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****** ***** The Online Magazine ***********
****** ***** of Amateur Creative Writing ************
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======================================================================
November 1989 Circulation: 431 Volume I, Issue 3
======================================================================
Contents
Etc... .................................................. Jim McCabe
Editorial
Final Memories .................................. Keith C. Vaglienti
-------------- Fiction
Hampton Cafe ........................................... Garry Frank
------------ Fiction
Winds ............................................ Daniel Appelquist
----- Fiction
Fundamentally Switzerland ....................... Barbara Weitbrecht
------------------------- Fiction
******************************************************************
* *
* ATHENE, Copyright 1989 By Jim McCabe *
* This magazine may be archived and reproduced without charge *
* under the condition that it is left in its entirety. *
* The individual works within are the sole property of their *
* respective authors, and no further use of these works is *
* permitted without their explicit consent. *
* Athene is published quasi-monthly *
* by Jim McCabe, MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET. *
* This ASCII edition was created on an IBM 4381 mainframe *
* using the Xedit System Product Editor. *
* *
******************************************************************
Etc...
Jim McCabe
MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET
======================================================================
First, I want to thank everyone for waiting the extra week for
this month's issue of Athene. I normally try to get the magazine out
during the first weekend of the month, but school and work forced me
to delay it by a week this time. I'm confidant that December's issue
will be on time, even though it is only a couple weeks away.
Since the last issue, I polled the readers of the plain text
edition of Athene for their opinion of the magazine's appearance.
From that response, that version of Athene will no longer have
justified paragraphs. It makes it easier to read on a display
terminal, and it also makes it easier on those people who reformat
Athene for their own printers. Thanks to everyone who responded!
Getting feedback from the readers is a great experience, and I
encourage you to contact me if you have coments relating to any aspect
of Athene. I'd like to make this magazine as responsive to *your*
needs as possible. In fact, I'm looking for a new logo, and I am open
to suggestions from the readers.
Here we are in issue three, and yet two of this month's stories
were submitted back before issue one! In fact, "Final Memories" and
"Fundamentally Switzerland" were the first two stories Athene ever
received. I want to thank Keith and Barbara for their great stories
and patience.
We also have an interesting story from the driving force behind
Quanta, Dan Appelquist. "Winds" has a unique narrative style that
forces us to consider how we would react in extremem circumstances.
"I considered first person but it wasn't powerful enough," Dan says.
"The reader could still say ''I'd never do anything like that.'' With
the second person narration style, the narrator is telling *you* that
*you're* doing these things and that way you're forced to think about
it more, and doubt whether you couldn't be like that too."
Also, after last month's excellent story "Solitaire," Garry Frank
gives us yet another good one with "Hampton Cafe."
With these stories, I think that this issue was well worth the
wait. Thanks again,
-- Jim
Final Memories
By Keith C. Vaglienti
CCASTKV@GITNVE2.GATECH.EDU
======================================================================
I am tired and I hurt. What's the saying? Mother come take me
home? Strange that I should die now when I am just coming to terms
with what I am. Still, I do not think I would mind dying if only it
didn't hurt so much.
* * *
Overhead I can feel the moon calling to me as I stretch my stiff
limbs. I did not sleep well last night. The hunger seemed to gnaw at
my bones and kept me from having a proper rest. I must do something
to satisfy my curse but not yet, not yet.
I finger my crucifix ruefully. He who visited this damnation on
me was destroyed by merely being in the same room as one but it seems
to have no power over me. In truth I obtained this one in the hopes
that it would kill me but such was not my fate. Perhaps it is because
I have never been what mortals believe. I feel the beginnings of
despair and know I must seek the night and find release.
I let change sweep over me and when it is done I bound up and out
through the basement window. At the sight of the moon a keen howl
wells up in my throat but I hold it back. This is neither the place
nor the time.
It is but a short run to where my love lies buried, murdered by
the foul creature that took me. Ah my love, you were the fortunate
one. Surely death can not be worse than what I must endure but endure
it I must. Though I have tried to take what little there is of my
life, it resists most hardily. Neither sunlight nor holy signs nor
running water seem capable of destroying me and I cannot bring myself
to employ more drastic measures. Surely this is Hell, to abhor one's
self but not be able to do anything about it. Now my love I must
leave. The hunger grows too strong and I fear the pain of it might
make me hurt someone.
I head for the park. Not too long ago I caught a pair of rabbits
there. Perhaps tonight I shall have similar luck.
I hear them first; the soft padding of tennis shoes and the sharp
click of high heels. Then I scent them, one has a decidedly masculine
smell while from the other wafts the delicate scent of some perfume.
Before I see them I know what to expect; two kids, probably from the
local college, out on a date, going for a romantic stroll by moonlight
in the park. In short, fresh blood for the likes of me.
My pulse quickens with the thought of the hot, rich, red liquid
coursing down my throat. I catch myself as I begin to edge forward.
If I am not careful my instincts will get the better of me. It would
be so easy, the humans never take any real precautions against such as
I and they are easier to catch than the animals which are my normal
fare but no, I will not give in to the hunger, I cannot. I hate what
I am but I have to live with it and with myself. And so I ease myself
back into the shadows as the humans come round a hedge. I was right,
just a couple of college kids out to have a good time. Silently I
wish them luck for I envy them their innocence.
Then I see the wino that is no wino. He wears the ragged clothes
of a street bum. In one arm he cradles a bottle of Muscatel, of which
he reeks. A battered hat shields his face from the street lights,
hiding it in shadow. A good enough disguise to fool a human but not
enough to trick my senses. Silently I laugh, where is the smell of
old vomit and urine that normally accompany such as you? You cannot
fool me, old friend, for you and I are brothers. I see the gleam of
hunger in your shadowed eyes, the glistening tip of your tongue as you
moisten your lips in anticipation. I know what you are feeling so
intimately for I too just felt it. But you are one of the weak ones
or worse, one of the ones that glories in such things as what we are.
He has been lying on the bench so still that the couple has not
noticed him. Maybe they think he is asleep. Maybe they were so
wrapped up in each other that they didn't see him. Whatever the case,
they know he is there now as he lurches to his feet, hands reaching
out to grab and hold. The boy, brave in his ignorance, shoves the
girl back and moves between her and the wino. Undaunted the wino
lashes out, his hand a blur, to smash aside the boy with inhuman
strength. The lad lies still where he falls, unconscious, possibly
dead. Now the wino glides toward the girl, relishing the terror which
holds her paralyzed. He opens his mouth in a leer and she screams at
the sight of his fangs.
I am the wind as, on shadow silent paws, I rush past her to hurl
myself at the wino. My jaws snap at his throat but it is no longer
there as he becomes mist. Then it is another wolf that faces me. We
circle each other warily for a moment. I stop between him and the
girl. He hungrily eyes the boy, then changes again; this time his
shape flows into that of a bat, and he flies away. I consider
pursuing the abomination but, no I must help the humans.
``Good boy,'' comes the girl's voice. I turn to face her. She
smells of fear but she is unwilling to leave the boy. She moves
slowly towards him, trying not to spook me. She is brave like the
boy. I change and it catches her by surprise. Before she can
remember the legends, I trap her eyes with my own. I remake history.
When I am done she remembers nothing of what has happened. I release
her and turn to examine the boy. He still lives. With rest he will
recover.
I hear the sound of running feet. People coming to investigate
the girl's screams. I stand and nod at the girl, then fade into the
night.
