“Children do that.”
“Not my heir.”
“Your heir is a child.”
“Not one of our children. Not one of our people. We don’t … do that.”
“She does.”
“And you don’t even care! You don’t even look at her. Don’t you know what they’re saying about us? How they look at us?”
“Don’t care.”
“You used to.”
“Don’t anymore.”
And she had heard it. Silence before a crack of thunder. Grains of earth falling after a drop of rain kicks them up. Moan of wind over hillsides. The moment before he drew a breath, before he spoke with the intent of being heard.
“You used to stand with me in front of them, remember? You and your bow, the proud huntress next to me, so strong and brave. They looked up to us as I spoke. They listened to me and I cared only if you heard me.”
Honey fermenting in a skein. Dandelions flying on the breeze. Steam after the fire had been doused. The words he spoke that had made her listen, the words he spoke that made him powerful, the words he spoke when he had been Rokuda and she had been Kalindris and they had no need for words.
“You used to listen to my words, you used to nod when they nodded and cheer when they cheered. And when I was done and I looked out over all of them smiling, I looked beside me and yours was always the biggest smile and the best.”
The words he spoke when she thought those were all she ever needed.
“You had a lot of words,” Kalindris had said.
“I still do. I still have everything. Everything except that proud huntress that stood beside me. Where did she go?”
Kalindris had waited at the flap of the tent. When she opened it to the cold dawn light, the world was silent. She looked briefly over her shoulder and saw his eyes, so vast and green. And out the corner of her eye, she saw only a glimpse of it. But the scar on her collarbone, the one he had given her, was still there.
“She fell in love with someone silent and gentle. They ran away and died somewhere far in the woods and left you and I behind.”
She had spoken briefly. And then she had left.
“You’re not doing it right. You’re not doing it right.” Teeth coming in through a cub’s mouth. “You’re supposed to talk to me. You’re supposed to be able to do this.” Claws digging for something in the earth that wasn’t there. “Stop it. Stop it. Stop it and do it already.” A leg in a snare, being gnawed off.
The child.
Talking to the earth.
Still.
She watched, arms folded, impassive as the child crawled through the riverbank, following a flayed line through the mud. The child followed it over the bank, through the ebb, around the trees, back to where it began. The child cursed at it, made demands of it, whined at it and now simply spewed words, to the tracks, to the earth, to herself.
The child’s hands were thick with mud, belly smeared with it, face painted brown where she had clutched her head in frustration. And she crawled with her hands upon the ground, as though she could strangle answers out of the earth.
The earth wouldn’t talk to her.
The child wanted everything. The child wanted the tracks to tell her without listening to them. The child wanted the land to yield to her because she wanted it to that badly. The child wanted. The child spoke. The child whined and demanded and she never listened.
Like her father.
Kalindris was surprised to find her hands clenched into fists at her side.
“He said it was supposed to be easy,” the child whined. “It’s supposed to be easy. Why didn’t he—” She slammed the heel of her palm against her forehead. A muddy bruise was left behind. “No, no. It’s you, not him. You’re doing something wrong. It’s you, you’re the failure, that’s why they hate you.”
His legacy. In the mud. Striking herself in the head.
In some wordless part of herself, Kalindris tried to convince herself that the child deserved this. The child who couldn’t listen, the child who always spoke, his child belonged in the mud.
Kalindris was surprised to hear her own voice.
“It’s metaphor. The earth doesn’t actually talk to you.” The child continued to paw at it and plead to it. “Look. You’ve ruined the tracks. We can start—”
“Shut up!”
The child.
Baring teeth.
Snarling.
“I don’t want to hear it or you or anything, I just want to find the beast and kill it and bring it back and show it to him and then he’ll talk to me and I don’t need you or anyone else to talk to me if Father will so I never have to see you again!”
The child was liquid. White flecks of spittle gathered at her mouth. Tears brimmed in the corners of her eyes. Viscous mucus dripped from her nostrils. The child was melting, trembling herself to death. The child turned away, looked back into the silent earth.
