husband,” she said. “How kind you are to me! It is only that in these many months without my family, I have taken it into my mind that I might visit them on land again, for to see them and embrace them and let them know that they need not worry on my behalf, let them know how happy my life is here with you.”

“But wife,” said the fish. “Your family despised you. They beat you and made you work unceasingly. They did not even give you a bed of your own. You had to sleep in ashes and they called you ‘ash-girl’ for it.”

“Still,” she said, for joy and salt water had washed away the pain of her memory. “I’m sure that they loved me, in their own way. I’m sure that they would be happy to see me again. How could they fail to love me? They are my family, that bore me and raised me.”

When he heard her account of her own family, the fish was first vexed, but eventually he relented. Perhaps he had simply seen things wrong. After all, he was a fish. What did he know of a human family, of human kindness or human cruelty? “If you want to visit them,” he said at last, “I will not prevent it.”

When she heard this, Eleanor leapt up, and smothered him with kisses. “Oh husband,” she cried. “Thank you for your lenience. I promise that no ill shall come of it. But there is another thing.”

“Oh?” asked the fish.

“If I am to visit my family, I go before them as I am now, with only the bare fish for my soul. I need to don once more my dress and skin and bones so that I can visit them as a human girl. But try as I might, I cannot find them anywhere. I have looked over the entire palace, save for the one room that is yours alone. Do you know, perhaps, where we have kept them?”

The fish sighed. He did not want to admit that, afraid his wife would tire of him, he had hidden away her dress and skin and bones. But his wife seemed so sad, and he loved her very much, and in the end he could tell her nothing but the truth. “You have not found your things,” he said, “for they are in the single room that is kept aside for me. I secreted them there when you first arrived, fearing that if you wore your human form once more, you would abandon me for your love of the land and never return again to our palace in the cold and briny depths.”

“Oh husband,” she said. “You do not have to fear such things from me. I love you. I love our life together at the bottom of the sea. It is only that I miss my family, and they must be worried about me, in all these months and not a word from me for comfort.”

“You say that now,” said the fish. “But when you have returned to your land, back once more in your bones and skin and dress, by three nights all your time beneath the sea will seem to you to be merely a dream, to be forgotten in the morning.”

“Oh please,” said Eleanor. “Oh please let me go and see them if only for a day. If only for an hour!”

What could he do? The fish could not bear to lose his beloved wife, but likewise he could not bear to hear the longing in her voice. “Beloved wife,” he said, “In truth I do not understand you. I am a salmon—my parents died in the breeding of me; my brothers and sisters are but strangers to me still. The only inclination I have to return to my home is an inclination towards my death. But you are a woman, my beloved human wife! If you tell me you must visit your family, then you must visit your family. I only ask that you return to me before the night of the third day, lest all your nights beneath the sea seem to you only a dream, to be forgotten in the morning.”

“I promise I shall return!” she said. “I promise I shall not forget you!”

“Oh my love,” said the fish, “do not make me a promise that you cannot keep. I cannot bear to lose you, but neither can I bear to see you so distraught. I would rather have you happy and me bereft than to have you so caught up in misery. I will go then to my secret room, and retrieve for you your bones and skin and dress. Go to your family, and with my blessing.”

“Oh husband!” she cried. “Thank you for your lenience! I shall not forget you, I promise, not even if a hundred years would pass.”

“Beloved wife,” said the fish. “Do not make a promise that you cannot keep. I only ask this: even if you should forget me, even if you should think I am only a dream or only a story, remember that I still love you. If I am only a dream to you, then I shall love you as a dream. If I am only a story, then I shall love you as a story.”

“Then I shall go to your particular room and retrieve my bones and skin and all the rest,” said Eleanor.

“No,” said the fish. “I will go. For that particular room, no one shall enter except for me, for it has inside it the source of all my magic, and without it, we would both be lost.”

And with that, he went into his secret room and retrieved his wife’s bones and skin and dress, and the anchovy-servants dressed her in them carefully and returned her to the shore.

• • • •

The fish had been as good as his word. When Eleanor arrived back home, she found not the hovel of her childhood, but a snug little cottage, with a garden and servants coming and going. One of them, a woman in the middle of her years, approached her. “Who shall I say is calling?”

“Oh, it’s Eleanor—” said Eleanor, and then remembered that of course her mother wouldn’t know her by that name. “Tell her that her daughter has returned.”

When the fisherman’s wife heard that her daughter had returned, she hurried out to the courtyard in excitement, but when she saw Eleanor she was at first confused, then disappointed. “Oh,” she said. “It’s only you.”

“Mother!” said Eleanor, moving to embrace her. “I’ve missed you so.” But her mother had already turned away and would not embrace her.

“While you’re here,” she said, “you may as well clean the fireplace again. It’s gotten ever so filthy while you’ve been off neglecting your chores and doing God-only-knows beneath the sea.”

“But Mother,” said Eleanor, “surely you have servants who can clean the fireplace now.”

“Oh my dear,” said her mother, “but they can never clean it half as well as you could. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m quite busy. I’m sure there’ll be time for you to chit-chat later.” And with that she turned and made her way inside, not looking back at her daughter even once.

What else could she do? Eleanor made her way inside and began to clean the fireplace. Her mother didn’t call her for dinner, so she didn’t even stop to eat a bite until some of the servants took pity on her and gave her some of the leftovers from their supper. Finally, late in the night, she went looking for a place to sleep, and her mother found her.

“What are you doing wandering about, then?” asked her mother.

“Oh Mother!” said Eleanor and tried to embrace her again.

Her mother shrugged her off. “Already done with your cleaning then?”

“Yes, Mother, is there any place where I can sleep here?”

“Oh, no, I’m afraid. There’s just no room.”

“But I can see that there are empty rooms!”

“Oh, no, dear. Those are your beautiful sisters’ rooms. We have to leave them just as they are, in case they decide to come and visit. Which they will, of course, the next time their no-good husbands run out of money. A dowry doesn’t last as long as you think it might dear, even a good one! And now here you are asking for a place to sleep! I give and give and give and yet it’s never enough for you. Is there no end to daughters and their incessant complaints?”

Eleanor could make no reply to that.

“And anyway,” continued her mother, “if you won’t sleep in the ashes, then how can we even call you our ash-girl?”

“Actually, my name is Eleanor now,” said Eleanor, but her mother had already left. What could she do? In the end she could do nothing more but make her bed in the ashes of the fireplace, just as she always had before.

Two days passed much as the first one had, but on the evening of the third day, when Eleanor at last set back towards her home the sea, her mother came to her in tears. “Oh, my dear, you can’t possibly be leaving already! We have barely had any time to talk!”

“Oh, no,” said Eleanor. “Mother, I must return to my home the sea. I promised my husband I would stay no more than three days.”

“Oh posh,” said her mother. “What do husbands know? Your husband is just some overgrown trout! What do you owe to him? You’ve given him everything, and left nothing for me, your own mother who bore you and raised you up my own. You must stay another night!”

“I really must go, though,” said Eleanor, and began to explain about the magic, but her mother interrupted her.

“I have often said, my dear, that there is nothing to recommend you save your obedience, and now it seems you have abandoned even that. Poor girl, born so stupid and so ugly. It does you no good to add obstinance to the rest of your flaws! Stay! You must stay.”

“But mother—”

“No more ‘buts’ from you, girl. And of course there is more yet for you to clean. Get back in the house and I won’t hear another word of it!”

What could she do? She returned to the house, she spent another night there, and when she awoke in the morning it seemed to her that her time beneath the sea had been only some dream or fantasy, a tidbit of some story she had heard, to be forgotten in the morning.

And, with that, I must leave off our tale for now. But, you ask, how can that simply be the end of it? Well, now, that entirely depends on the sort of person that you are.

If, perhaps, you are the sort of person who scoffs at happy endings, who looks out at our world full of misery and wonders why our stories must always end with “happily ever after;” if, for you, a story must show all the pain of the world and more then, for you, let this be the end of the story: A simple girl found her happiness, then lost it forever. A mother scorned her daughter, and prospered therefrom. Surely, in that tale there is misery enough to satisfy.

But if, perhaps, you are the sort of person who wants a different story—a story where true love triumphs and cruelty is met with justice—then fear not for this tale, for I have not even told the half of it. There are yet twists and turns to it. There are betrayals and redemptions yet to come. As to the ending, though, I will make no promises. But surely—surely!—it cannot be as cruel as this.

[END PART 1]

©2021 by P H Lee. Poetry copyright © 2021 by Rachel Swirsky.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Rachel Swirsky graduated from the Clarion West Writers Workshop in 2005, and holds an MFA in fiction from the Iowa Writers Workshop. Her short stories have been nominated for the Hugo Award, the World Fantasy Award, and the Locus Award among others. She’s also twice won the Nebula Award, once for her novella “The Lady Who Plucked Red Flowers beneath the Queen’s Window,” and again for her short story “If You Were a Dinosaur, My Love.” Her first collection, Through the Drowsy Dark, is available from Aqueduct Press; her second, How the World Became Quiet, came out from Subterranean Press in 2010. Visit her website, chat with her on Twitter, or support her on Patreon where she posts one new piece of fiction or poetry each month.

P H Lee lives on top of an old walnut tree, past a thicket of roses, down a dead end street at the edge of town. Their work has appeared in many venues including Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, and Uncanny Magazine. From time to time, they microwave and eat a frozen burrito at two in the morning, for no reason other than that they want to.

The Ash-Girl and the Salmon Prince, Part II

P H Lee and Rachel Swirsky | 5478 words

Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Of course. When we left our tale, Eleanor—happily married to a salmon, the Prince of All Fishes—had gone back to visit her family on the shore. Under the duress of her cruel mother’s manipulations, she had overstayed the three days and three nights she had promised her husband. When she awoke on the morning of the fourth day, it seemed to her that her time beneath the sea had been only some dream or fantasy, a tidbit of some story she had heard, to be forgotten in the morning.

Some months passed, and every day the ash-girl went to work in her mother’s house, and every night sleeping in the ashes of the fireplace she dreamed about a palace beneath the sea and a husband that loved and missed her. Eventually, some of the servants took pity on her and let her sleep on their floor, but her mother called it wasteful and that put an end to that small comfort.

Each day while she was there, it seemed a greater storm blew in through the Brec, until at last the weather was so bad that the wind blew between the stones of their snug little cottage, and they could barely set foot outside for fear of the wild ice and waves.

“Can you believe these storms blowing in through the Brec?” said her mother one night at dinner. “This little cottage doesn’t seem so snug after all, against this weather. Just goes to show, you can’t rely on anyone except yourself.”

“Yes dear,” said her father. “I can’t even fish for the storms, you know.”

“And the money’s almost gone—what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know, dear.”

“You know, isn’t there that story about a fisherman just like you, who caught a magic fish and married his daughter to it?”

“I have heard that, yes, but—”

“But nothing dear. Just like the fisherman in the story, you should go out and catch a magic fish and make it change this weather. While you’re at it, you should ask for a proper castle with a full retinue. This cottage is altogether insufficient.”

“But both our daughters are married.”

“Oh, not our beautiful daughters, of course not, no, could you even imagine? I mean our other daughter, you know, the ash-girl. Of course, she’s ugly and stupid, with nothing but obedience to recommend her. Just tell the fish that she’s beautiful. It’s a fish—what does it know a beautiful woman from an ugly one?”

The fisherman began to speak, but his wife cut him off.

“But that does remind me, we should ask for proper marriages for our daughters. Not the leeches that they’re married to right now. No, they should be married to proper princes from the Vale Traverse, with their own estates and incomes. And ask for more money for ourselves, as well. If our daughters are married to princes, we after all must keep up appearances, mustn’t we?”

“Just as you say, my wife,” said the fisherman after a silence.

The next morning, he woke his daughter, the ash-girl, before dawn, to take her to the shore and marry her to a magic fish.

“It’s time to go,” he said quietly, so as not to wake her mother, and once she had gathered her things took her out into the storm. She did not cry this time, for whatever reason, even when the storm’s ice stung her face. Perhaps she had been dreaming of her husband and their home beneath the waves. Perhaps, in her heart, she remembered his love for her. Or perhaps she simply felt that a cold death in the sea was better than the life she lived in her mother’s snug little cottage. In truth, I do not know. Whatever she felt that morning, looking out at her father casting his nets upon the gray and storm-torn sea, is not told in this story, at least, not as I have ever heard it.

Her father struggled to lift up his water-logged nets, and she came out to help him to shoulder them and cast them into the waves. As soon as the nets were on the water, he called out to the fish he knew from the story:

Oh, lord of the sea
Hearken to me.
My wife wants a wish.
Please answer my plea.

A castle and riches
Are what she requires.
How can a husband
Refuse her desires?

Oh, hearken to me
Great lord of the sea.
Bless us with fortune
by magic decree.

No sooner had he spoken the words than out from the sea leapt the salmon prince. As soon as he laid eyes on Eleanor, even wearing his skin and bones and dress, he recognized her instantly. He turned to the fisherman in wrath. “Villain!” he cried. “Kidnapper! You have stolen my wife from me, the prince of all fishes! Did you truly think that there would be no consequences?”