It is late and I still haven't eaten. I must do something soon
or the hunger will consume me. But for now I am satisfied. I am
nosferatu and I am human.
* * *
A lot of people are afraid of death but I am not. I came to
realize early on that death is inevitable; nothing lives forever.
Perhaps I shall see my love when I die. I hope so.
* * *
``I love the night.'' Lynn laughs and her eyes seem to sparkle in
the moonlight. ``I don't know why. It just seems like the darkness
sets my spirit free. I feel like I'm bursting with energy. I want to
run and jump and shout for joy.'' Suddenly I am serious. ``Lately I
feel that way a lot. Whenever I'm with you.''
``You've been watching too many old movies,'' jibes Lynn as she
gives my hand a squeeze.
I grimace and moan, ``The lady doth wound me deeply. I confess
my love and she laughs at me.''
``Pardon me, kind sir. How may I make amends?''
``If you would dance with me it might ease the pain some small
degree.''
Lynn laughs, ``Here on the sidewalk? With no music?''
``Of course not,'' I exclaim. ``What do you take me for? A
fool? No, don't answer that. I mean on yonder hill in the faery ring
that crowns it. There we can dance to the strains of an elvish
band.''
``Has anyone ever told you that you're strange?''
``Of course, many a time. I'll have you know that I work very
hard to make people think I'm strange.'' We are young and in love.
The night is full of silver magic.
Our waltz is interrupted by a dog's howl. Lynn shivers so I pull
her close. From behind me comes a growling sound and Lynn suddenly
stiffens. I turn to find myself facing a wolf. Once more it growls
and then it takes a step forward. Pushing Lynn behind me I say,
``Just stay calm and don't make any sudden moves.'' The wolf's muscles
seem to bunch and then it leaps upon me. Startled I fall backwards.
My head strikes something cold and hard. Unfriendly blackness
consumes me. The last thing I hear is Lynn screaming.
* * *
When I awoke Lynn was dead, her throat torn away, and I was a
vampire. I begin to laugh but it only makes the pain worse so I stop.
Funny how the past always returns to haunt you. As if my life was not
already more horrid than I can bear. The kids in the park reminded me
so much of Lynn and myself that I had to track down their attacker and
destroy him as I did the other. I never thought I'd die doing so.
For a moment I gather my strength and then once more pull on the
wooden shaft which pins me to the wall like an insect. It is to no
avail. I look down at the pile of dust which is my murderer. He made
the mistake of coming close to taunt me. He never expected one of his
own kind to be carrying holy water. Still, his is the last laugh.
His death was relatively swift and less painful than mine.
Outside the window the day grows brighter. I have to smile. My
last sight will be sunrise. The first light of morning touches me.
It seems to soothe me as a numbness radiates through my body from its
gentle caress. The air grows hazy with sparkling motes of dust. Is
my body crumbling away into nothing? I can't feel anything. About me
the world dissolves.
Who's there? I can feel your presence. Lynn? Lynn...
Hampton Cafe
By Garry Frank
CSTGLFPC@UIAMVS.BITNET
Copyright 1989 Garry Frank / Failsafe Productions
======================================================================
He was a small man, no taller than a boy of fourteen, but he
carried himself with an air of contentment and virility that made him
hard to forget. I do not know his name, and I do not ever wish to. I
met him for the first and only time in a small cafe near Hampton, a
place I would often escape to when I needed to be alone. Hampton was
peaceful, and the cafe even more so.
It was not uncommon for me to spend hours of my time sipping
coffee and twiddling my spoon in a small, deserted booth in the south
corner. It was a special place to me, a place I could go to be
thoughtful or dreamy. Or in this case, sorrowful.
I had gone to Hampton on the afternoon of October 12, 1981, two
days after the death of my brother, Matthew. I had gone to the
funeral almost completely alone, since he and I were the last
remaining members of our family, having been the only sons of a man
who was an only child. That man, my father, had attained his own date
of mourning in the cafe some years earlier.
I invited none of my friends, not even Matthew's, and I wonder
sometimes if I hadn't intentionally avoided informing everyone but a
small handful of people about his death. I do not like to cause any
more grief in the world than I have to.
I am not obsessed with death. I think that I may have been the
only person at the funeral who truly accepted the concept of Matthew
being dead, and the peace that such a thing should bring. All the
same, this acceptance did not stifle my need to escape to the cafe, to
my special table, sip coffee, and think.
The waitress gave me no more attention than she would give any
other patron and did not recognize me. Nor did she make the
connection between my face and the particular table at which I was
seated, the same table I had always selected for almost six years now.
The coffee was black and strong, and I had to mix several packets of
sugar with it to make it tolerable. It cooled in the stagnant cafe
atmosphere, and when the steam had completely departed, it revealed
the old man, standing less than seven feet from my table, staring at
my coffee.
He was wearing an old but intact gray two piece suit. His
stature was wide, and his shoulders broad, but he still had an aura of
humility about him that I could not explain. His face gave away his
age, which was in the mid-seventies, I imagine, and it was
clean-shaven, yet haggard, like the face of a man who has lost
interest in appearance. His shoes were clean, an extremely odd thing
to notice at that point, I know. My acute sense of observation
sometimes gets the best of me. Covering his short, brownish-gray hair
was a short-brimmed hat of almost the same color.
His eyes were like dark chips of ice, yet when he stared at me
through the clearing steam, feelings of care and compassion swamped
over me.
"May I sit down?"
His voice was clear and soft. It took me a little by surprise.
"Yes, please do." I found myself saying before thinking about
what I might be getting into.
He shuffled himself into the booth, sitting across from me,
nearer to the window.
"Cold." He said, smiling and shrugging his shoulders, "That
coffee looks quite good."
I paused for a second. The man did not have the appearance of a
man stricken by poverty.
"Would you like some?" I was full willing to by him a cup of his
own, if not to give him mine, which I seemed to had lost the taste
for.
"No." He shrugged. "No, no, no... I am not in need of favors.
I am simply making small talk."
I nodded, confused. I had an urge to simply come out and ask him
what it was that he wanted.
"Cold, yes. Quite cold. Very difficult times."
I frowned.
"Do I know you from somewhere?"
"Only indirectly... In passing, so to speak. I was a good
friend of your brothers."
I accepted this in good faith, not taking the time to stop and
weed out the oddities of his story.
"I see."
"Very good friend indeed. I understand you are now all that is
left of the family line."
"Yes, you could say that."
I thought back briefly on what the old man had said. Was a good
friend, he used the word was, and I had never seen this man before in
my life. I had only told six people about the death, only one of
which was a good friend of Matthew's, and this man was not one of
them.
The obituaries, I thought to myself, he just read about it in the
papers. I came up with the comeback myself: there hasn't been an
obituary report yet. A clerical error had caused the local newspaper
to report the death two weeks after the event itself, so where,
thought I, did he find out?
Again, I came to my own rescue, there must have been other
reports. Other articles in the news. This man had just been paying
acute attention. Perhaps he was a consistent member of the church
where the service was held, and saw it written in the schedule
pamphlet.
He was, after all, a good friend of Matthew's.
So why wasn't he at the funeral..?
"Such a pity. His demise, I mean. That is, after all, the
reason you are here, is it not?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You have come here to grieve, so to speak."
My eyes were locked open. He continued to speak with remarkable
calmness.
"Do not be frightened. I am here as a friend."
My throat was getting slightly dry, and it clicked as I
swallowed. I was genuinely intrigued, if not scared.
"Look, I'm sorry, but I've never seen you before in my life, and
I knew most of Matthew's close friends."