But for her part, as soon as Eleanor glimpsed his red-and-rainbow scales, his princely bearing, the majestic arc of his leap through the air, she remembered everything about him, his palace, and their life beneath the sea, remembered it all with such force that it drove the breath from her lungs and the tears from her eyes. Without waiting for her father to say anything, she stripped off her dress and her skin and her bones and leapt into the water in the pure form of her soul.

“Please,” she said, when she was once more in the water, “do not punish my father for these wrongs. If my parents have kept me overlong, it is only because they did not understand about the magic. It is only, surely, because they loved me too much to let me go.”

“My wife, my beloved Eleanor, do you know how much I’ve missed you, knowing that you were so close to me on shore, and yet had forgotten me entirely? In every night of these long months I have tossed and turned and suffered, and I can only imagine how much worse it was for you. Be he your father or be he a stranger, this man has wronged me all the same, and such should pay the price of it.”

“Please, my husband, spare him. If not for his sake, then for mine! If not for my sake, then for the sake of our reunion!” Eleanor pleaded with her husband.

“Very well, my wife. I cannot stand to see you at all unhappy, not the least at this one moment. I shall spare him, then, for your sake, and for the sake of our reunion.” And, with that, they swam together into the depths of the sea, leaving the fisherman and his net on the shore behind.

• • • •

Some days later, after Eleanor had returned to her palace-beneath-the-sea, after she and her husband had settled into the old routines, she spoke to him in the privacy of their personal chambers.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said.

“What is it, beloved?”

“It’s simply that, despite all you’ve done for them, my family is still struggling so much. Yes, they have a snug little cottage, and yes, my sisters had their dowries, but the dowries are both already spent, and the cottage in the end is much too small. They couldn’t even spare a bed for me!”

“I don’t think,” began the fish.

“And if they had a proper castle to live in, with a proper retinue and my sisters married to proper princes with lands to call their own, then perhaps that would be enough for them, at least, to be at peace. It is not too much to ask, is it? I do not mean to presume upon your generosity.”

“My dearest wife,” said the fish. “It is not any manner of presumption. For my magic to grant that wish, why, it is as simple as a flick of my fins. But I must tell you, after how they treated you, after how they kept you from me—” He stopped, knowing how much she hated yelling. “I cannot say that I have much charity towards them.”

“Oh, dearest,” said Eleanor. “Of course! Of course! How you must see them, how you must imagine them? But you must know—you must—it is only because they love me so much. It must be! For what am I but their own daughter who they bore and who they raised? It is simply the straitened circumstances in which they find themselves. Surely, if they had a castle and a retinue, if my sisters had princes for their husbands, surely then they would treat me as I wish they would.”

The fish did not agree with this, not at all. But he saw his wife’s pleading face, and felt his love for her swelling in his scaly chest, he could not manage to deny her plea. It was, after all, as simple as a flick of his fins. So he sighed, and wriggled a little, and said “It is done.”

Eleanor was overjoyed. She swam around him and covered his face in kisses. “Thank you, husband. I know you do not care for my family. But for my sake, at least, thank you a thousand times.”

“There is no need,” he said, although he was in truth quite pleased by her reaction. “We are husband and wife, are we not? What’s mine is yours, what’s yours is mine, for better or for worse.”

For some years after, they were happy together inside their palace-under-the-sea, with the salmon, who was in truth the prince of all fishes, governing and ruling, and his wife beside him, giving him no small part of comfort and advice. A human wife, she bore him great schools of salmon children that he could know and raise and adore in his own lifetime. With each brood born their happiness increased and their love for each other bloomed anew.

But, as the joys and salt waters of her home washed away the pain from her memories, Eleanor began to once more think of her family on the shore, in their stone castle with all its retinues. She began to swim up to the shore, to watch the comings and goings of their courtiers and armies, and she began to wish again that she might see them again, so close to her and yet so far removed. She imagined that they would greet her, and praise her for everything that she had done for them, and weep with happiness knowing that they had given her into a happy life and a happy marriage, with plentiful children and plentiful means to keep them.

Without her skin and her bones and her dress, though, how could she return to the shore to see them? But, even as she looked for them in every place (save for the room her husband kept aside for himself), she could not find them anywhere in the palace. At last she sought out her husband.

“Dearest husband,” she said. “Father of my beloved children. I have it in my heart to once more visit my family on the shore. But I cannot find my dress or my skin or my bones. I have looked in every place and I cannot find them. Could it be that you again put them in the single room that is kept aside for you?”

“Oh wife,” said her husband. “I shall not lie to you. It is true, that I have once more set your bones and skin and dress in the secret room that is set aside for me. I set them there because I was afraid—whether that they might meet some injury or that you might glimpse them and yearn once more for your family on the shore, I cannot rightly say.”

“Indeed it is so, my love,” said Eleanor. “But even without glimpsing my skin and bones, in my heart I still yearn to see my family on the shore. It has been years! Of course I still love them. Of course I now miss them.”

“Of course,” said the fish, keeping his countenance calm.

“So, if I might, beloved, beg only a few days of time away, to see them again, to feel once more the love of my human family.”

“Oh wife,” said the fish. “In truth I can only begin to understand you. I am a salmon—my parents died in the breeding of me; my brothers and sisters are but strangers to me still. My only inclination to return home is an inclination to my death. But, through you, through our beloved children, I see now the love that a family must have. If the same love binds you to your parents that binds us to our children, then perhaps I can begin to understand, although I still cannot fathom how cruel they have been to you. If it were our children, even the smallest of our fry, I could never treat them so.”

“Nonetheless,” he continued, “You are my wife and I trust you with my entire life. If you tell me you must visit your family, then you must visit your family. I will fetch out your dress and your skin and your bones for you. I only ask that you return to us before the night of the third day, lest all your nights beneath the sea, all the love of your husband and all the love of your children, seem to you only a story, an idle curiosity already forgotten.”

“Oh husband!” she cried. “Thank you for your lenience! I shall not forget our family, I promise, not even if a hundred years would pass.”

“Beloved wife,” said the fish. “Do not make a promise that you cannot keep. I only ask this: even if you should forget me, even if you should think I am only a dream or only a story, remember that I still love you.”

With that, he went into his particular room and fetched out her bones and her skin and her dress, and brought them with her to the shore beside her family’s castle.

“Three days,” he said as she left. “I love you.”

“Three days, I promise,” she replied.

• • • •

When Eleanor reached the gate of her family’s castle, she was stopped by the captain of the guard. “Halt!” he shouted. “Who goes?”

“It is me, Eleanor, daughter of the lord and lady of this place,” she said.

“Nonsense!” said the captain of the guard. “The daughters of this keep are fine ladies, with princes for husbands and retinues of knights and servants. What’s more, they are as beautiful as the day and night. You are a woman all alone, clearly simple and plain to look upon. How could you possibly be a daughter of our lady?”

“I am their youngest daughter,” said Eleanor. “Who she married to a magical salmon, the prince of all fishes. Surely, she must have mentioned me.”

“I quite doubt it,” said the captain. He wanted nothing more than to return to his wier game.

“Please,” said Eleanor, “if you would only go and tell the lady of this house that her daughter, who loves her and obeys her, has returned. If you would just do that for me, sir, I promise—”

She was so sorrowful and so desperate that the captain at last sighed. “Very well,” he said, and headed towards the main of the castle.

Eleanor stood outside the gate for hours, her skin twisting in the cold sea breeze, until one of the guards took pity on her and invited her into the guard house. “There’s not much of a fire,” he said. “But you’re welcome to share it, lady.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I shall tell my mother of your kindness.”

The guard blanched. “Oh, no need for that, lady. Just enjoy what little warmth we’ve got, and mind you don’t disturb the captain’s wier board.”

She passed a few more hours in the warmth of the guardhouse, through a change of shift, and then another, until at last her mother arrived, decked head to toe in gold and fineries.

“Here you are!” she said, when she saw her daughter. “Sitting here for hours idle, with every hearth in the castle filthy! What a worthless daughter you are! How ungrateful! You’ve been back for near a day and done nothing to account yourself.”

“Mother,” said Eleanor bowing, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s ‘my lady,’ to you, dear. After all, I am the lady of this place, am I not?”

“Of course, my lady.”

“Well, fine, then. No more of this chitting and chatting! We have no time to waste, not since I had to send your father away. Idle hands cost time and money. Get yourself to work!”

“But moth—my lady,” said Eleanor, correcting herself. “Your castle has so many retinues of servants. How is it that cleaning the hearths still falls to me, your daughter just now returned from her home beneath the sea.”

“Oh my dear,” said her mother. “Don’t call your home some dreary crag beneath the sea. This is your home, and always shall be. And, of course we have servants, but none of them clean the ashes half as well as you can. Truly, my dear, we all depend on you, however unreliable you be. Now, it’s quite late at night. You have to start your work, and I must sleep! Always more to do here. Always more to do.”

Eleanor worked the whole night through, and most of the next day besides, but the castle was so large, with so many hearths and so many ashes, and try as she might she could hardly keep them all clean. On the evening of the second day, exhausted, she sought out her mother and found her in the throne room.

“Oh moth—oh my lady,” said Eleanor, curtsying.

“Yes?” said her mother and then, when she looked up and saw that it was her plain daughter “Oh. It’s you. What do you want now?”

“I know that you would have me clean all the hearths of ashes,” said Eleanor. “And I know that no one can clean them like I can, because I love you, and because of course you love me, your daughter.”

“Get to the point,” said her mother.

“Uh, that is to say. There are just so many hearths in this castle, and so many ashes, and so many constantly in use. I cannot clean them all, at least not as well as I might. I was hoping you might spare one of your retinue to assist me with it, if only for half a day.”

Her mother laughed. “Oh dear. It’s quite out of the question.”

“But—” started Eleanor.

“And when did you start to answer back?” asked her mother. “It used to be that you at least had obedience to recommend you. Anyway, you are our little ash-girl. How could anyone but our ash-girl clean our ashes? It makes no sense.”

“My name is Eleanor now,” said Eleanor. “I know you must have just forgotten.”

“Eleanor!” shouted her mother. “What a ridiculous name for a plain and stupid thing like you! No, of course we can’t call you that. Your life beneath the sea has clearly spoiled you. Eleanor! What airs! And for such an ugly girl!”

“My—my husband gave me that name,” said the ash-girl, tears welling in her eyes.

“Your husband,” said her mother, “is a fish.”

Eleanor could make no reply to that.

“Now, if you’re quite done with your little . . . display,” said her mother. “I have important matters to attend to. Affairs of state, wars and treaties. Your sisters’ husbands have even called us into their war against each other! Quite beyond your capacity, of course.”

“Of course,” said Eleanor, although she had just last year negotiated a careful treaty between the Duke of the Cod and all the whelks.

• • • •

She worked as hard as she could, without even time to sleep in the ashes, but she still could not keep the hearths clean, and by the third day, she was entirely ready to leave. Not wanting to bother the lord and lady of the castle, she simply made her way to the front gate, only to find her mother waiting for her.

“Oh, my dear,” said Eleanor’s mother, “I see how terribly you must feel about me. I’m afraid that you have been nothing but loyal to us and we have used you terribly. It’s only that your sisters are struggling. You know, their husbands are princes from the Vale Traverse, so of course now they’re at a war against each other. It’s all very difficult for them, and so I’ve had no time for you. But, my dear, that is only because you are such a good and obedient daughter who has done so much for us.”

Eleanor did not know what to say. She began to cry, and her mother embraced her. “There there, my dear.”

“We are beset by so many troubles in our life. If only we had some of that wishing power, from beneath the sea, like in the stories about magic fish. Some true magic to call our own. Then we could resolve our difficulties, and then I would have time to show you how much I truly love you. Do you think you could fetch some for us? Your husband wouldn’t miss it, surely, and he wouldn’t need to know. That’s a good girl.”

Still crying, Eleanor tried to think. She thought about her husband beneath the sea, about the single room he kept aside for himself, about the source of all his magic. She was the lady of his palace, surely she could slip inside and take some fraction of his power for her parents. But hadn’t he said that, if she were to ever set foot in that room, everything would be undone? She looked up into the face of her mother, full of desperation and sincerity.

“Mother,” she said. “I can ask my husband for you. But I will not steal his magic.”

“Daughter,” said her mother. “I have misjudged you! I have thought that you were loyal, but I see now that you were only stupid. What do you owe your fish of a husband? You have given him everything, and gotten nothing in return. I am your mother; I’m the one who bore you to this earth; I have given you everything! And yet you will not even do this one thing for me. Ungrateful wretch! Guards, seize her! We’ll see how a night in the oubliette sorts her loyalties!”

“No!” said Eleanor, but the guards had already seized her. “Please! I need to go back tonight!”

“Sorry about this,” said the guard who had let her share his fire. “But the lady is not one to be crossed.”

In the darkness of the oubliette, even exhausted as she was, she remembered the last time when she had forgotten the fish, her husband, their life beneath the sea. Removed from the salt and water of the sea, the pain of it was all too real again. She was too miserable to sleep. Instead, she wept, and as the salt tears fell from her eyes they recalled to her the brine of her husband’s realm and she wept all the more anew.

She cupped her hands beneath her chin, catching her tears until they pooled into a brine of their own. Her heart breaking, she cried out to her husband.

Oh man of the sea,
hearken to me.
With love and with tears
I send you my plea

I pray you hear me,
I pray you forgive,
please know I’ll love you
As long as I live.

Oh hearken to me,
my man of the sea,
through my loving tears
I call unto thee.

No sooner had she finished her rhyme than her husband appeared before her, leaping up from the brine of her tears in the darkness of the oubliette. “Blackguards!” he cried. “Kidnappers!”

Eleanor embraced him with her human arms. “Oh, husband. I thought I would never see you again. I thought I would forget you.”

“Oh wife,” said her the fish. “Do not ask me again for their mercy. As for their trespasses against me, I am not a prideful fish. Those at least could be forgiven. But for their trespasses against you, my heart, my wife, my love. For their trespasses against their own daughter. No, those can not be forgiven, not even for your sake, not even with ten thousand tears.”

“I do not ask that you forgive them,” said Eleanor. “Though it grieves me to see my family come to harm. I only ask that you spare at least their lives, that I might hope that they will one day regret what they have done to you, that I might hope that they might one day come to love their daughter.”

“Very well,” said the fish. “It is already done.”

The fish was as good as his word. In the distance there came the sound of a great storm, and after that the swell of a great wave which crashed around the castle and swept the whole of it right out to sea alongside Eleanor and her husband.

• • • •

Some days after the storm had passed, after Eleanor had returned to her palace-beneath-the-sea, after she and her husband had settled into the old routines, she spoke to him in the privacy of their personal chambers.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said.

“What is it, beloved?”

“It is only,” she said. “That so much of my mistreatment was because my family had no magic of their own. And so, of course, they needed it from you. But perhaps, if my mother and my sisters were married to fish-princes of their own, with their own sea-magics, then we could all be equal, peers below the sea and peers above it. Then, perhaps, we could all be on better terms.”

“I do not think,” began the fish, but then stopped to think it through, even though his wife did not interrupt him.

“Actually,” he said after a time, “I wonder if you might be right, my wife. And it may solve our other problems. With our marriage, legends of human wives have only spread among my peoples. There are surely lords among the clams and fishes that might seek such an alliance, if not for the true love of a human wife, then to marry into the family of the salmon-prince, lord of the seas and lord of the streams. With such an alliance, we could unite the waters for a generation or for more.”

“Oh husband,” she cried, and embraced him.

“Yes then,” he said. “It is decided. I shall send the messages in the morning.”

• • • •

Weeks later, Eleanor’s family gathered on the shore, awaiting their new and magic bridegrooms. From the eastern waters of the Great Sweet Sea had come a beluga-king, resplendent with sword armor. From far to the south had come a pale-red shark of ancient lineage, proud of his name and with teeth like jeweled daggers. From far to the west, the depths of the endless sea, had come some vast and quiet creature, bearing a lantern in search of his true name.

Eleanor, clad again in her bones and skin and dress, spoke gently to her sisters, each in turn. “Here you go,” she said to her eldest sister, as beautiful as the day. “Your beluga-husband awaits you beneath the sea. But you cannot go in your dress: think of how it will tangle in the waves and drown you. Do not worry for your modesty. Your husband shall soon know you in your nakedness. Leave off your dress and step into the sea.”

Just as she was told, her eldest sister removed her dress. Eleanor then spoke to her next sister, as beautiful as the night, about her shark-husband. Her next sister likewise heeded her.

When Eleanor spoke to her mother, though, she scoffed and growled and made a great fuss about all of it, but in the end she removed her dress as well.

Next, Eleanor came again to her eldest sister. “Here you go,” she said. “Your beluga-husband awaits you beneath the sea. But you cannot go in your skin: think of how it will twist in the cold and freeze you. Do not worry for your modesty. Your husband will soon know you in your nakedness. Leave off your skin and step deeper into the sea.”

Just as she was told, her eldest sister removed her skin. Eleanor then spoke to her next sister about her shark-husband, and her next sister likewise heeded her.

When Eleanor spoke to her mother, though, she scoffed and growled and made a great fuss about all of it, but in the end she removed her skin as well.

Next, Eleanor came again to her eldest sister. “Here you go,” she said. “Your beluga-husband awaits you beneath the sea. But you cannot go in your bones: think of how the brine will crush and choke you. Do not worry for your modesty. Your husband will soon know you in your nakedness. Leave off your bones and swim freely in the sea in the shape of your own pure soul.”

Just as she was told, her eldest sister removed her bones and swam into the sea in the shape of her own pure soul. As soon as he saw the form of her soul, the beluga-king fell instantly in love with her. They danced and swam together in the surf, and then further into the sea, out into the deep waters, past the Brec, into the open ocean, where I am told that they became the mother and father of every dolphin, living many happy years together. For all I know, they live there still.

Eleanor then spoke to her next sister about her shark-husband, and just as she was told she removed her bones and swam into the sea in the shape of her own pure soul. As soon as he saw the form of her soul, pale-red shark fell instantly in love with her. They danced and swam together in the surf, then further into the sea, out into the deep waters, through the Vale Traverse and the seven oceans of the southland, to the warm rivers of the cities of gold, where I am told that they became the mother and father of every manatee, living many happy years together. For all I know, they live there still.

Last, Eleanor spoke to her mother. But when Eleanor told her to take off her bones, her mother stamped her feet. “I will not!” she shouted. “It is enough to be naked! It is enough to be skinless! How am I to do without even bones to hide my modesty?” I am told, though I do not know for certain, that she was afraid that if her lantern-husband saw even a glimpse of her true soul, he would surely see how wicked it was and revile her for it. So, instead, she leapt into the ocean, without her dress or skin, but still within her bones.

As soon as she fell beneath the water, though, she was transformed into the form of a crab, with no dress nor skin but bones all about. From there, she sank to the bottom of the Wessord, the deep waters, where she lived the rest of her days, scuttling this way and that, with her eyes always sideways, jealous of whoever was beside her.

As for Eleanor and her husband, the salmon prince, lord of the seas and lord of the streams, they returned to their palace beneath the sea, where they lived quite happily among their schools of children, and that she never again yearned for the light of the surface.

I am told, and I would believe it, that after many years, her husband invited her into his solitary room. Perhaps he realized that he had been wrong to doubt her. Perhaps, after all they had been through, he trusted her at last. Regardless of the reason, I cannot say for certain what secret she found there, what source of all her husband’s magic or anything else besides, for whatever she saw she was loyal to her death and never told another soul.

That is the story, the whole and the heart of it, just as it happened and just as it was told to me. If any man call me a liar, he has only himself to blame.

©2021 by P H Lee. Poetry copyright © 2021 by Rachel Swirsky.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Rachel Swirsky graduated from the Clarion West Writers Workshop in 2005, and holds an MFA in fiction from the Iowa Writers Workshop. Her short stories have been nominated for the Hugo Award, the World Fantasy Award, and the Locus Award among others. She’s also twice won the Nebula Award, once for her novella “The Lady Who Plucked Red Flowers beneath the Queen’s Window,” and again for her short story “If You Were a Dinosaur, My Love.” Her first collection, Through the Drowsy Dark, is available from Aqueduct Press; her second, How the World Became Quiet, came out from Subterranean Press in 2010. Visit her website, chat with her on Twitter, or support her on Patreon where she posts one new piece of fiction or poetry each month.

P H Lee lives on top of an old walnut tree, past a thicket of roses, down a dead end street at the edge of town. Their work has appeared in many venues including Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, and Uncanny Magazine. From time to time, they microwave and eat a frozen burrito at two in the morning, for no reason other than that they want to.

To learn more about the author and this story, read the Author Spotlight

The Right Dragon

Coral Alejandra Moore | 1480 words

Marisol stared into the cave, breathing in the stomach-turning scent of decay that meant a dragon’s den was inside.

I held my handkerchief over my nose and mouth so that I wouldn’t gag. “You’re sure this is the one?”

“Definitely.” She scratched the stub of her left arm where it tucked into the metal hinge, just above where her elbow had once been.

I didn’t mention that she’d been sure the last ten times as well. “Shall I ready the spear-launchers?”

Her cheeks flushed. She never looked so alive as when we were on the hunt. “They’re too inaccurate for a moving target. No, Tonia, we’re going to try something new.”

I glanced toward the sun. We had three hours before the creature was likely to emerge for its nightly hunt. “Now that we know where it is, shouldn’t we come back tomorrow?”

She turned her sharpest brown glare, the one usually reserved for her enemy, onto me. “That’s the dragon that killed my sister. I won’t rest until it’s dead.” Her flesh hand clenched into a fist. The metal hand I had fashioned for her was motionless, still bent at the angle for riding, waiting for something to grasp. The two sides of her were ever at war.

I didn’t argue. Trying to change her mind while she was on the hunt was pointless. I often asked myself why I followed her on this quest.

My life had not been the same since I found her in a pool of blood on the forest floor, her arm severed by the dragon that had killed her sister. But she’d managed to tie her belt around the stump to stem the bleeding and crawl to safety. I nursed her back to health after a fever had nearly claimed her life, although I was no healer, and her recovery had been long and painful.

Since that day, the fierce determination I found so compelling had twisted into a dark and single-minded obsession. We’d killed ten dragons, every one of them different in shape and color and size. Marisol never admitted that she was wrong about a dragon we killed, but she also never admitted that the beast that haunted her nightmares was dead.

There was always a new plan, a new tactic, a new trick to try on the next one. And there was always a next one.

Marisol leapt onto our wagon and examined the cargo. She pried open crates with her metal hand and rummaged through the contents with the other. She tossed a coil of rope to me.

I staggered under the weight. “What’s this for?”

“We’re going to put a net over the opening of the cave. Once the dragon is caught, I’ll stab it with the spears.”

Each strand was as thick as my arm, but somehow they didn’t seem strong enough. “You think these will hold a dragon?”

“The elders in the last village told me a story about a sea serpent that plagued them years ago, stealing their catch and sinking their boats. They came up with a design for a net that they used to trap it as it exited the underwater caves where it slept.” She winked. “I put in an order right away.”

I remembered the village and the story. I didn’t bother saying that to me it had seemed more like a legend than actual history.

We spent the time before dusk arranging the net and anchoring the lines that would hold it fast. It was backbreaking work that kept us from talking much as we hauled and placed the heavy netting. Marisol worked with a fevered cheer I’d rarely seen in her. She actually smiled as she taught me the slip-resistant knots the villagers had shown her. Maybe this would really be the last time? I quashed the small glimmer of hope even as it took shape. I had been disappointed too many times already.

As deepening shadows spread through the forest, the trees around us fell silent. Twilight belonged to the dragons and every animal in the forest respected that. Every animal but us.

I tied off the last line near the cave’s opening and wiped my brow. A hand on my back startled me.

“Just me,” Marisol said in a hushed voice, reaching over my shoulder to offer a filled waterskin.

I took it and quenched my thirst, trying not to let her casual closeness mean too much. It was more likely she had forgotten to move away than that she was showing affection.

She made me regret my uncharitable thought when she wrapped her left arm around my waist. “I know this isn’t easy for you. It’s almost over.”

I clutched her metal hand to my stomach, holding her arm around me as I turned to look at her. Some of her hair had escaped from her braid and had gone a bit wild and I barely restrained the urge to tidy it.

Would she ever admit the hunt was really over? The question hovered on my tongue, but I couldn’t ask because she was looking at me as if she’d just seen me there for the first time and I didn’t want to break whatever spell had been cast on her. Her gaze drifted over my face and settled on my lips.

The moment that might have changed both our lives ended with the bellowing of the beast. The mountain shook under us as Marisol bolted from cover, sprinting for the spears we’d set up near the mouth of the cave. As always, I chased her.

The noise of something huge moving in the darkness grew louder. Falling rocks from the adjacent cliff face crashed down around us. She bent the fingers of her metal hand around a spear and locked it into place at an upward angle. She hefted another spear in her intact hand.

The ropes strained taut as the monster threw itself against them. Unbelievably, the netting held and twisted around its flailing limbs. Deadly talons ripped at the ropes, but failed to tear them loose.

Marisol dashed toward the writhing dragon. With a wordless cry, she plunged the spear in her flesh hand into the monster’s exposed ribs.

The dragon lunged toward her with uncanny speed, despite its entanglement. She was knocked from her feet by the sudden violence of the movement, but the ropes kept her from being crushed.

“Marisol!” I ran forward and pulled her back to a safer position.

She scrambled back to her feet and grabbed another spear.

“Wait!”

She turned toward me. Passion lit her face. In that moment she was achingly beautiful. Without a word, she pivoted back toward the dragon.