"Are you saying that I'm not who I say I am?"
"I'm saying that you haven't said who you are at all. Now
please, my good man, state your business or leave me in peace."
"I have a message."
I couldn't move.
"A message?"
"From Matthew."
It was then that all time seemed to stop in the Hampton Cafe. I
found myself mesmerized by this old man, held in some kind of
imaginary, supernatural grip. I began to breathe quickly, then
stifled it, to conceal my fear.
"I don't understand."
"I have a message from Matthew."
"Are you in charge of his will?"
He chuckled.
"No. No, not at all. This is not something that he wanted to
say to you. This is something that he wants to say."
There it was again. Has a message. Wants to say. The fear of
this man, of the unknown crept up slowly from my heart.
"Would you like to hear it?"
I paused.
"Yes." I whispered.
For the next few seconds, a startling change came over the old
man's face, a change that I will describe only once, something which I
have never been able to satisfactorily explain since. For the brief
moment when the old man relayed his message, his eyes changed. His
eyes and mouth took on a new form, perhaps only in my mind, perhaps
not. His eyes turned dark brown, and they somehow glistened
differently, with youthfulness. The eyes portrayed a different mind,
and the mind that was behind them was a mind that I did and still
could recognize at a moment's glance. It was Matthew. For a brief
instant, the old man's eyes became Matthew's. He said:
"Thank you, Jonathan. For all you have given me. Please forgive
the shortcomings of my youth, the pain of our days growing up, for
someday you will be with me, and together we will be happy."
Then his eyes faded, and the man sat back in his cushioned seat.
"He thought you should know that before you went on living."
The old man slid to the end of the seat, and moved to stand up.
"Wait." I croaked silently. He seemed to take no notice. He
stood, and walked toward the exit of the cafe. Just before he opened
the door, he stopped, and I got up enough strength to ask:
"Who are you?"
He nodded and stepped out the door. I sat in my own sweat for a
long time, not knowing what to make of what I had just experienced. I
have not told anyone about my periodic expeditions to the cafe until
just now. Not even Matthew. If this was some elaborate joke, how did
he know to come here? Had he been shadowing me since the funeral?
Where did he get his information?
Breaking the spell, I stood up violently and stepped toward the
exit, just as he had done seconds ago. I threw open the door, and
stepped out into the parking lot. The wind was cold, and I had left
my jacket in the cafe, so I stood there, shivering, looking earnestly
for a trace of the old man.
I found none.
There had been only one automobile in the lot, and it was mine.
The only possible directions he could have gone walking (I heard no
motor) were well within sighting distances. It was as though he had
just vanished.
Several explanations came to me later, ranging from the abstract
(I had merely lost track of time, and he had walked many blocks during
my spell) to the common (he had escaped on bicycle) to the silly (he
was hidden under my car).
Since none struck me at the time, I resigned myself to re-enter
the cafe and sit once again at my booth. I pondered the events which
I now chronicle, then paid for my coffee and left.
It has been many years since my encounter with the old man at the
Hampton Cafe, and I am still as speechless about it as I was back
then. What happened, you ask. I do not honestly know. Some
elaborate prank? There had been too much detail which would have
required so much research and money that the prank would have been
worthless without a punch line, so to speak. And I have not been
bothered by laughing co-workers since.
Was this old man somehow a messenger from wherever Matthew is
now? I do not know. I am not even sure if I believe that myself, and
I was the one who recognized his eyes. Did the event change my life,
do you ask? I only wish it had. I still find myself as much of an
agnostic as I was many years ago.
I still have no answers.
The only change it brought about in my personal philosophy is not
one of conviction in the afterlife, or in Heaven and Hell. The change
is acceptance that there are many things in this life which we cannot
explain. I accepted this with the same calm frame of mind with which
I accepted Matthew's death:
There are things in this world which defy logical explanation.
There is so much we don't understand. I am convinced of that.
There is so much about this world that we do not understand.
So now what? I visited the cafe a total of three times after the
incident. Once for the birth of my son, once for the death of my
wife, and once for the end of World War III. Very few events other
than these have influenced my life.
I enjoy my life, but I am not afraid of losing it.
The dingy cafe four miles to the East of the small Missouri town
of Hampton is still standing. So am I.
---------------------------------------------------
Garry is a Broadcasting and Film major attending
the University of Iowa. He is an aspiring
screenwriter and an accomplished playwright, with
three of his full-length plays having been produced
by the West Side Players, an alternative theatre
organization at Iowa. He writes short fiction in
his spare time, and watches too many movies.
Garry's other interests include reading, skiing,
acting, "splitting atoms and graduating."
---------------------------------------------------
Winds
By Daniel Appelquist
da1n@andrew.cmu.edu
Copyright 1989 Daniel Appelquist
======================================================================
Your name is Phil Miller. The time is 21:34 on October 27, 2050.
You are packing a state of the art Phased Plasma Pistol, a real
beauty. You can feel its cold metal pushing up against the skin of
your left side through the tight fitting radiation-proof cover-all.
Feeling the piece there gives you a sense of security, a feeling that
armies would fall under your fire. The fact that you are on massive
amounts of speed, of course, does wonders for your sense of euphoria.
On the opposite side of your body, there is another object that
makes you feel good. Although not as large as the pistol, you can
still feel it's weight. It is a small iron bar, a one day pass into
the free-neutral city. The city lies four hundred kilometers to the
southwest of the base you are stationed at. Right now, you're driving
down a fairly straight road, bounded on both sides by seemingly
endless planes of glass-like residue, the only telltale that there
ever was a fusion explosion here. The sight is familiar to you, so
you do not contemplate how this area will be barren for millennia to
come, nor of how you are only able to pass here due do the heavy
shielding of your '20 Chevy Sunblazer. Your mind doesn't flicker
back, even for a second to the millions who died when the great city
that once stood here was annihilated completely.
The speedometer reads 207 km/hr. A respectable speed, but you'd
like to go faster. Your left hand planted firmly on the wheel, you
toggle the velocity switch a few times until the green counter rises
to 265. Normally, you wouldn't be able to control the car at this
speed, but the increased awareness and strength provided by the drug
does a lot to help. The base won't notice a few patches missing from
the barracks supply station. You think back, only for a moment, to
all your poor compatriots who don't have a friend in the supply
division; who can only experience what you're experiencing now while
in action. Your thoughts quickly turn to contempt.
"Fuck 'em!" you mutter venomously under your breath. You raise
the velocity to 296.
Now, through the leaded glass of your windshield, you can see the
towers and lights of the free-neutral city, and also something else of
interest. Perched ominously over the lighted city is the hulking form
of the carnival zeppelin. The zeppelin, now dark, will shine tonight
with the intensity of the sun. Even at this distance you can feel the
members of the psycho-symphony tuning their instruments. Nothing mind
effecting now, but later... later... You reach back behind your
neck, flick a switch on your brain implant, and the disturbances
cease. It wouldn't do any good to have distractions now, not when
every movement of the wheel is life or death. No.. As good as the
carnival psycho-symphony is, you decide to forgo tonight's
performance. You have some other entertainment in mind.
The towers are closer now, as is the looming hulk of the
zeppelin. A blinking radar dish icon on your dash tells you that
you're about to enter into a speed patrolled area. Regretfully, you
thumb the revert-legal button on the wheel and your speed drops down
to 150. Even in your drugged state, you realize that the pistol
pressed tightly against your armpit won't save your from the automatic
guns that are the city's defenses. You've seen city defenses in
action before. You're not about to let that happen to you; not when
you've got so much to do.