Hot, black blood poured from the wound. Marisol splashed through it, her teeth bared with feral purpose, and plunged her second spear into the dragon’s neck.

The great body lurched, tearing some of the ropes from their moorings.

Marisol’s shout of triumph was lost in the dragon’s roar of pain. She pressed her advantage, driving the spear in her metal hand into the dragon’s belly.

The tensed ropes on the far side of the cave snapped. Marisol tried to pull away as the behemoth rolled reflexively to protect its underside, but the metal arm I’d built for her wasn’t made for letting go easily.

I cried out as the dragon crushed her. I fell to my knees, saying her name over and over like a litany.

Once the hulking body came to a shuddering stop, only her metal arm, with the broken shaft of the spear still clutched in the vice-like grip, remained exposed. I was sure the arm I had made for her had killed her, and I spent a long time hating myself for it.

I traveled alone for months, destitute and nearly starving, unable to stay close to the place Marisol had died, yet unable to return home where I had met her. I had no taste for revenge, but I had left my life as a blacksmith behind to follow her on this path and now that she was gone I was bereft of purpose.

I began to tell our story in the villages I wandered through, as much to remind myself of her as to make sure that others knew of the brave woman I had fallen in love with; a woman who had saved countless lives. Eventually, people started to pay for my stories. Just a drink at first, then more as word of Marisol the Dragon Hunter spread to places we had never been, and then to places I had never even heard of—places where they didn’t believe in dragons at all.

I don’t know for sure if the dragon that killed Marisol was the same one that killed her sister. But whenever I tell the story, it’s the right dragon.

©2021 by Coral Alejandra Moore.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Coral Moore has always been the kind of girl who makes up stories. Fortunately, she never grew out of that. She writes character driven fiction, and enjoys conversations about genetics and microbiology as much as those about vampires and werewolves. She has an MFA in Writing from Albertus Magnus College and is an alum of Viable Paradise XVII. She has been published by Vitality Magazine, Diabolical Plots, and Zombies Need Brains. She loves aquariums, rides a motorcycle, and thinks there is little better than a good cup of coffee. In her most recent venture she is the co-editor and co-publisher of Constelación Magazine, a bilingual speculative fiction magazine publishing stories in Spanish and English.

EXCERPT: Light From Uncommon Stars (Tor Books)

Ryka Aoki | 5892 words

Good Omens meets The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet in Ryka Aoki’s Light From Uncommon Stars, a defiantly joyful adventure set in California’s San Gabriel Valley, with cursed violins, Faustian bargains, and queer alien courtship over fresh-made donuts.

Shizuka Satomi made a deal with the devil: to escape damnation, she must entice seven other violin prodigies to trade their souls for success. She has already delivered six.

When Katrina Nguyen, a young transgender runaway, catches Shizuka’s ear with her wild talent, Shizuka can almost feel the curse lifting. She’s found her final candidate.

But in a donut shop off a bustling highway in the San Gabriel Valley, Shizuka meets Lan Tran, retired starship captain, interstellar refugee, and mother of four. Shizuka doesn’t have time for crushes or coffee dates, what with her very soul on the line, but Lan’s kind smile and eyes like stars might just redefine a soul’s worth. And maybe something as small as a warm donut is powerful enough to break a curse as vast as the California coastline.

As the lives of these three women become entangled by chance and fate, a story of magic, identity, curses, and hope begins, and a family worth crossing the universe for is found.

Out September 28th from Tor Books.

People think selling one’s soul for music is as simple as “Sign this contract and—poof!—you’re a genius!”

Were it that easy, the world would be awash in transcendent song.

Obviously, this is not so.

Souls are cheap.

The trick is finding the right soul.

February

1

Shhh . . .

Yes, it hurt. It was definitely not just a bruise. Yes, she was scared.

Her throat was raw from screaming.

Cautiously, Katrina Nguyen felt under her bed.

Girl clothes. Boy clothes. Money. Birth certificate. Social security card. Toothbrush. Spare glasses. Backup battery. Makeup. Estradiol. Spironolactone.

Katrina had made an escape bag the first time her father threatened to kill her.

At first, the bag seemed an “in case of emergency,” a glass that one would never break.

But after tonight . . .

Why had she let it come to this? Why couldn’t she be what her parents wanted?

Part of her was in a panic. What have you done? Apologize. Knock on their door right now. Say it’s all your fault—say you’re sorry, say you’ ll promise to change.

But another, stronger, part of Katrina was calm, even cold.

You have to escape. Tonight. Breathe, be quiet, and listen.

And so, Katrina listened . . . for footsteps, for breathing, for sleep. She listened, and listened. Through the dark, she heard her mother’s one last cough. Her father’s one last flush.

And then, finally, there was silence.

Katrina clutched her ribs, then propped herself up. The pain was sharp, but manageable. She was in her room, behind a locked door. All she needed to do was be quiet. And calm. She could do this.

She could do this.

By the light of her phone, Katrina applied concealer around her eye and to her cheek. It would be better not to face the world with visible bruises.

Then she placed a note on her bed.

In it, she had written that she was sorry, that she wished she’d never been born, that she didn’t want to make them angry, and that she’d never bother them again. That part was true.

But then she wrote that she was going San Francisco.

There’d be no reason to doubt her; of course she would go there. That’s where the queers went. Her father would punch the wall, throw something heavy and breakable; her mother would cross herself and utter a prayer. In a day or two, her mother would call Tía Claudia across the Bay to find their stupid son and send him home.

By that time, though, she’d be almost four hundred miles away. Silently, Katrina put on her coat. She slid open her bedroom window. Outside, there was noise from a police helicopter, noise from some family next door. There was noise from the highway, from nice cars leaving and less-nice cars coming home. Yet, Katrina moved steadily, almost gracefully, as she gathered what she needed.

Ticket. Laptop. Escape bag. Violin.

Then Katrina crawled atop her desk, and dropped to the ground. Mercifully, adrenaline overrode her pain. She reached up, slid the window closed, and looked at her phone.

Good. There was still time. As quickly as she could, Katrina limped past the neighbors, the highway, the cars, the police helicopter overhead. She’d catch BART to Oakland, then find somewhere to wait out the night.

In the morning, she’d get on a big white bus to Los Angeles.

Those who’ve never ridden a big white Asian bus probably never will. These buses don’t load at Greyhound bus depots or train stations. Instead, one catches them at an Asian shopping center or supermarket.

Some are Vietnamese, a few are Korean; many are Chinese. Some trek to Las Vegas. Others shuttle to the casinos of Morongo, Pechanga, San Manuel. Yet another subset runs along a network of Asian communities throughout the state. Oakland Chinatown, San Francisco Chinatown, Little Saigon. San Diego Chinatown.

And, of course, fleets of them converge on the San Gabriel Valley—Rosemead, San Gabriel, Monterey Park, and the rest of the Asian-American Holy Land.

“I think girl,” the woman said. She didn’t bother whispering. So what if the kid could hear? They were speaking Cantonese; the young ones were either Americanized or learning Mandarin.

“Not girl!” the other woman insisted. “Too ugly to be girl.”

“But she’s wearing makeup!”

There was silence.

“Too ugly to be girl,” she finally agreed. “Definitely boy. To be a girl would be sad.”

“Yes, so sad.”

Those women were around her mother’s age—they could have been her mother’s friends. She didn’t need to understand them to understand them, for it blended with the chatter that she heard every day.

Katrina didn’t try to block their words; she had given up on that long ago. Instead, Katrina leaned her head against the window and listened to the voices of the women, the drone of the engine, the roar of a passing truck. She listened to the pain in her ribs, the throbbing keeping time with each swerve and a bump in the road. It was all music.

Let it be music. If she could make it music, Katrina knew there would a place where she could breathe. A place where she could rest.

She cradled her violin. She heard a melody.

Finally, Katrina Nguyen let herself sleep.

• • • •

Shizuka Satomi opened her eyes. Twenty-two hours ago, she had been in Tokyo.

And now?

As if on cue, Shizuka’s thoughts were interrupted by a most horrible sound, as if a violin were choking on a windshield wiper.

Who could possibly be creating such infernal— Oh. Of course.

Shizuka stilled her breathing and listened further. In addition to the rooster, there were also two hens. Pigeons, four of them. A duck. An old Asian woman humming a pentatonic folk song. A freeway in the distance. And someone just drove up in a Mercedes.

No other place sounded like this.

The Aguilars lived in the yellow house. On the corner were the Laus, and next door, the Lieus.

This was her house in Los Angeles . . . Monterey Park to be exact.

She was home.

Shizuka looked about her room. Thanks to Astrid, her move was already complete. Clothing, furniture, her instruments, all were ready and waiting. Her car had made the trip from Japan and was parked in the driveway downstairs.

The only item she had personally brought with her lay on her nightstand. It was a long and thin music case. Old, battered, yet exquisitely made, what it held seemed almost impatient, calling from just beyond hearing.

Not yet, Shizuka thought. But soon.

As the rooster crowed again, Shizuka stood and stretched. She had timed her sleep perfectly. Even with the jet lag, she felt as if she had just taken a refreshing afternoon nap. Of course, she’d be exhausted in the evening, but if all went as planned, she would have already found who she was looking for.

By the time Shizuka came downstairs, Astrid already had her breakfast ready—rice porridge, hot tea, a soft-boiled egg.

There was also a peeled tangerine. “Astrid, I didn’t ask for—”

“From Mrs. Aguilar,” Astrid explained. “She brought a whole bag. Won’t you have one? They’re really sweet.”

Shizuka finished her egg, toast, and tea.

“I’d rather not give my body any surprises while it’s still unsure of the time zone.”

Astrid shrugged. “But Mrs. Aguilar said you always liked their tangerines.”

It was wonderfully sweet, just as always—and juicier than a winter fruit had any right to be. Every neighborhood should have a Mrs. Aguilar . . .

“Miss Satomi?”

“Yes? Oh, I just drifted a little.”

Astrid frowned. “Miss Satomi, why don’t you rest? It’s only the preliminaries. The finals won’t be held until next week, and Ms. Grohl is sure to advance.”

Shizuka reapplied her lipstick, a little powder, then reached for her sunglasses.

“If she is really the seventh, that girl will have no need for the finals, will she?”

2

Six times, Shizuka Satomi had created brilliance. Six times, she had taken an aspiring musician, trained them, formed them, and created a star.

Even more incredible, while most teachers seemed to cultivate a characteristic sound or style, Satomi’s students were at turns icy, devastating, blinding, delicate, frenetic, breathtakingly sensual . . .

Her success, her touch, the effortless, almost inevitable way she pulled genius after genius from thin air, was uncanny, almost supernatural.

Little wonder, then, that people began to call her the Queen of Hell.

However, it had been over a decade since she had taken on a new student.

Why?

Some believed she was the victim of a shattered heart. Before his death, Satomi’s last student, Yifeng Brian Zheng, had been seen with her in Annecy, laughing over hot chocolate and mille-feuille. The dashing young violinist had thanked her from every stage he played; and in a television interview, he claimed it was only after studying with Shizuka Satomi that he understood the true meaning of love.

Perhaps they’d been more than teacher and student?

Others surmised that the reason was more mundane, that she might have simply retired. The Queen of Hell had taught Yifeng Zheng, who had followed Kiana Choi, who had followed Sabrina Eisen. And so on and so on.

Even if she found another, what would be left to accomplish? Whatever the reason, with each passing year, more people assumed that the Queen of Hell had no intention of ever teaching again.

Idiots.

For ten years, Shizuka Satomi had been searching. From Lausanne, Salzburg, Sydney, most recently Tokyo, she had listened, searched prospect after prospect.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Not that they didn’t try. Not that musicians had not traveled to her, offered her everything they had, all they could imagine.

As if all they could imagine could be close to enough.

Others around her, including Tremon Philippe himself, had suggested she was being too selective, perhaps even arbitrary. Surely over the past ten years, she had found musicians who might be appropriate.

Of course she had.

Her previous six students had been an almost uninterrupted string of genius. All had been perfectly appropriate. Yet, with each one, Shizuka became more and more aware that something was wrong. No. Something was missing. As she watched each of them shine and fall, sparkle and burn, Shizuka became more and more obsessed with a music playing just beyond hearing—maddeningly familiar, yet always beyond her grasp.

Until finally, in Tokyo, she heard it.

Through the din of thirteen million people, and vending machines, ramen joints, Internet cafés, electric trains, and cherry blossoms for each of them twice over, she heard it—coming not from within that city, but from far across the sea.

Coming from, of all places, home.

Shizuka swerved past a very slow Lexus, then accelerated onto Huntington Drive.

The San Gabriel Valley resembled an Asian-American Monopoly board. Cambodians, Chinese, Vietnamese, Laotians, Vietnamese-Chinese, a few Koreans, even some Japanese crisscrossed past the working-class neighborhoods of Rosemead, Monterey Park, El Monte, through middle-class Temple City, San Gabriel, and Alhambra, all the way up to Boardwalk and Park Place—San Marino and Arcadia, where Shizuka was arriving now.

She could feel herself breathing faster as she passed the Santa Anita Plaza, a gilded shopping mall where one might procure truffle-filled dumplings, a Hello Kitty latte, and a two-thousand-dollar box of Chinese bird nest.

Quickly, she sped by the Santa Anita racetrack, home to the fashionable 626 Night Market, drawing Asians of all persuasions for a night of stinky tofu, boba, taro macaroons, and international indie film screenings.

Until finally, she arrived at her destination: Xinhua Phoenix Hall.

Xinhua Phoenix Hall was actually the smaller of two buildings designed by the renowned Chinese architect An Wei. Across the courtyard, still shrouded in construction covers, was the site of Xinhua Phoenix Investment Bank’s grand “Golden Friendship Pavilion,” due to open the following year.

Between them was a massive fountain, in the shape of an ever-flowing teapot. Inscribed in its side was a carved and gilded 永 , the character for Eternity.

It had seemed like 永 since Shizuka had so anticipated a performance. She didn’t know exactly how she knew, but she knew. And when Tremon Philippe mentioned the Grohl girl, that was confirmation enough.

By now, she could almost feel it physically pulling her—a timeless music that her other students, for all their genius, had only been able to trace.

Shizuka Satomi took a deep breath. There was no need to hurry. The Queen of Hell did not hurry.

She checked her makeup one last time, then put on her sunglasses. Here would be her last and seventh student.

Here would be her last and seventh soul.

And then, what would be left to accomplish?

Everything.

• • • •

When one hears “violin competition,” one may envision nervous contestants and a stage. But within the foyer and surrounding hallways, a whole other competition is being waged.

Someone mentions a trip to Berlin. Another invokes Juilliard. In the foyer of who-is-who, students don’t have teachers. Rather, they are “studying with somebody,” often identified only by last name, as in “she is studying with Korsakova.”

Regardless of age, whether the competition is international or local, amidst chatter and coffee, in various accents, real and acquired, everyone wants to know:

Who is more important than whom, and why?

“I see that the princess reigns, as usual.”

Landon Fung, of Freiberg Music in Temple City, was talking to Ellen Seidel, a longtime violin teacher, also from Temple City. The princess, also known as Tamiko Giselle Grohl, sat in the corner eating a tiny serving of macaroni potato salad. Amidst all the nervous patter around her, she seemed almost nonchalant as she reviewed her music.

“Did you tell her?”

“Of course. But I told her she’d be watching via webcast.”

“Good. I mean why would Shizuka Satomi come here?” Several people turned at the sound of the name.

“Landon. . . shhh.”

“S-sorry!” Landon Fung nodded nervously.

Of course she was not coming. She couldn’t be.

Ellen tried to downplay her excitement. But still, Shizuka Satomi—the Shizuka Satomi—had sent a letter saying that she would be watching Tamiko Grohl—Ellen Seidel’s student—at this competition.

Ellen Seidel had been teaching for years. She had endured spoiled students, careless students, untalented students, students with nightmare parents.

And then came Tamiko Giselle Grohl.

Yes, the girl was difficult. She threw tantrums, behaved strangely. But she practiced. She obsessed. And, she was a prodigy. To Ellen Seidel, Tamiko was a reward for so much frustration—an affirmation from God.

Ellen glanced at her star student. Tamiko was ready for the next step in her career. She needed to grow; nobody stayed with one teacher. But no matter what, Ellen Seidel would always be her first.

Most people assumed that Tamiko’s next step would be conservatory, like the Kilbourne School, or perhaps Juilliard. Ellen agreed this was logical.

But Shizuka Satomi had nothing to do with logic.

Because Shizuka Satomi’s last student was Yifeng Zheng. And before that, Kiana Choi. And before that? Sabrina Eisen. And so on and so on. These were household names, well, at least in the households of violinists. Each had won medals. Each had been stars.

Were Tamiko to join that pantheon, Ellen’s life as her esteemed former teacher would never be the same. She’d accompany Shizuka and Tamiko to Paris. Frankfurt. A fourteen-stop grand tour of Asia. Meanwhile, back home, a line of brilliant young students would be waiting, each eager for her wisdom, for a promise of greatness.

“I’m studying with Seidel,” they would say.

And all this was possible if Shizuka Satomi, even if merely online, would watch Tami—

And then, without warning, someone gasped.

Long black hair. Blood-red dress. The timeless half smile that a madman might paint. And of course, sunglasses hid her eyes.

Shizuka Satomi. The Queen of Hell. At her approach, the hall fell silent.

Of course it would. Ellen Seidel had heard the stories, but nothing could have prepared her for this. This was more than power, ambition, beauty, or even genius. In the legendary teacher’s presence, such words seemed meaningless—devoured by an unrelenting, inescapable flame.

Yet what was most startling, even terrifying, was her focus. Nothing about Shizuka Satomi seemed random, without purpose.

Everything was measured. Everything was arranged.

Everything was completely and sublimely composed.

And suddenly, Ellen Seidel realized that, as everyone was watching her, the Queen of Hell was watching them. Perfectly polite, perfectly unapproachable, she seemed to measure, question, and disregard them all . . .

Then, she stopped.

Tamiko was standing now, quivering, her eyes wavering for the first time.

“Tamiko,” Ellen silently implored. “Don’t look down. Look at her.”

And then, Shizuka Satomi, the Shizuka Satomi, nodded, took off her sunglasses, and glanced into Tamiko Giselle Grohl’s eyes.

• • • •

So that was the Grohl girl. Pretty. But of course she was.

Tremon said she was supremely gifted. But of course she was.

Shizuka entered the main hall and found a seat in the back. Even there, she felt people watching her, gossiping, no doubt.

Whatever. Appearance, reputation, even training or desire . . . none of that mattered now.

The organizers made the usual announcements. A parent forgot to bring cough drops. The lights dimmed.

Now let’s hear her play.

• • • •

After the preliminaries of any competition, the foyer fills with the chatter of parents, teachers, and musicians. There is triumph, heartbreak, arguing, predictions of who might advance to the final rounds. It can be a spectacle all its own.

Yet, this afternoon, the conversations were dominated by another topic entirely.

Shizuka Satomi was here.

“I think she’s living in Lausanne?”

“Tokyo, last I heard.”

“Wait—how old is she?”

“Here’s my phone; I want you to take a picture . . .”

“Let’s take a picture with her together!”

And then, there she was.

Just as before, silence fell throughout the hall. But this time, it was not from shock. People knew she was here, people were expecting her. Most of them rightly assumed she was searching for her next student, her next star.

Yet, as Shizuka Satomi moved through them, the San Gabriel Valley’s finest found their hearts faltering between notes, their music unraveled and wanting. Those who had thought to speak to the Queen of Hell suddenly felt small and invisible, as if they had nothing significant to say.

Two people, however, approached her.

“Miss Satomi! Thank you for coming to watch the competition. I—I’m Ellen Seidel. And this is Tamiko Giselle Grohl.”

Shizuka glanced at them both. Was that a smile?

“Y-you sent me that note, remember?” Ellen asked, her voice straining with pride, desire, and terror.

“Of course,” Shizuka Satomi finally said. “Your student is the reason that I am here.”

Tamiko Giselle Grohl could not restrain herself any longer. The Queen of Hell was in front of her, right in front of her.

“Kiana Choi studied with you, right?” she blurted.

“Yes. She did.”

“Kiana’s my hero—I want to be just like her!”

For the last time, Shizuka Satomi looked at Tamiko Grohl. The girl had been poised and engaging, technically near flawless.

How appropriate.

The Queen of Hell reached for her sunglasses, then tilted her head in a most exquisite way.

“No. You don’t.”

By the time anyone could react, Shizuka Satomi had floated to the exit and out the door.

• • • •

Astrid was peeling tangerines when the door opened.

“Welcome back, Miss Satomi! I trust it went . . .” Her voice trailed off. One look at Miss Satomi told Astrid everything she needed to know.

“I—I’ll get started on dinner right away.”

Miss Satomi took off her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes.

“Astrid, tonight maybe just some miso soup.”

“Of course, Miss Satomi.” Astrid tried to not seem alarmed. “Why don’t you take a nap?”

“No . . . I’ll be in the backyard.”

“Yes, Miss Satomi.”

Astrid went to the kitchen and heated some water. To that, she added bonito stock, sliced radish, seaweed, Miss Satomi’s favorite white miso, a beaten egg, and finally some sliced fish cake.

Miso soup. Miss Satomi asked for it only when she was ill or exhausted. Of course she would be! She had returned from Tokyo to a hometown she once had left forever, all for the promise of a seventh soul.

Miss Satomi had staked everything on this move, on the Grohl girl. She had been so hopeful, so sure.

• • • •

But if this wasn’t the right student, either?

Soon the kitchen filled with the gentle aroma of the simmering soup. Astrid dropped the heat to low, so it would be ready when Miss Satomi returned.

And then Astrid waited. For now, that was all that she could do.

No, no, no . . .

Shizuka walked outside to her backyard. Automatically, she circled the persimmon tree and avoided an old uneven cobblestone next to the fish pond.

“Tremon.”

In the fishpond, the same koi glided among the water lilies. Beyond that, the same hill dropped away, the same unending vista of homes, cars, and places to drive them.

“Tremon?”

So this Grohl girl wanted to be like Kiana Choi. Really? She would damn herself for that? Why be like someone else? Where was the vision? The genius? As an agent of damnation, Shizuka understood she would be dealing in the tedium of human weakness. But there had to be more.

“Tremon! Where are you?”

“You don’t need to shout, Shizuka. I’m right here.”

Mouth breathing. Dress shoes. A plodding half cadence that she knew far too well.

To some, Tremon Philippe might have appeared stately, cultured. However, Shizuka had always thought of her facilitator as a particularly well-dressed toad.

“What was that? I traveled across an ocean to hear that? You told me she was special!”

Shizuka paused. This was not entirely his fault. She, too, had been wrong. Also, with Tremon, she needed to be cautious. People had named her the Queen of Hell, but Tremon was a demon, a real one.

“I’m sorry, Tremon. That was my frustration talking. It has been a long and disappointing day.”

“Of course, Shizuka. No harm done. But I don’t understand. Shouldn’t we be celebrating? After all, the Grohl girl is brilliant, beautiful, and hungry.”

“I told you, that is not enough this time.”

“Time? Time is exactly what you don’t have.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Shizuka walked to the fish pond. She stared at the koi swimming silently in the dark.

“Why are you making this difficult? It’s simple math. Six plus one equals freedom.”

“And that one is somewhere close. I can still sense it.”

“Where? Down there?” Tremon gestured downhill to the lights of Monterey Park. “Doing what? Nibbling on dumplings? Perhaps roasting a duck? Honestly, my dear, what are you thinking?”

“What if I told you that Hell would receive something special to remember me by?”

“Would you really expect me to believe that you are risking your existence out of an affection for Hell?”

“Of course not. But the seventh will be worth the wait—for all of us.”

“Very well, Shizuka,” Tremon finally said. “For now, I will play along, if only because your past souls have been so well received. But remember—you have been allotted seven times seven years to deliver seven souls. Forty-eight of those years have passed. If you do not free yourself by this time next year, Hell will have no need to remember you, for there you will be—every special day, every special moment, for all eternity.”

With that, Tremon Philippe was gone.

• • • •

Katrina checked her phone. Good, she had signal. Quickly, she sent another text to Evan. She hadn’t worked out the details, but she’d settle in with Evan for a while, find a job, then start making more music videos.

Beyond that? She’d figure it out.

Katrina winced as the bus shifted lanes. She clutched her violin and eventually drifted back to sleep.

When she next awoke, the bus was rumbling off of Rosemead Boulevard and into the parking lot of Shun Fat, a huge Asian wholesale market and restaurant supply complex. Already, people were waiting to pick up relatives.

Katrina tried to wake herself as she got off the bus and waited at the sidewalk for her bag. The two old women studied her and whispered. One pointed at her face.

Katrina touched her face, then looked down at her sleeve. Crap. While asleep, her foundation had rubbed off. Which meant they saw the bruises. Her black eye . . .

These old ladies were strangers; their looks couldn’t hurt her. Their stares and judgments were nothing compared with what she had been through. She told herself that this shouldn’t hurt. It was nothing.

And nothing shouldn’t hurt at all.

3

Lan Tran loved her donut. Her giant concrete and plaster donut.

Once common in LA’s Eisenhower years, just a few of these giant donuts remained in greater Los Angeles. There were Kindle’s Donuts, Dale’s Donuts, and Randy’s Donuts, of course. Donut King II was in Gardena. In La Puente, there was the drive-through Donut Hole.

And here, above El Monte, rose Starrgate Donut. Lan’s donut meant a future. Her donut meant family.

In the night quiet, Starrgate Donut hummed, almost like a starship. Stationed in the front, her twins Windee and Edwin navigated the donut case, stocking it with galaxies of sweet, colorful lemon creams, apple fritters, double chocolates, Boston crèmes, twists. At her back, Shirley and Aunty Floresta maintained operations, while below, Markus was busy planning their next expansion.