As you pull your vehicle in through the ramparts, your level of
excitement rises. You can feel the blood course through your veins
faster and faster, driven by your racing heartbeat.
You are in a field; a broad, green, gently sloping field; the
kind they had before the terror. You are a child. The grass is
thick, although not overgrown. Small portions of it break off and
stick to your feet as you run through it. The sweet smell of flowers
is near. You don't know which ones. It doesn't matter, the smell is
good. As you run across the field, you start to bound, your bare feet
contacting with the ground, then your entire body raising into the air
with each stride. How easy it is. And how futile.
"Your pass sir? This is the last request I shall make. I repeat
my assertion that I am prepared to use deadly force unless
identification is certified."
The voice of the gate computer brings you back from your reverie.
You remove the iron bar from your right vest pocket and insert it into
the slot next to the window. You're amazed that you were able to
negotiate the car to its present position. You try, in vain to
recapture your vision, but it is forgotten. You can think now only of
the carnival's delights. No doubt there will be mutant death
wrestling, perhaps a few burnings of recently seized technocrats, and
certainly there will be the famed sex-slaves. You reach down into
your left hip pocket and finger the coinage therein. There is enough.
The light in front of you flashes green, and the gate opens. The
auto-control of your car is engaged, removing you from the loop. At a
creeping pace which angers you even more than the tone of that gate
computer, you are drawn into the spacious parking lot of the city.
When you finally stop and get out, a female voice gently reminds
you "remember where you parked, please." Your hand instinctively moves
to your gun, eagerly anticipating. It is only when the weapon is half
drawn do you realize that the voice's source is the PA located at the
top of a high pole some thirty meters from you. "Remember where you
parked, please" she states again, softly. Fighting your nature, you
sheathe the pistol, but the swirling energy in your blood stream
remains undiminished. You must consummate your feelings; soon.
You enter the winding walkways of the free-neutral city, walking
at what you consider to be a slow pace, so as not to broadcast your
condition. Still, you seem to be passing out most of the other
walkers.
Perhaps it is the subliminal advertising boards hung above the
pubs, or perhaps you were simply too excited to notice it before, but
you suddenly feel parched beyond belief. You must have a drink. The
noisiest, most garishly colored bar attracts your attention and you
enter, anticipating the cool feeling of liquid passing down your
throat. The place is crowded, hiding for the moment your
conspicuousness; the wide open eyes and red lips that are the mark of
a soldier.
You look towards the bar, and she is there. Just the same as she
was all of those years ago, at the first carnival. There is no
thought in your mind as to how she is here, or why she doesn't
recognize you when you sit down next to her and offer her a drink.
Your increased awareness does not extend to your inner being, and so
the illusion lives on.
"I'd be much obliged, stranger. Ooooh.. Are you a soldier? How
interesting! You must be very strong. And very wealthy, no? I'm
sure you have some coinage on you, eh?"
"I'll have a bourbon and soda, and a beer for the lady," you
state impassively at the bartender. "Coming right up, sir," he says
as he turns around, revealing the series of raised switches on the
back of his neck. A deserter, no doubt. You hate deserters, but you
suffer him to live as long as he doesn't give you any lip. "Do you
live here, or are you part of the carnival?" you ask politely, even
though she is obviously of the latter persuasion. Her scant, ornate
clothing and wealth of hair, a commodity for which other less
fortunate women would kill, give her away clearly.
"I'm a carnie worker... I'm, uh.. off for the day though." You
don't hear her. You're too busy looking her up and down. Her body
has some inconsequential differences to how you remember her, but all
in all she appears the same. Large breasts heaving with the effort
she must take to breathe this thickened air. Eyes dilated by
depressants or pleasure heighteners. Smooth skin unblemished by even
a single spot or bump. She's been modified, as they all have. It
goes without saying. She is too perfect, just as she always has been.
You've run into a section of the field where the grass is taller,
thicker, more easily concealing. Some of the long strands have a dry
seed pod at the top, waiting to be blown away by the wind, to
propagate, to spawn, to swarm. Bees buzz around you now, but you've
had your shots, so they don't come within a few feet of your heaving
body. You ran hard and fast, and now your friends won't find you; for
sure they won't, and then you'll win. You'll prove yourself superior.
You squat down to provide yourself even more protection than before.
Waiting, anticipating the moment you hope will never come, when your
questing friends will come upon you with a shout and you will taste
your defeat.
As you walk out of the bar with her, your excitement reaches a
peak level. You start walking faster, faster, until she can barely
keep up with you. "Why are you walking so fast? What's the hurry,
honey?" You still don't hear her. To you, she has become a
non-person; an object. As you pass a deserted alleyway between two
towering buildings, you push her in with all of your weight, following
close behind. As her crumpling form hits the wet ground, you reach
up, to your left side, grasping your pistol, pulling it out of its
carefully fitted holster, aiming it for her crying eyes, now turned
full force on you and filled with a fear unequaled by any opponent you
have ever met in battle. There is only time for her to scream a
plaintive "Why?" How dare she? Why indeed? Doesn't she know?
Doesn't she remember? With only a grim hate in your mind, you pull
the trigger. The only evidence is a clean hole directly in the center
of her forehead. You always were a good shot.
Kneeling over her dead form, you plant a kiss tenderly on her
stiffening lips. "I loved you." Are the words yours? You don't know.
You only feel the deep satisfaction that came from the kill. You
raise your head to see the tops of the buildings and the huge hulking
form of the zeppelin overhead, blotting out the stars, the sky. Soon
the lights of the zeppelin will brighten the streets of the city. You
take out a small phial, remove a new patch and apply it eagerly,
discarding the old one. Already you can feel the excitement course
through your veins, just as you can hear the blood rushing there even
now, pumped by a renewed purpose.
By now your drugged mind has almost forgotten the existence of
the corpse beneath your feet. You must find her again, and kill her,
and again. You will kill again tonight.
* * *
The time was twenty years ago. You were a trainee. Seventeen
years old, a mere boy. But even then you had been carrying a weapon
when you rode into the city, a distant city, with your friends from
the academy. Indeed, the academy required that all personnel on leave
carry a firearm at all times. One never knew what scavenging scum one
might find in the wildernesses of the wasted world. That city had
been much like this one. Smaller, perhaps, but still much like this
one. You remember seeing first the defense towers, and then the
radiation dome that that city had required, being in an area of much
higher risk, and of course there was the zeppelin. You remember
sitting in awe in the main concourse of the city with thousands of
others as the psycho-symphony played through their set, the effects of
the performance sending waves of strange, undefinable sensation though
your body. "Better than sex," you had remarked to one of your friends
afterward. Well, perhaps, perhaps not. Of course, you had been a
virgin at the time, so the use of the expression had been more comical
than anything else.
She was at the city. Her name was Juliana. She told you she was
not a prostitute of the carnival, merely a worker for it. Her job was
mostly in setting up the carnival, and so she had some time off, time
she usually spent in whatever city the carnival was in, looking
around, experiencing. She was young, and not unpretty, although not
of the caliber required for the prostitutes and sex-slaves but to you
she was perfect. What you and her shared that night was greater than
any pleasure you have since had. You shared tenderness, you exposed
your soul to her, and she to you. And for the first time in your
life, you believed yourself to be happy. You cared for her, damn it!
You cared for her in the few weeks that you were together. You spent
most of your time with her and when the call to return to the academy
for classes and training came, you disobeyed it.