“Hello, Captain!” The twins saluted. Lan returned their salute.

“Carry on,” she said with a satisfied smile.

Shirley emerged from the back with a tray of chocolate éclairs. “The replicators are operating within tolerances, Mother.”

“Thank you, Shirley. But create the next batch with thirty percent less residual heat. We won’t have many customers, so they don’t need to be hot, and we can save power that way.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Lan Tran stared out the window. The stars beckoned as they always had.

One did not have to be a rocket scientist to make a donut. But that didn’t mean it didn’t help.

A picture of Mr. and Mrs. Thamavuong still hung on the wall. They had acquired Starrgate in 1979. At the time, it was known as El Monte Donuts. The Thamavuongs sold classic, American-style donuts made with happiness and care. And, in the ‘80s, video games became popular, so the Thamavuongs brought them into their store.

El Monte Donuts became known not only for apple fritters, but for Pac-Man, Asteroids, and Defender. Their most popular game, by far, was Stargate. Dedicated video game players would spend hour after hour, quarter after quarter, rescuing people from an alien invasion that would never, ever cease. Eventually, the Thamavuongs decided to buy, rather than rent, first one, then two, and finally three Stargate machines. Since they kept them in good playing condition, their shop became known informally as Stargate Donuts.

Eventually, Mr. Thamavuong changed the name of El Monte Donuts officially to Starrgate Donut (with the double r to avoid any trademark trouble). Even after the video game craze passed, the name stuck over the years, and up until when the Thamavuongs were ready to retire.

By then, they had realized that they had put so much love into the shop, they had forgotten about having children to take over the business. Developers began to inquire. Some even offered a fair price. But Mrs. Thamavuong would look at their big donut and cry. Their entire lives were in that donut.

Then one night, the Thamavuongs received an email from a woman named Lan Tran. Ms. Tran said that she wanted Starrgate Donut because of their big donut.

The sale was completed almost immediately. There was no bargaining—they named a price, and this woman agreed. Even better, she promised that Starrgate Donut would keep selling donuts and shine like a beacon into the night.

The Thamavuongs spent three weeks with Lan and her family to teach them their basic operations and how to run their equipment. Then they handed their treasured recipe book and keys to Ms. Tran and retired, full of good memories and good American currency, to Laos and their beloved Vientiane.

Once they left, Lan put the recipe book away. Instead of cooking, she had her crew digitally convert and store two dozen of each type of donut the Thamavuongs had made. These reference donuts would then be quickly and virtually perfectly reproduced by the ship’s replicators. The result? Cake donuts would always be colorful and pretty. Yeast donuts would be invariably golden and soft. No surprises, no worries.

Eventually, her crew might learn to make donuts as the Thamavuongs did, but for now, Lan’s duty was to their safety and their mission.

Because donuts were not the sole reason why Lan Tran and her crew were on this planet.

Lan strode past the kitchen and opened what had been the door to the cleaning closet. But instead of mops and buckets, behind it was a new shiny elevator leading down to the recently completed lower level, which now housed the control center, research laboratory, sick bay, and living compound, as well as an underground hangar for their starship.

Here at Starrgate Donut, Lan and her family would safely wait out the fall of the Galactic Empire, continue their work, and live undisturbed, as long as—as Mr. Thamavuong stressed—they gave donuts to the police officers for free.

• • • •

“Captain.” Markus Tran saluted as she entered the research lab.

“Lieutenant. How are the modifications coming?”

“The donut is smaller than ideal—but it is nothing we can’t address. Please note the modifications I’ve made. With your approval, I will begin implementing them immediately.”

Lan looked over the plans and nodded. Her son had become quite the engineer, hadn’t he?

“What about power?”

“As predicted, preparing this complex depleted over sixty-two percent of our power reserves. It will be at least three months before they return to normal levels, but our day-to-day operations should not be affected. However, there is a greater concern.”

“The stargate?”

“Yes, Captain. Even at one hundred percent, our ship’s main reactor would be far from adequate. We need to find an external power source, but this civilization’s energy production falls short by several orders of magnitude.”

This was no surprise. After all, this planet hadn’t yet harnessed fusion, let alone point singularities or antimatter.

“I’ve been working on a solution to that,” Lan said. “For now, continue fabrication and low-power tests. You may also divert ten percent of the ship’s power when we are not running the replicator.”

“Understood, ma’am.”

“That will be all.”

“See! He called her mom!”

“No, he said ma’am.”

“He said mom!”

The twins rushed toward her as the elevator closed behind them. “Edwin! Windee! Didn’t I tell you not to run in the halls? Your brother is tuning the warp field. And why aren’t you at your posts?”

“Sorry!” they said in unison.

“So, you two, what is all this about?”

“We wanted to know—” Edwin started.

“That now that we’re off ship, should we call you Mom or Captain? I wanna call you Captain,” said Windee, saluting.

Lan saluted back. She tried not to smile.

“Very well, Ensign Windee.”

“But sometimes can I call you Mom?” Edwin said. He grabbed her waist and held on tight.

“Oh, Edwin. . . Settling on one name will be difficult, won’t it? What matters is that we’re together, and safe. And that means no more running through the halls. We don’t want anyone to get hurt, right?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Aye-aye, Captain!”

“Good. Now, back up to the store, you two. Don’t you have jobs to do?”

Lan watched them running back to their posts. She shook her head and smiled. Family. She would cross a universe for her family.

In fact, she already had.

Copyright © 2021 by Ryka Aoki. Excerpted from Light from Uncommon Stars by Ryka Aoki. Published by permission of Ryka Aoki and Tor Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ryka Aoki is a poet, composer, teacher, and novelist whose books include He Mele a Hilo and two Lambda Award finalists, Seasonal Velocities and Why Dust Shall Never Settle Upon This Soul. Ryka’s work has appeared or been recognized in publications including Vogue, Elle, Bustle, Autostraddle, PopSugar, and Buzzfeed. Her poetry was featured at the Smithsonian Asian Pacific American Center, and she was honored by the California State Senate for “extraordinary commitment to the visibility and well-being of Transgender people.”

Book Review: Destroyer of Light by Jenn Marie Brissett

LaShawn M. Wanak | 513 words

Destroyer of Light
Jenn Marie Brissett
Hardcover / Ebook
ISBN: 9781250268655
Tor Books, October 2021, 304 pages

I’ve written book reviews for Lightspeed Magazine since 2017, and with a sad heart, I announce that this will be my last column. I’ve enjoyed my time sharing wonderful books here, and I’m glad to end my time with a doozy of a book, Destroyer of Light by Jenn Marie Brissett. This is a retelling of the Persephone story, but do be warned that it contains abduction and rape.

The story is told through several characters. Cora, a teenage girl with unusually colored eyes, who is kidnapped along with children from her village to be forced into an army. Deidre, Cora’s mother who unsuccessfully tries to get the government to get Cora and the children back. Okoni, a man possessed by fourteen spirits who is attempting to build an army to fight against the krestge, an alien race who nearly wiped out humans. Jown and Pietyr, a pair of unusual twins who are commissioned to find another kidnapped child. And finally, the Lattice, a personified cloud network which only Cora and other people like her can access.

The story skips between Cora in the past, trying to keep her sanity as horrible things are done to herself and her friends, and Cora in the present, a young woman now sent by Okoni to perform a horrific mission. Her story is a very hard read as it deals with the realities of child soldiers, along with Cora being taken by Okoni as his “wife” after he recognizes her strange abilities to access the Lattice. Her story in the present runs parallel to the twins as they conduct their search for the kidnapped child who happens to have the same abilities as Cora. In fact, their stories intersect with Cora’s far more than they know.

We think of heroes as people outside of ourselves who swoop in as saviors, when in reality heroes are powerless people who have gone through so much horror, yet are able to prevent someone else from experiencing the same trauma. Cora goes through so many horrible things that at times, I forgot that this was a retelling of the Persephone story. There are some bits of respite. The scenes with the twins reminded me a little of the detective agency YA novel The Eye, the Ear, and the Arm. We see Cora’s mother never give up her desire to find her daughter, and we get to see Cora wrestle with her programming as she interacts with the krestge.

Like E. Lily Yu’s On Fragile Waves, Destroyer of Light is a hard but necessary read. One that doesn’t promise a happy ending, but it does promise a hopeful one, even if it is bittersweet.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

LaShawn M. Wanak has been writing speculative fiction stories professionally since 2006. Her works have appeared in The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2018, Fireside Magazine, FIYAH, and many others. She is the editor of GigaNotoSaurus and reviews books for Lightspeed Magazine. Writing stories keeps her sane. Also, pie. Visit her blog at tbonecafe.wordpress.com.

Book Review: The Year’s Best African Speculative Fiction (2021), edited by Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki

Arley Sorg | 1297 words

The Year’s Best African Speculative Fiction (2021)
Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki, ed.
Ebook
ASIN: B09CNGLKVV
Jembefola Press, September 2021, 358 pgs

The fact that notable author and editor Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki has published the first ever The Year’s Best African Speculative Fiction via Jembefola Press, a press he created, speaks to the glaring problems in the publishing industry. His anthology Dominion, co-edited with Zelda Knight and published by Knight’s small press Aurelia Leo—funded through Kickstarter by enthusiastic peers and readers—was a finalist for a This Is Horror Award, a British Fantasy Award, and a Locus Award; stories from Dominion were on finalist lists for the Nommo Awards, the Sturgeon Award, the British Science Fiction Awards, and the Nebula Awards; and four Dominion stories appeared on the 2020 Locus Recommended Reading list. Just imagine where Dominion could have gone with money from a big publishing house and a marketing team. These accolades are tremendous testament not only to Knight’s and Ekpeki’s taste, but to their willingness to put in the (tedious and often unrewarding) work behind the scenes.

In a better world, it would have been easy for Ekpeki to land a solid book deal for this Year’s Best, and agents would be DMing him on Twitter, asking him what he might want to work on, what kinds of ideas excite him.

This isn’t to say that Ekpeki tried to get a book deal and failed—I have no idea, and can’t speak to that. I do know that if I were putting together an equivalent book of some kind, I’d be skeptical about the usefulness of expending energy in a possibly futile effort to sell a book to an industry which still demonstrates a lack of interest in meaningful inclusivity. I also know that as heartbreaking as publishing can be for pretty much most people who take their shot, it tends to be even more heartbreaking for Black creators: their voices are regularly shot down, watered down, or misunderstood; they tend to be paid less than white counterparts; and publicity teams often leave them in the cold, focusing instead on white authors.

Friends, just . . . go online (bit.ly/38D6wXm) and look at the table of contents for The Year’s Best African Speculative Fiction! If you love short fiction and don’t recognize at least half the authors listed here (and feel an accompanying sense of excitement in seeing them all in one place!) then this is a sign that you aren’t reading broadly enough. Good news: here’s an anthology which can help; Ekpeki has curated an excellent set of pieces for you. If you don’t know who these folks are? Don’t panic. Get this book and start reading. Ekpeki will set you right.

There are too many good stories to cover in the space of this column, but I’ll touch on a few favorites.

Somto O. Ihezue’s “Where You Go” opens the anthology. Originally published in Omenana, it’s a complex story with several overlapping parts and themes—including variations on family and the idea of one’s people, all of which speaks to the meaning of belonging. On one level, it’s a cool mix of great speculative elements, with bursts of striking imagery. More important is the underlying narrative of resilience and the subtler discussion of how entire groups of people can be brought to extinction while no one notices. Finally, it’s a tale of loss, and of a woman who would stand up to an ancient god.

Russell Nichols’s “Giant Steps,” originally published in Lightspeed, is, simply put, superb. Dr. Jenkins is on a trip to Saturn’s largest moon, Titan. Jenkins is making history, and at the same time, she is flying toward the culmination of a life of dreaming and planning. Threaded through this narrative are memories of important events which brought Jenkins to this moment, each memory resonant with the moments of the voyage of the main narrative. Through memories, the story explores disillusionment, as well as the need for belonging pushing against a drive for independence; this plus the effects of Othering, and the pressures, external and internal, arising from ideas around gender and race. The prose is sometimes rhythmic and fairly poetic, the power of the language used throughout the story multiplying the effect of the narrative itself. This piece is nothing less than mastery.

Makena Onjerika’s “Disassembly,” originally published in Fireside, from first arresting line to final moment, is a beautiful exercise in the abstract rendered literal, executed to wonderful effect. The writing is gorgeous. The moods and moments are exquisite. As each passage startles, it also clarifies, and pulls the reader into an inner turmoil which, in the hands of lesser writers, would likely (and, let’s face it, often does) descend to maudlin self-indulgence. It’s a breathtaking meditation on depression, cleverly crafted into a brief journey, and it’s absolutely brilliant.