And then it had come. A subtle change in the way she acted
towards you, the way she spoke to you. Almost unnoticeable, but you
noticed it. You felt her love for you deteriorate step by step, while
you tried to wish away the hour you knew would come, tried to tell
yourself it was just a passing phase. You remember the moment when
you came back to the apartment she was renting. She told you that
night that she had loved another man. A man of the carnival. The
carnival was leaving, and so was she. She didn't want to see you any
more. She was a wanderer, she didn't want to stay put for any length
of time. Many other things were said, many more excuses. All you
could think of was how she had used you, how horribly insensitive she
was to you, how much you had given to her and how she was now repaying
you, with her brutal farewell. You remember running back to the
academy, to lick your wounds, to nurse your hate. They reaccepted
you. No reason was grave enough to give up a potential soldier. And
a soldier was what they got.
The image of her in your mind is skewed now, distorted, enhanced
by the images of other, lesser women. Women with expressions of blind
terror frozen into their faces, just like the woman you even now leave
in the alley. In a very real way, all of those women are and were
Juliana. All of them.
* * *
The field has turned a deep auburn color now. Still the grass is
thick, but many of the strands are dry and brittle. Now as you run
back towards the school the strands break under your feet, sometimes
causing pain. The sky, formerly a deep shade of blue, now appears
gray. Huge black clouds move fast and silently over the darkened
land. Strong winds have begun to blow in from the south. Already you
can feel the first drops of the storm impacting on top of your tousled
mop of hair. The other children are already there, waiting for you,
calling to you, calling from safety, along with the worried teachers.
"Hurry up, Phil!" they shout plaintively. "The storm's coming! Get
inside quick!" Or maybe the voices come from inside. The schoolhouse
seems so very far away.
You walk several meters down the street from where the opening to
the alleyway lies when the lights come on. From above, from the huge
form of the zeppelin, there is light; a bright white light, a magical
light. You try to look up, but the zeppelin is too bright to look at
directly. Like the sun. Like the truth. It leaves a shadow on your
vision that never seems to completely clear. You feel a slight
brushing against your mind, a signal that the Psycho-Symphony has
started its epic concert. Still, you make no move to cut out your
shield. You've seen her now. There she is! Walking out of that
residence! This time you'll have her. This time she can't escape
your savage passions.
Now another woman lies dead in a thirty-fourth floor hallway,
slumped against one wall. This is the third for this night, and still
it is the first ever. Again, the look of crazed terror on her face.
Again, the clean burn-hole bisecting her frontal lobe perfectly. The
effect is enhanced by the bright light streaming down through the
picture window from the zeppelin, giving all objects in sight a
day-glow luminescence. Still, you love her.
Skulking out of the residence, pistol still hot from the last
shot, you glimpse, out of the corner of your eye, an ambulance drone
carrying another one of this night's victims along with several other
corpses you don't recognize. It appears you aren't the only one who's
been busy this night. Far from it. It's the way it always is at
carnival time. Some corner of your mind reaches out to these other
murderers, leaving a trail of dead flesh just as you do. You feel,
somehow, that you are all kin, a brotherhood. But this feeling is
soon wiped clean from your mind by the all-pervasiveness of the new
dose of the drug. You must kill again, for only in killing can your
passions be consummated. Your carnal excitement reaches a fever
pitch. Not thinking of your own safety, only of your purpose, you
reach for your pistol, tooking out across the crowded square for a
target; any target.
"Phil? Phil Miller?" The voice shatters your concentration like
a brick thrown through a plate-glass window. You turn, hand still
gripping the pistol in its shoulder holster. At first, you can't make
out who or what... and then there she is. "It's Juliana. You do
remember me, don't you? I know it's been a long time, but when I saw
your name come up on the city pass list, I just had to go looking for
you. You all right?"
You're not. You're frozen in stark terror. You can feel the
blood drain from your face, your pupils dilate. It can't be! Your
grip on the pistol is greater than ever.
"You OK Phil? Oh dear! I seem to have given you quite a shock!
Maybe I should have left well enough alone... Want to sit down or
something?"
If you hear her at all, it is merely as a shadow, as all of those
other women were merely shadows of this goddess that stands before you
now. Juliana, how could I profane you so? The words only appear in
your head, but to you they are real. You pull the pistol slowly out
of its holster.
The storm is raging full force now. Rain batters at the
schoolhouse windows and roof, propagating waves of sound that
reverberate throughout the cinderblock classrooms. As much as you
tell yourself that the building will stand under this punishment, and
as much as the teachers reassure you, you can't help thinking that the
world is on the verge of collapse. The wars in Asia and Africa seem
to grow nearer every day. The blockades in South America are causing
more and more controversy. The government, torn apart and dominated
by huge corporations, holds no answer, no hope. Somewhere in your
mind, you realize that most of your thoughts now are in retrospect,
looking back on that day with the point of view of someone who's been
through it, but the image is still real. The blinding flash far on
the horizon. The rush for the underground shelters. The horrible,
horrible noise. These are real memories, no phantoms. The death.
Only the death is unreal. It could not be realized by even the
oldest, wisest minds, and certainly it could not be realized by a
child.
"Phil, no! no!" She rushes at you but it is too late. Your
enhanced motor functions bring your pistol to bear on your target with
deadly accuracy, and in a split second, the weapon is fired, muzzle
pointed squarely at your own forehead. Seemingly in slow motion, you
see the plasma bolt come racing towards you. Your last coherent
vision is of Juliana's eyes, older eyes, wiser eyes, open eyes.
Crying eyes. Crying for you or crying for the world that has come to
this; for mankind?
Still, the savage winds of the shock wave blow over the small
school house, a harbinger of an ever darkening future.
---------------------------------------------------
Dan Appelquist is a Cognitive Science major at
Carnegie Mellon University. He also takes classes
in film studies in an attempt to broaden his
horizons. In his spare time, he VP's the KGB,
publishes his own magazine (Quanta), takes care of
his kitten Emma, and reads newsgroups of
questionable merit. He wrote "Winds" after the
breakup of a previous relationship. "If it sounds
a bit depressing," Dan says, it is because he was
"going through a LIVING HELL!"
---------------------------------------------------
Fundamentally Switzerland
By Barbara Weitbrecht
IRMSS100@SIVM.BITNET
======================================================================
The black dress was not dirty, but Margaret dropped it down the
cleaning chute as soon as she removed it. She climbed into the
bathtub and soaked, water as hot as she could stand. At last she
drained the tub, wrapped herself in her warmest bathrobe and made a
pot of tea. When it was poured and steaming she opened her purse and
took out the funeral program.
The cover was a tasteful photograph of stars over a quiet sea and
a few lines from "home is the sailor." Inside was the order of
service, a list of hymns, a short biography and a recent publicity
photograph. Nothing in it seemed to have anything to do with Paul.
There was no mention of suicide.
The telephone was ringing. Margaret crumpled the program and
dropped it in the waste chute. She picked up the receiver before the
third ring.
"Yes?" she said. "Oh, Andrea, hello!" She looked across the room
at the calendar, where a date three weeks ahead was circled in black.
"Yes, it was a lovely service .... Your roses were beautiful .... I
thought so too .... No, I went alone. I'm sorry you couldn't get
back in time. How is Japan?"
A longer pause. "No, I suppose they didn't. It happened on
Wednesday. He was working on his new novel. The machine was still on
when they found him. He shot himself through the head. He hadn't
even taken off his harness." Margaret was surprised how calmly she
could relate this. "No, he didn't leave a note. There was no clue in
the tape. No one knows why he did it."
Damn him, Margaret thought. I always hated his gun collection.
And his war books-- "It was a new Constantin Falcon adventure.
Something about gold and white slavery in the banana republics. He
was on the second draft." She stiffened. "I wouldn't know, Andrea. I
suppose you could contact his attorney."
Now she relaxed again, speaking as one professional to another.
"Yes, I'll have it in the rough tape by the end of the month .... No,
I can work on it. I lost a few days, of course .... No, I'm fine
now. In fact, the work should do me good." She smiled at the reply.
"Yes, Andrea .... No, Andrea .... I'll see you later, Andrea.
Goodbye."
Damn the bastard for killing himself, she thought, and the tears
finally came. Why the hell should it hurt so much? It's been over a
year since we split up. We just meet at authors' parties, chat over
drinks. It's all so fucking civilized.
She cinched her robe tighter, picked up her tea and walked to the
study. The composing machine took up nearly half the room. It was
the one she had used for 23 years, bulky with banks of flickering
lights and trembling meters. She had to be half technician to operate
it. But the new machines were less sensitive--
She was starting self-hypnosis as she sat and pulled on the
receiving harness. She pasted the pickups over the acupuncture
meridians, tightened the headband, clipped the ground wires to her
earposts. She smiled at her reflection in the window, strapped and
metal-studded and umbilical-wired like a character in one of her space
fantasies.
She was adjusting knobs, choosing the tape. She recited her
mantras for this novel, entering the mood. "Fundamentally
Switzerland. So small against the immensity. The high proud terror
of the snows." She settled into the chair and played the familiar
switches, advancing the tape to the roughed-in chapter. "Margot flees
to the pass. The pass -- the "col" -- is haven. Escape from Italy.
Switzerland. Premonition of the final terror." Should I record from
the start? She decided to view for a while, as if she were audience.
Now, belted and strapped like a spaceman she descends, counting
downward through the three stages of sleep. She has reached eyelid
catalepsy, she drains her arm of feeling, then fills it with light.
Far away as in a dream she feels it levitate. When it reaches her
face it drops and she enters the story.
Blue sky, cloudless and cold, dark with high altitudes.
Featureless--a sudden pain at the sun, overexposed--drops back to blue
and below, mountains. These are white mountains, sharp ice edges
against the void. A sudden cold, as if wind blows from the ice. In
the cold a subtle undertone, a terror, a premonition or a nostalgia.
Margaret, surprised, decides that last mood flicker must be
removed. This novel has nothing to do with nostalgia.
The view drops from ice to rock, then down dark forest slopes.
Below is the road, two lanes, old blacktop, white dashed line. It
clings to the mountain in vertiginous switchbacks, fades into blue
haze far below. On the road two cars crawl about two turns apart, as
if linked by invisible string.
We descend rapidly toward the red Chevy convertible, white
leather top open, a starlike reflection off the paint. A glance
behind at the gray Mercedes, sharklike, implacable. Now we are in the
car, a disembodied viewer in the passenger seat. Margot, who is
driving, looks over her shoulder at the Mercedes two turns below.
Fear flickers about her mouth. She controls the shudder, tries to get
more speed from the red convertible. The car skids on a tight turn.
A quick glance at the blue depths below, a shudder of fear.
We pass an Italian mile-post. It is sixty-five kilometers to the
Swiss border. Margot's mouth silently forms the words "sixty-five
kilometers." She looks up toward the col. (Segue here--pass, col,
Ramuz, Switzerland.) Our gaze follows hers. We know that the top of
the pass is the Swiss border and safety.
Our gaze lingers on the far snowfields after Margot's has
returned to the road. The cold returns, now mixed with Margot's fear.
(Is the nostalgia still there?)
Margaret decides to take control. Far away, in a dream of
flickering lights and trembling needles, her wired hand moves to a
switch, presses it. Tape reels revolve silently. The mountains
heave, then stabilize. The landscape is the same. But now she is
creating it, wandering invisible in circuits of brainlike complexity
half a mile below the publishing house. She feels the potent joy of
creation.
Margaret sharpens a mountain peak. She defines the line of the
road where it crosses the snowfields, gray on white. With the
landscape in order she turns to her heroine.
Now that they are recording, Margot is aware of Margaret's
presence. But she does not turn yet, still in character. "The woman
menaced." Very good, thinks Margaret, studying her expression. Just
the right touch of brave resolve over the fear. Margot reaches back
and touches her hair where it is held by the clip, an almost
unconscious gesture of vanity or bravado. She glances back at the
gray Mercedes. It is no closer.
"Good morning." says Margaret.
Margot relaxes and smiles. "Good morning, Margaret. Are you all
right?"
Margaret frowns, says "Well enough. Why do you ask?"
Margot looks at her strangely. "Andrea was here this morning.
She left a note for you in the glove compartment."
Margaret finds it:
Great feel to the last chapter. Keep up the good work
We're all pulling for you, kid. Love, Andrea.
Margaret smiles. "Did you read this?" Margot nods. "Someone I
once loved has killed himself. Paul Constant. He was a composer
too."
"He created Constantin Falcon, didn't he?"
"Of course you remember him. I had forgotten our joint story."
Margaret blushed. "I had always sort of hoped we could do another.
That one was very popular."
"Well, I enjoyed it."
Margaret stares at her character. My god, she acts so real
sometimes.
She remembers their first and only collaboration. In the first
delights of mutual lust, they had created New Orleans brothels,
unspoiled Pacific islands, mad gallops over the Arabian desert under
the lurid moon. When they finally settled on a plot they had edited
out all the sex scenes and left only the romance. The emotional
undertones had required more skillful, professional editing before
Andrea would release it. "We are NOT a porno house!" she stated,
tapping her pencil.
("I'll write her into my next as Queen Victoria," Paul had
whispered.)
"I'm glad Andrea dropped in. Margot, let's try to finish up the
chase to the pass today. I think we can keep the main action and
views we blocked in last week, and work on emotions."
Margot frowned. "I still think the action is a little weak.
Maybe we could leave it open for improv, see what turns up. We can
always use the backup tape if it doesn't work."
"Well, it is a little trite. Why not?" Margaret trusts the part
of herself that has created Margot, that is Margot. Paul always kept
the Falcon on a tight leash, a wooden puppet. ("Hell, woman! All the
people want is action! The other stuff is all literature." Half
ironically, half meaning it.)
Margot returns to the script, squeezing every ounce of power from
the red convertible. Vertiginous views, spraying gravel, the smell of
hot brakes. Margot's fear, more insistent, a hint of her thoughts. A
memory image--golden sunset, Claude handing her the white packet by
the Grand Canal. "They'll kill for this, love," he had said. Now
they are trying. The road again, the pass still far away, white on
blue. Near panic, then control. The high snows brood over all,
fundamentally Switzerland.
Margaret notices the mountains sagging. That's a hazard of full
recording, not depending on the tape. Your attention wanders, things
change. Stream of consciousness takes over. Objects have emotional
undertones. It can save a tired story or ruin it. She plumps the
mountains up again, but the peaks seem softer, as if the ice were
melting.
Another turn. The scream of tires on gravel echoes the silent
scream in Margot's head. Good effect. We'll keep it.
She hears Margot gasp.
The gray Mercedes has crept up a hundred yards. There is now
barely a switchback between them. Too early! thinks Margaret. But
let it be, maybe it will tighten the pacing. Margot pulls ahead
slowly, regains the lost space. Another turn, a skid near the edge.