“The Front Line” by WC Dunlap was originally published in Breathe Fiyah, “a flash fiction collaboration between Fiyah Magazine and Tor.com.” The style is frank and flows well. But more than this, Dunlap demonstrates how much can be accomplished in the span of a thousand words. A slick narrative about a woman with her own problems using a power she didn’t ask for is limned with commentary on class, gender, race, body, and more, while still landing a great primary narrative. Dunlap does nothing less than raise the bar for flash fiction.

Finally, what for me is the most powerful story of 2020, period: “And This Is How to Stay Alive” by Shingai Njeri Kagunda. The story sounds simple: Baraka commits suicide. His sister Kabi is presented with something which may be a chance to change what happened. Kagunda, however, infuses into the story layers of elegant subtext and commentary, and steeps everything in perfect emotional depth. Kagunda takes it a step further, adding a note of intellectual curiosity, interrogating concepts of time, while also occasionally delivering really great lines. The family complications are wonderful; and even Baraka, a character who is only minimally present, is skillfully rendered as a lovely character, making the event of his death even more potent. Honestly, there’s so much to this complex story that it can’t be adequately discussed in this space.

Full disclosure: “And This Is How to Stay Alive” was originally published in the November issue of Fantasy Magazine, which is run by Christie Yant and yours truly. I was bawling through the initial read in slush, bawling through reading it again for our editorial decision session, and bawling yet again, even after reading it a handful of times, when going through the text for edits. I can’t think of a single story which has had that kind of impact on me; and being brought to actual tears at all (let alone full blown ugly crying) is not that common.

If these aren’t “your stories,” you are bound to be wonderstruck by the combined powers of Tobi Ogundirun, Tlotlo Tsamaase, Craig Laurance Gidney, Sheree Renée Thomas, T.L. Huchu, Tobias S. Buckell, ’Pemi Aguda, and the many other skilled storytellers in this book. This is an absolute “Must Have” for anyone who enjoys short fiction.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Arley Sorg is co-Editor-in-Chief of Fantasy Magazine, senior editor at Locus Magazine, and associate editor at both Lightspeed and Nightmare. He reviews books for Locus, Lightspeed, and Cascadia Subduction Zone and is an interviewer for Clarkesworld Magazine. Arley grew up in England, Hawaii, and Colorado, and studied Asian Religions at Pitzer College. He lives in Oakland, and, in non-pandemic times, usually writes in local coffee shops. He is a 2014 Odyssey Writing Workshop graduate.

Book Review: How High We Go in The Dark, by Sequoia Nagamatsu

Chris Kluwe | 916 words

How High We Go in The Dark
Sequoia Nagamatsu
Hardcover / eBook / Audiobook
ISBN: 9780063072640
HarperCollins, January 2022, 304 pages

Hello everyone, hope your summer vacation was excellent, and welcome back to another book review. This month’s offering is How High We Go in The Dark, by Sequoia Nagamatsu, which is a collection of short story vignettes woven into a broader dynamic whole—a tapestry of lives covering decades and centuries, their threads converging and separating along the way.

Before I get into the structure of the story, I have to offer fair warning—How High We Go in The Dark is an emotionally heavy read. Nearly every chapter deals with loss or trauma of some sort, and while handled quite skillfully in Nagamatsu’s capable prose, there is a definite undercurrent of pain wending its way through the book. Fortunately, there is an even broader current of hope and optimism overlaying that pain, so just be aware that this book might kick you in the feels more than once as you make your way through it.

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s talk about what’s actually going on in the book!

The novel’s first story takes place on a very recognizable Earth, one set in the not-too-distant future, and sets the stage for the subsequent, loosely related chapters. The world is warming, the weather is changing, and things frozen for thousands of years are starting to re-emerge into the light, including a virus that drastically alters how humanity interacts with itself and the world.

(In fairness to Nagamatsu, he’s been working on the book for over ten years, so it’s not specifically a current-event Covid pandemic story, and actually underscores how much thought went into the setting, as scientists have been warning of the increased possibility for pandemics in a warming climate for decades—particularly those from the Siberian and Antarctic permafrost layers.)

The chapter ends, as most do, with intermingled notes of pain, regret, optimism, and a sense of the impermanence of life, but one that understands life is made up of how we connect to those around us. This is a common theme throughout the book, the sense that we all die in the end but it’s the manner in which you get there that matters as well as who you touched along the way, which Nagamatsu does an expert job of illustrating without becoming repetitive.

In terms of the overall story, while reading How High We Go in The Dark, I felt like I was getting snapshots into the most important days of a person’s life, inflection points where vital connections were lost or made, a feeling reinforced by Nagamatsu’s choice to use first person perspective in each entry. It’s slightly disorienting at first, due to how loosely bound the individual chapters are, but it quickly becomes second nature to start a new chapter and jump into that person’s mind (in a slightly meta twist, one of the chapters actually features a version of this happening to the characters involved, along with a wonderfully optimistic culmination of community).

One of the things I really enjoyed about How High We Go in The Dark was the constant evolution of the world throughout the chapters, as generations who weren’t even alive when the choices were made that would shape their future have to find their way as best they can in an increasingly hostile planet. It’s very clear that Nagamatsu put plenty of time and study into the effects of climate change and how humans might adapt to the new world it will create, and then extrapolated from there. But what really got me was how he expressed this evolution—it’s always as a backdrop to the story, a natural part of the world that the characters live in, accepted because they are not titans of industry or political masters, but simply people trying to survive and grab some happiness amidst the sorrow.

Overall, if I can leave you with anything, it’s that this is a book that is innately, essentially human in a way few writers manage to capture. It is the humanity of a father trying to understand his daughter, of a brother trying to understand his mother, of families cracked and barely held together wondering if they’ll shatter, and strangers grasping blindly towards each other for the faintest thread of connection. It is the sense of straining and yearning in their struggles to relate to each other and overcome the pain the world so easily inflicts that is equal parts heartbreaking and heartwarming; the tiny, constant battles waged millions of times every day across our planet in countless different ways as we seek to understand another person’s point of view. Above all, it is a book that understands the importance of saying the things you wish said and doing the things you wish done before that other point of view disappears, because once it does, it never comes back.

Read if: You’re interested in flawed people; you appreciate a good Babe reference; you’ve ever felt that despite your best efforts your parents still weren’t satisfied.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Kluwe grew up in Southern California among a colony of wild chinchillas and didn’t learn how to communicate outside of barking and howling until he was fourteen years old. He has played football in the NFL, once wrestled a bear for a pot of gold, and lies occasionally. He is also the eternal disappointment of his mother, who just can’t understand why he hasn’t cured cancer yet. Do you know why these bio things are in third person? I have no idea. Please tell me if you figure it out.

Author Spotlight: Gene Doucette

Laurel Amberdine | 893 words

I don’t know how you managed to make a story including corporate greed and regulations, a zombie-like apocalypse, an alien invasion, and the end of the world fun, but you sure did and I enjoyed it! How did this story come together?

I’ve been reading corporate memos my entire adult life (I think most of us have) but it wasn’t until Covid that those memos started to come off as slightly dark, if only for the things that it was assumed we already knew. Like, if you took a random corporate memo from during the pandemic back in time and showed it to someone from, say, 2010, they’d have a lot of questions. (Also, and this is definitely related, more often than not I find corporate memos inadvertently hilarious.)

So I thought it would be a fun challenge to try to tell the story of the end of the world in the writing style of the interoffice memo, where the real story of what was happening only existed in the margins. I did this over a long stretch (for me) where I’d write one piece and then rewrite it five or six times before moving on to the next one, for about six weeks until I was happy with what I had.

You have an interesting career as a hybrid author. Do you have any advice for writers looking to imitate your strategy? And how does short fiction fit into the mix?

Let’s start by saying I’ve been extremely fortunate, and good fortune is difficult to imitate.

My advice would be to know ahead of time what stories you want to self-publish and what stories you want to bring to a publisher and plan accordingly. Right now, I’m self-publishing series books because it’s easier to self-promote a series and it’s harder to sell a series to a publisher. What I am selling to publishers is standalone novels, because those work precisely the opposite: it’s much more difficult to self-promote a standalone and much easier to sell one.

But this is definitely an easier-said-than-done situation. I write fast, I have plenty of ideas for both series books and standalones and know how to write both well, and I have a publisher who’s interested in working with me. (What I do not have, as of this writing, is a literary agent. I mention this only because getting an agent would be something I’d probably recommend to a newer writer attempting this same balancing act.)

A different skillset would necessarily mandate a different approach.

As for the short fiction, it wouldn’t say it fits into the overall strategy. I’ll write a short piece when an idea strikes, either as a dare—“I don’t honestly know if I can pull this off”—or just for fun, but I don’t really schedule them, not in the way I schedule the writing of my novels or the occasional screenplay. They just sort of happen. Having said that, I’ve been surprised by how well-received the short pieces have been.

What writers have influenced you? Who are you enjoying reading nowadays?

The list of influences is so long I don’t even know how to answer. I’d like to say it’s pretty eclectic, but I’m afraid when I say that it will end up being the same as when guys say “I have pretty eclectic musical tastes” and then it turns out what they mean is, they listen to identical-sounding alt-rock standards from twenty-five years ago.

Anyway. Right off the top of my head: Alan Moore, Douglas Adams, Stephen King, Piers Anthony, Christopher Moore, Neil Gaiman, Donna Tartt, Neal Stephenson. Ask me again a month from now and I’ll probably have a completely different list.

As for what I’m reading nowadays, I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m not reading anything other than what I’m working on. It’s been an uncommonly busy summer full of deadlines.

Can you tell us what stories you have out recently, and what you’re working on now?

The third book in my Tandemstar series is due out at the end of October, and I’m pretty excited for that. It’s called The Ocean in the Sky and it’s what I was working on for most of the first half of 2021. This book should answer a lot of the questions posed in the first two books, raise a few new ones, and cue up the storyline that’s going to carry through the back half of a planned six-book storyline. Right now, I’m in the middle of writing a new standalone novel about which I’m equally excited. The working title is Magisteria and I can’t say much except it’s going to be complicated. I’m also juggling a serial story on Amazon Vella and work on a screenplay project with some friends out in L.A. Finally, I do have a new short story idea I’m thinking of diving into sometime soon. It’s a horror story, of all things. We’ll see how that goes.

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Laurel Amberdine was raised by cats in the suburbs of Chicago. She’s good at naps, begging for food, and turning ordinary objects into toys. She currently lives in San Francisco where she works for Locus Magazine. Find her on Twitter at @amberdine.

Author Spotlight: P H Lee

Laurel Amberdine | 768 words

It’s wonderful to see another Tales of the Great Sweet Sea story. Is this one where you remember its origins? I’m particularly curious about what influences you drew upon.

I had been thinking about mermaid stories for a while, because mermaids are having a real cultural moment right now and I wanted to write something about them. I hit on the idea of doing a “reverse selkie” story: about a human woman who removes her skin to become a fish. But I didn’t have a plot for it. Then I had a dream about salmon, and when I woke up I realized that, for a salmon, a human marriage would be a magical fairy story.

From there a lot of bits fell together. “The Selkie Girl” and “The Fisherman and His Wife” are the core stories (I love “The Fisherman And His Wife” and had been working on a different version of it at the time), but there’s also a fair amount of “Cinderella” and a little bit of “Bluebeard” (which is thematically a related story to “The Selkie Girl,” from a different perspective.) The three daughters of decreasing beauty and eligibility is an old fairy tale trope, but I’m not 100% sure where it comes from. And the ending draws a little bit on the phenomenon of carcinization in crustacean biology.

Ironically I had just said to a friend: “I’m never going to redo “Cinderella,” because it’s already perfect.” To my mind, no story does a better job of showing an abusive childhood without containing anything that might anger an abusive parent. One of the nice things about working in fairy tales, though, is you can just steal the parts you like.

The included poem-spells were lovely. How did you come to get Rachel Swirsky’s help on those?

When I started writing this story and it was based on “The Fisherman and His Wife” I knew that I needed to have the rhyme work, because the rhyme is such an important part of the original. Since I’m absolutely terrible at writing rhymed poetry, and Rachel was in the room with me at the time, I asked “Rachel, would you please write some rhymed poems for this story? They’re short.” She said yes.

On rereading, I feel like there are probably some subtle connections and references I’m missing. Are there any details you want to make sure readers caught?

Although they are set in completely different times and come from somewhat removed cultures, thematically, this story is a mirror of “Frost’s Boy.” “Frost’s Boy” is about how traditional family structures can (sometimes, maybe) save you from your evil husband. “The Ash Girl and the Salmon Prince” is about how a good marriage can (sometimes, maybe) save you from your evil family.

I have always wanted to do a fairy tale where there’s a secret room that the protagonist isn’t allowed to enter, and she doesn’t, because she respects boundaries. While I was writing, I wasn’t sure whether she was going to do it or not (and she almost does, right at the end). I’m glad it worked out.

What is your favorite part of the story?

My favorite part is when she pools her tears into a brine and summons her husband. Specifically, when the poem shifts from “Oh man of the sea” to “my man of the sea.” I tear up.

What are you working on lately? Where else should readers look for your work?