Too close--we made it! Relief, then remembering, the fear again. The
road turns up a glacial valley and the ground becomes nearly level.
Dense forest blocks their view.
"The car is boiling over," says Margot.
"That's not in the script."
"It's doing it anyway." The gauge needle is well into the red
zone. Margaret tries to will it down.
"I suppose the radiator would have boiled if we had been driving
this hard," she says. "Damn it, I keep forgetting about old cars.
Margot, I'm going to make a fork in the road ahead. Take the left
road. I'll get the Mercedes to take the wrong fork."
It is hackneyed, but she doesn't know what else to do. Margot
can't flee on foot in this country. Nor can she have a shoot-out with
the men in the gray Mercedes. That can't come until the end, five
chapters away, in a speedboat on Lake Constance. "Maybe there can be
a small dirt road over a different pass, known only to local
farmers...?" (Trite! You're getting old, Margaret!)
Or maybe I should give Margot a better car. It would mean
retaping most of the chapter, but we could salvage a lot-- The
intersecting road appears. The tires squeal as Margot swings suddenly
to the left, a quick decision.
Good touch, thinks Margaret. Maybe this will work out after all.
"There's a gas station ahead," says Margot. "I'm stopping."
There is, indeed, a small building with a sign that says PETROL, red
letters on white.
Is that right? Margaret wonders. She changes the word to
GAZOLIN, then ESSENCE, but it still looks wrong. I'll research it
later, she decides. She pulls out her notebook (and far away a second
tape revolves.)
Ask A. re: "gas" Ital. Switz., ca. 1967. Photos?
Margot pulls up beside the pumps. The mechanic lifts the hood
and begins spraying water on the erupting radiator. "Won't that crack
the engine block?"
Margot smiles. "Trust me. Let's go in and have a cup of
coffee."
Margaret notices the little restaurant beside the gas station.
The white neon sign in the window spells CAFE ANTARCTICA.
(Antarctica?!) "Why not? I need time to think."
The two women sit near the window. Outside, trees sway in the
wind from the pass. Above them the mountains look soft and
vulnerable, like ice cream.
In the station lot, the mechanic is doing something to their
engine with a large wrench.
Margaret hooks her arm over the back of the chair and looks
around the cafe. "Don't they heat this place?" Her breath fogs the
air. The walls are brushed steel, the white linoleum floor spotless
as a hospital. On the tabletop, which is a mirror, are a transparent
vase and one white rose. The sign in the window, seen from the rear,
is reflected around it in puddles of white light. CAFE ANTARCTICA,
reversed and inverted.
Why Antarctica? All that goddamn snow. I'm freezing. What's my
subconscious up to today? Margaret shivers, hugs herself. Margot
silently offers her a sweater.
The waitress has come. Expressionless, white as a nurse, eyes
hidden by mirrored sunglasses. Her hair flames bright as a rainbow, a
shaggy cut dyed orange, blue and golden.
"Two coffees, one black, one with cream." It is Margot who
orders. Margaret stares at their reflections in the table top. Her
heroine, dark and slim, smooths her immaculate hair. Margaret's own
image is large and blondish, visibly middle-aged. She feels worn out.
Her shoulders ache. She cannot find her comb. She tries to recapture
the mood of the novel, repeats her mantras. "Fundamentally
Switzerland. Facing the immensity alone. Riding like a falcon above
fear. Death in the high proud snows." When she reopens her eyes the
coffee has come.
Horribly, it comes in clear glass mugs. The steam rises above
the cups and sinks into the depths of the mirrored table. The
reflections of the ceiling lights look like stars. She sips slowly.
Calm. Be calm. You are in control. This your world, your self.
Fundamentally--
Outside, the mountains roll past in stately progression like
waves on a peaceful sea. The trees sway in the wind like seaweed.
Warped reflections from the ice fields dancing on the walls are like
the surface of water seen from beneath. As a drowning man might see
it. Once again the cold washes over her, and with it the strange
nostalgia. She knows what it is now. It is depression, nostalgia for
sleep.
So this is what I had in mind, Margaret thinks. I had thought
this novel would be fundamentally Switzerland. I wanted high proud
mountains over pastures, domesticated immensity. Images taken from
the novelist Ramuz: cows climbing to fragile summer meadows, the
threat of avalanche, fear overcome by stolid courage. Margot,
exhausted by her pursuit from Italy, would meet this hardy courage and
make it her own.
But instead it is becoming Antarctica. I hate Antarctica. The
snow there is dead snow. It has been there since before there were
men. The horror of frozen mountains under strange stars. Green
witch-lights dancing in the night that lasts all winter. Blank white
silence or wind howling in the dark. The sleep of a land with no hope
of waking.
What the hell, perhaps I should scrap the whole thing and make an
adventure story. One man alone on a snowfield with solitude and
death. Wolves howl under the northern lights. He's already eaten all
the sled dogs. Death by freezing. They say it feels warm, sinking
down to sleep.
I wonder how Paul--
Goddamn it, I know depression when I see it. Occupational
hazard. Snap out of it!
You're just tired, babe. Mistake to work today. Take the week
off and fly to Hawaii.
Or maybe--
The cafe door opens. The young man who enters is, even before
introductions, unmistakably a reporter. He tips his hat back on his
sandy hair, shakes out his plaid sport coat. "Wind's rising!" he
announces. "Are you Margaret Norris?"
Where'd I get him? Margaret wonders. He looks like something
from a 'forties film.
"Sorry, ma'am. Of course I know who you are. I came here to
meet you. But you're probably wondering if I'm real or something you
improv'ed." He extends his hand. "Joe Jackson from the Chronicle.
We're doing a feature on famous composers and I thought it would be
great to do an interview on-line, as it were..."
"How the hell did you get into my novel?"
He smiles and pulls up a chair. "Coffee, black!" he shouts over
his shoulder. "Oh, I have literary ambitions myself. Taking a
composing class out at City College. I've done a little computer
stuff before and -- well, I just hacked my way into your account.
Hope you don't mind."
His coffee has arrived. "Thanks, miss. Great hair. You see,
ma'am, I've always been sort of a fan of yours. And I thought, Joe,
this is your chance of a lifetime. You can actually be IN a Margaret
Norris. See the master in action. Will you do an interview?"
He's real all right. I couldn't possibly have invented this.
"All right," she agrees. "But frankly I'm having a lousy day. Just
keep it short. And don't ever do this again, or I'll call the cops."
"Thanks, Ms. Norris!" Relieved. Not a bad kid, just a bit of a
nerd. He turns on his tape recorder and sets it on the mirror among
the mugs.
Q. Ms. Norris, a lot of our viewers have asked us, and
frankly I'm curious too. How do you put a dream on a disk?
A. That's a good question. You need an engineer to answer
it for you. But basically, and I'm probably getting
some of this wrong, the dream is never really on the
disk. There's too much data. The disk just holds the
addresses of the real images, which are stored in a very
large computer owned by the publishing house. That's
why you pay per viewing. You're using computer time.
Q. Where do you get ideas for all your novels?
A. Well, I read a lot. Before composing machines became
so common I wanted to be a writer. The Margot Noel
series is based on the spy and adventure novels of fifty
years ago, which is when they are set. Beyond that,
it's hard to describe how it happens. I work from
dreams, sometimes, or waking fantasies. This novel
started with a few isolated phrases. "The high snows
of fear" was one, and of course that became the title.
"Snow" was also slang for cocaine, which is the pivot of
the plot.