I’ve been working on a novel which I can’t talk about. I also have a number of short stories forthcoming as well, including another in the Great Sweet Sea series (“The Honest Fox, or, A Truth Shared is Not a Truth Lost”, in Lightspeed of course), my first publication in one of the “Big 3” print magazines (“An Ill-Fated Girl Meets an Ill-Fated Man,” in F&SF), and my first story in an anthology (“This Story is Called ‘The Transformation of Things’” in Xenocultivars.) I was also just a guest on the Wizards vs. Lesbians podcast, discussing Rosemary Kirstein’s Steerswoman books, which are very good and you should read them.

If you want a complete list of stories I’ve published and links, I now have an author site: p-h-lee.com. Exciting!

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Laurel Amberdine was raised by cats in the suburbs of Chicago. She’s good at naps, begging for food, and turning ordinary objects into toys. She currently lives in San Francisco where she works for Locus Magazine. Find her on Twitter at @amberdine.

Author Spotlight: Yang-Yang Wang

Laurel Amberdine | 386 words

Can you tell us what inspired you to write “Every Single Brian”?

It was the first week of Clarion West (shout out class of 2014). Kij Johnson was going to be our instructor and I’d read her amazing story “Mantis Wives.” I started playing around with the ideas that people believe they know everything about their partners and that they wouldn’t change a thing about them. If such an idealist were confronted with multiple variations of their partner, with one of them being the original, would they be able to find the exact one? Would they be tempted to pick one with more desirable traits than the original? I’d hoped to impress Kij, which I’m not sure I did, but she was super awesome! I also want to mention my dad—you inspire me everyday, sir.

Were there any surprises between initial conception and the story’s final form?

I came up with more Brian variants than were numbered in the story. I killed way more than Dr. Bellman did! It was too much fun (and morbidly enlightening) to research beauty standards from around the world. The original ending was more of a puzzle for the reader, but I opted to change it into an interrogation of the main character’s narrative.

How did you get into writing genre fiction?

I grew up reading as much genre fiction as I could get my hands on. At some point in my adult life I took a writing class from Nick Mamatas. He encouraged me to apply to Clarion West (which I was rejected from before being accepted). The rest is history.

What are you keeping busy with lately? Where else can readers and fans find your work?

I’m currently working on a choose your own adventure for Choice of Games where the player runs a magical creature sanctuary. I’m also doing creative text for Magic: The Gathering, and I’m part of a Dungeons & Dragons Twitch channel called Dungeon Scrawlers. While I generally avoid social media, it’s not due to shyness. Please connect with me on Twitter @twooftheyangs if you want to share thoughts about my story! Thank you for reading!

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER

Laurel Amberdine was raised by cats in the suburbs of Chicago. She’s good at naps, begging for food, and turning ordinary objects into toys. She currently lives in San Francisco where she works for Locus Magazine. Find her on Twitter at @amberdine.

Coming Attractions

The Editors | 234 words

Coming up in November, in Lightspeed . . .

We have original science fiction by Elly Bangs (“Space Pirate Queen of the Ten Billion Utopias”) and Timi Odueso (“Cloudgazer”). We also have a flash piece (“Stowaways”) from Andrew Dana Hudson, along with an SF reprint by Charlie Jane Anders (“The Turnaround”).

Plus, we have original fantasy by Stephen Graham Jones (“I Was a Teenage Space Jockey”) and Adam-Troy Castro (“Ten Scenes from a Typical Day in the Home of the Despot”). We also have a flash piece (“To Reach the Gate, She Must Leave Everything Behind”) from Izzy Wasserstein. Our fantasy reprint is by Lisa M. Bradley (“Men in Cars”).

All that, and of course we also have our usual assortment of author spotlights, along with book reviews from our terrific review team. Our ebook readers will also enjoy a book excerpt.

It’s another great issue, so be sure to check it out.

• • • •

Looking ahead beyond next month, we’ve got a veritable plethora of stories forthcoming. We’ve got work from the following authors coming up over the next couple of issues: Donyae Coles, Shiv Ramdas, Aimee Ogden, Jenny Rae Rappaport, and Lincoln Michel.

So be sure to keep an eye out for all that short fiction goodness in the months to come. And while you’re at it, tell a friend about Lightspeed.

Thanks for reading!

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The Editors

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Subscriptions: If you enjoy reading Lightspeed, please consider subscribing. It’s a great way to support the magazine, and you’ll get your issues in the convenient ebook format of your choice. All purchases from the Lightspeed store are provided in epub, mobi, and pdf format. A 12-month subscription to Lightspeed includes more than 100 stories (about 700,000 words of fiction, plus assorted nonfiction). The cost is just $35.88 ($12 off the cover price)—what a bargain!

Visit lightspeedmagazine.com/subscribe for more information, including about third-party subscription options.

Ebooks & Bundles: We also have individual ebook issues available at a variety of ebook vendors ($3.99 each), and we now have Ebook Bundles available in the Lightspeed ebookstore, where you can buy in bulk and save! We currently have a number of ebook bundles available: Year One (issues 1-12), Year Two (issues 13-24), Year Three (issues 25-36), the Mega Bundle (issues 1-36), and the Supermassive Bundle (issues 1-48). Buying a bundle gets you a copy of every issue published during the named period. So if you need to catch up on Lightspeed, that’s a great way to do so.

Visit lightspeedmagazine.com/store for more information.

• • • •

All caught up on Lightspeed? Good news! We also have lots of ebooks available from our sister-publications:

Nightmare Ebooks, Bundles, & Subscriptions: Like Lightspeed, our sister-magazine Nightmare (nightmare-magazine.com) also has ebooks, bundles, and subscriptions available as well. For instance, you can get the complete first year (12 issues) of Nightmare for just $24.99; that’s savings of $11 off buying the issues individually. Or, if you’d like to subscribe, a 12-month subscription to Nightmare includes 48 stories (about 240,000 words of fiction, plus assorted nonfiction), and will cost you just $23.88 ($12 off the cover price).

Fantasy Magazine Ebooks & Bundles: We also have ebook back issues—and ebook back issue bundles—of Lightspeed’s (recently revived, other) sister-magazine, Fantasy. To check those out, just visit fantasy-magazine.com/store. You can buy each Fantasy bundle for $24.99, or you can buy the complete run of Fantasy Magazine— all 57 issues—for just $114.99 (that’s $10 off buying all the bundles individually, and more than $55 off the cover price!).

Support Us on Patreon, or How to Become a Dragonrider or Space Wizard

The Editors

We already offer ebook subscriptions as a way of supporting the magazines, but we wanted to add an additional option to allow folks to support us, thus we’ve launched a Patreon (patreon.com/JohnJosephAdams).

TL;DR Version

If you enjoy Fantasy, Nightmare, and/or Lightspeed, our Patreon page is a way for you to help support those endeavors by chipping in a buck or more on a recurring basis. Your support will help us bring bigger and better (and more) projects into the world.

Why Patreon?

There are no big companies supporting or funding our magazines, so they really rely on reader support. Though we offer the magazines online for free, we’re able to fund them by selling ebook subscriptions or website advertising.

While we have a dedicated ebook subscriber base, the vast majority of our readers consume the magazine online for free. If just 10% of our website readers pledged just $1 a month, the magazines would be doing fantastically well. So we thought it might be useful to have an option like Patreon for readers who maybe haven’t considered supporting the magazine, or who maybe haven’t because they don’t have any desire to receive the ebook editions—or who would be glad to pay $1 a month, but not $3 (the cost of a monthly subscriber issue of Lightspeed).

Though Fantasy, Nightmare, and Lightspeed are separate entities, we decided to create a single “publisher” Patreon account because it seemed like it would be more efficient to manage just one account.

Basically, we wanted to create a crowdfunding page where, if you enjoy the work Adamant Press puts out, and you want to contribute a little something to help make it easier for us to produce more cool projects, then our Patreon is the place to do that.

What Do I Get Out of Being a Patron?

Well, you get the satisfaction of helping to usher the creation of cool new short fiction projects into the world! Plus, the more support we get, the better we can make the magazines and compensate our authors and staff. By becoming a supporter via Patreon, you help fund our growth and continued publication of three award-winning magazines. Of course, if you’re already one of our ebook subscribers (thank you!), you are already supporting us. This is for those who prefer to read the issues each month on our free websites, or wish to support our efforts more generally.

By becoming a supporter, you are also bestowed a title, such as Dragonrider, or Space Wizard, or Savior of the World and/or Universe, thus making you instantly the envy of all your friends.

Thank You!

If you’ve read this far, thanks so much. We hope you’ll consider becoming a backer on Patreon. That URL again is patreon.com/JohnJosephAdams.

Thanks in advance for your time. We look forward to hopefully being able to make the magazines—and our other publishing endeavors—even better with the support of people like you.

About the Lightspeed Team

The Editors

Publisher/Editor-in-Chief

John Joseph Adams

Managing/Senior Editor

Wendy N. Wagner

Associate Editor & Book Reviewer

Arley Sorg

Podcast Producer

Stefan Rudnicki

Podcast Editor/Host

Jim Freund

Art Director

John Joseph Adams

Assistant Editor

Laurel Amberdine

Editorial Interns

Mayookh Barua

Madison Brake

Reviewers

Arley Sorg

LaShawn Wanak

Chris Kluwe

Copy Editor

Luke Tolvaj

Proofreaders

Anthony R. Cardno

Devin Marcus

Webmaster

Jeremiah Tolbert of Clockpunk Studios

Associate Publisher/Director of Special Projects

Christie Yant

Assistant Publisher

Robert Barton Bland

Reprint Editor (Emeritus)

Rich Horton

Also Edited by John Joseph Adams

The Editors

If you enjoy reading our Adamant Press magazines, you might also enjoy these works edited by our publisher John Joseph Adams:

ANTHOLOGIES

THE APOCALYPSE TRIPTYCH, Vol. 1: The End is Nigh (with Hugh Howey)

THE APOCALYPSE TRIPTYCH, Vol. 2: The End is Now (with Hugh Howey)

THE APOCALYPSE TRIPTYCH, Vol. 3: The End Has Come (with Hugh Howey)

Armored

Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2015 (with Joe Hill)

Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2016 (with Karen Joy Fowler)

Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2017 (with Charles Yu)

Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2018 (with N.K. Jemisin)

Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2019 (with Carmen Maria Machado)

Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2020 (with Diana Gabaldon)

Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2021 (with Veronica Roth)

Brave New Worlds

By Blood We Live

Cosmic Powers

Dead Man’s Hand

THE DYSTOPIA TRIPTYCH, Vol. 1: Ignorance is Strength (with Hugh Howey and Christie Yant)

THE DYSTOPIA TRIPTYCH, Vol. 2: Burn the Ashes (with Hugh Howey and Christie Yant)

THE DYSTOPIA TRIPTYCH, Vol. 3: Or Else the Light (with Hugh Howey and Christie Yant)

Epic: Legends of Fantasy

Federations

The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

HELP FUND MY ROBOT ARMY!!! and Other Improbable Crowdfunding Projects

Lightspeed: Year One

The Living Dead

The Living Dead 2

Loosed Upon the World

Lost Worlds and Mythological Kingdoms [Forthcoming]

The Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination

Operation Arcana

Other Worlds Than These

Oz Reimagined (with Douglas Cohen)

A People’s Future of the United States (with Victor LaValle)

Press Start to Play (with Daniel H. Wilson)

Robot Uprisings (with Daniel H. Wilson)

Seeds of Change

Under the Moons of Mars

Wastelands

Wastelands 2

Wastelands: The New Apocalypse

The Way of the Wizard

What the #@&% is That? (with Douglas Cohen)

NOVELS and COLLECTIONS

Beacon 23 by Hugh Howey

Wool by Hugh Howey

Shift by Hugh Howey

Dust by Hugh Howey

The Silo Saga Omnibus by Hugh Howey

Bannerless by Carrie Vaughn

Sand by Hugh Howey

Retrograde by Peter Cawdron

Machine Learning: New and Collected Stories by Hugh Howey

Creatures of Will and Temper by Molly Tanzer

The City of Lost Fortunes by Bryan Camp

The Robots of Gotham by Todd McAulty

The Wild Dead by Carrie Vaughn

The Spaceship Next Door by Gene Doucette

In the Night Wood by Dale Bailey

Creatures of Want and Ruin by Molly Tanzer

Break the Bodies, Haunt the Bones by Micah Dean Hicks

The Chaos Function by Jack Skillingstead

Upon a Burning Throne by Ashok K. Banker

Gather the Fortunes by Bryan L. Camp

Reentry by Peter Cawdron

Half Way Home by Hugh Howey

Chosen Ones by Veronica Roth

Creatures of Charm and Hunger by Molly Tanzer

The Unfinished Land by Greg Bear

The Conductors by Nicole Glover

A Dark Queen Rises by Ashok K. Banker

The Apocalypse Seven by Gene Doucette

Questland by Carrie Vaughn

The Undertakers by Nicole Glover [forthcoming]

Visit johnjosephadams.com to learn more about all of the above.