(...and the adventure genre tied me closer to Paul, let me be Margot,
just as he as the Falcon. But the rest of him was a bitter, balding
little man who drank too much and collected guns. Who shot himself
through the head three days ago. Just as the rest of me is a
middle-aged writer manquee'. We never forgave each other that.)
Q. Do you base your characters on real people? They seem
so real.
A. I don't think you can make them real unless they
are really part of yourself at some level. Actually,
after a while characters seem to take on a life of their
own. It's not just practice. They are partly stored in
the computer. They get more interesting as you work
with them.
Q. Sounds spooky! Aren't you ever afraid they'll take
over?
A. Well, that's a common plot for horror fantasy, but it
just doesn't happen. The composing computer is
incredibly complex, but it doesn't create. It's more
like a magic mirror from a fairy tale, that shows you
your greatest hopes and fears.
(...as if that were any less dangerous. And here I am in a blue funk
with my mountains melting. Damn, but it's cold here.)
"Thanks for the interview, Ms. Norris. Say, I was wondering...
but it's an awfully big favor."
"What?"
"Well, like I said, I'm studying to be a composer. And I noticed
you're having a little trouble with the scenery today. Mind if I fix
it up a little bit?"
Margaret sighs. "Be my guest. I've given up on taping today
anyway."
Beyond the window the mountains are boiling like clouds. The
reporter stares at them. A snap like a shutter, and they freeze into
postcard outlines, with the Matterhorn dead center. "Greetings from
Zermatt" half visible in the lower right-hand corner.
Outside, the mechanic has been replacing parts in their engine.
There are red and yellow rubber things and coiled black hoses. He
slams the hood down and walks away.
"Honestly, I don't think the Matterhorn is visible from here."
He shrugs. "It's Switzerland. They'll never notice. Well,
thanks again. Ciao!"
He climbs into his Porsche and starts the motor. Reporter, car
and postcard mountains vanish in an almost audible click. Logout,
tape off, power down.
God, I feel awful, Margaret thinks. I'll have to erase the whole
chapter, start over from the backup tape or even from Venice. "Margot
dear," she says, "I really don't feel like working today. Shall we
take a few days off and start over? Maybe where you leave Claude in
Venice."
Margot pats her hand. "No problem. But we've come so far today,
perhaps we should walk through to the pass scene, just to get the feel
of it."
Margaret hesitates, then agrees. A rehearsal will make it easier
later. If only the mountains would stop heaving.
"Stop," she whispers, and they freeze back into mountains. But
they are wrong mountains, more like bedpillows. She sits while Margot
pays the bill, fighting down feelings that come in waves, a wave of
nausea, of memories of Paul, of cold, of weariness, that terrible
nostalgia for sleep.
"I'm so tired," she says.
"We'll be done soon." They leave the empty cafe. Their car is
waiting for them. Margot takes the wheel again. Margaret lies back
in the seat. She closes her eyes. Remember Switzerland.
Fundamentally....
On the road again in the alpine air, Margaret finds she can think
more clearly. The mountains are almost certainly proper mountains.
They show no tendency to shift. Perhaps the break at the gas station
was what the plot needs. A break from the panic. What to use in
place of the reporter?
No matter, this is just a rehearsal. They will drive to the top
of the pass and walk through the scene there. Then Margaret will go
home and take a hot bath. A clean flannel nightgown lies across the
bed, with clean sheets. In a distant dream Margaret senses her body
waiting patiently at the composing machine, strapped and studded like
a space explorer. She smiles at it. Hello body. I'm coming home.
They are well above the snowline now. Italy has vanished into
blue mist. A milepost passes. Three kilometers. Another switchback,
and the col opens around them. Two granite peaks frame a glittering
saddle of snow, slashed the road to the border. The sky is deep blue
without clouds. The high mountain wind smells of Switzerland.
Margot steps on the brakes.
The gray Mercedes blocks the road. A tall man in a trenchcoat is
leaning against it, waiting. The sun glares silver on something in
his hand. His hat is over his eyes.
The women get out of the convertible.
"Go away," says Margaret. "Go away. We are rehearsing."
The man may have nodded. It is hard to tell in the glare of the
snow.
Margot is walking toward him. "Careful, Margot. I'm not sure he
understands." Margot touches the man's sleeve and they embrace. As he
turns in the kiss Margaret can see his profile.
"Constantin Falcon!" she exclaims. "You're in the wrong novel!"
They turn to her together, their arms still touching, the gesture
of old lovers. (Our gesture!) He raises his gun.
This has gone too far. I must wake up!
Margaret flees across the snow that lies smooth and clean in all
directions. It glitters and blinds in the sun. Red specks lie
scattered over it like drops of blood. Butterflies, dead on the snow.
She struggles to rise through sleep.
But it is so cold. Her body lies passive before the flickering
lights. She can't seem to focus on awakening. She stumbles, falls
heavily in the snow.
They are standing over her.
"Go away! You're just part of my depression! I shouldn't have
been working today. I was upset about Paul. I just need some rest.
You aren't real. You can't kill me."
"Why not?" asks the Falcon. "We already killed Paul."
Margot brushes back a strand of hair. She smiles, revealing
small, perfect teeth. Like the teeth of a skull.
The Falcon laughs. "Shall I shoot her now, Margot?"
"No, dear, she doesn't own a gun."
Margaret crawls away. She must wake up. She must escape. If I
can only reach the peak. It's the snow that's killing me. I have to
reach the rocks. But the rocks are so far away. I can hardly see
them through the glare.
Far and away on all sides the snow lies smooth as a bedsheet.
The red disks lie scattered like stars, thicker now, more insistent.
Behind her, she hears Margot's voice.
"Stand up, dear. Walk to the bathroom."
She feels her distant body rise, unplug the cords, walk slowly
across the floor. I must wake up! She struggles through the layers
of sleep, but they lie heavy on her like water.
Far away, in a world not attached to her, she sees her hand open
the medicine chest, remove the bottle of sleeping pills. Margot's
voice floats directionless over the snow. "Pour a glass of water.
Swallow them all. All the pills."
She sees it all happening, tiny and clear, as if through an icy
lens which sits in the back of her head and focuses her thoughts.
This is not real. I can control this. I am just in my mind.
And in the brainlike computer.
No, that is ridiculous. They are not something outside. They
are not robots, or monsters. They are part of me.
But that is the worst of it.
I must wake up.
She stretches her arm toward the distant rocks, forces her mind
upwards toward waking. The peak wavers and shrinks. Her hand almost
merges with that other hand, which holds the bottle. They brush,
almost catch each other. Then the lens melts.
She sags into the snow. It warm under her body. Far away, the
other body sets down the empty bottle, walks slowly to the bedroom.
There are clean sheets on the bed. The other Margaret crawls into
bed, turns over, hugs the pillow.
So this is what it is like. I read somewhere that death by
freezing was like sleep, and warm. Like the sleep after love.
Lying here in the snow she can see that the red disks have become
scattered rose petals. She touches one. It lies in a little hollow
in the snow, melted by sunlight.
Where did I get roses? she thought. I had meant them to be
butterflies.
---------------------------------------------------
Barbara Weitbrecht is a marine biologist by
training, a computer specialist by profession, and
an artist and writer by avocation. She is
currently living in Washington D.C., and working at
the Smithsonian Institution, where she is trying to
persuade Smithsonian employees to communicate with
each other using PROFS. She would much rather be
back in San Francisco.
---------------------------------------------------
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