“I wasn’t asleep.”
And Kalindris had no words for the child. The child who had just spoken to her like it was her fault the child’s ears couldn’t hear. The child who presumed to dismiss her. The child who acted like it was her fault, her problem, her flaw that made this moment of mud and tears and spit.
Like her father. Every bit.
She was surprised to find tears in her eyes.
And she, too, turned. The earth spoke to her, though. Told her where the beast had gone. Told her how to deny the child and how that made sense that she should be angry and vengeful against a child.
The child.
Weeping.
And she shut her ears and walked away.
Mother was scared. And Father was scared.
Senny knew this because no one was yelling anymore.
Mother wrapped her hands tightly around her and held her close in the corner of their cottage. Father stood with his hatchet in his hand, peering through the windows. Mother had her. Father had his hatchet. And they were both still scared.
She wasn’t, though. She had her little knife. Father had given it to her so she wouldn’t be scared. She couldn’t be scared with the little knife, even if Father was.
She thought about giving it to Father, to see if it would help. But she pulled it back when she heard a voice, even if it was Father’s.
“I’m going out there.”
“What? Why would you do that?”
“To look for that thing. It might not even be around. We didn’t see it when we found—”
“No. Don’t go out there,” Mother said. “It already got Eadne. You can’t let it get your daughter and me, you have to stay here, you have to, you have to.”
“I have to protect you,” Father said. “I have to keep you safe. We can’t live like this. We can’t let that beast chase us away. We have to …”
To not be scared, Senny wanted to say. We have to be brave.
“I’m going,” Father said. “Not far. Not long. Just stay here. I’ll be back.”
Senny nodded. She held her little knife tightly. Mother held her tightly. So tightly it hurt. She leaned into it, though, let Mother hold on to her because Mother didn’t have a little knife.
Father pushed the door open. Birds were singing outside. The sun was shining that orange way it got when it started going beneath the trees. The brook was babbling outside, talking loud and wondering where the little girl was that talked back to it. Father walked out two steps from the doorway and looked around with his hatchet in his hand.
The birds kept singing. The brook kept talking. The sun kept shining.
And Father was dead.
She knew it. She saw the arrow in his shoulder, pinning him to the cottage door. She saw another fly out and hit him in the wrist. He dropped his hatchet. Mother screamed. Father screamed. Father bled all over the door. And Senny held on to the little knife.
The beast came up. The beast was a lady. Her hair was long and wild and she wore dirty clothes and her ears were huge and she had big teeth and a scar on her nec
k. Her knife was big. Her knife was shiny. And she brought it up and against Father’s neck and opened him up and his blood spilled all over her.
And the birds just kept on singing, even though Father was dead.
When the birds kept singing and the woman would not stop weeping, she looked at the Beast.
There were many names for them: intruder, human, monkey, kou’ru. It was Rokuda that had began calling them Beasts, to make them a threat instead of a people, a word instead of a thing that had children. It had made the tribe nod in approval and mutter how they were Beasts, these creatures that came and threatened the shict lands.
She had killed one already, left the body swinging in a tree as warning to these two. But she had known, even then, that she would have to kill them, too. She had killed many.
Even before Rokuda gave them a new name, she had killed them. They were the enemy, they were the disease. Killing defined a shict. And these kills were meant for the child. The blood that poured down Kalindris’ hands should have been on the child’s. She was supposed to have come back to the tribe with her hands red and her eyes shut and the tribe would know she was one of them and her father would be proud of his heir.
The child’s kill. Rokuda’s glory. Kalindris denied one through the other.
The little human girl stood in front of her cowering mother, holding up a little knife like it was a match for the broad red blade in Kalindris’ hands. She looked up at Kalindris, trying her hardest not to show fear. Kalindris looked down at her, trying to decide how best to end this quickly. A clean blow through one, then the other, she thought, in the heart to end it quickly.
Clean and quick.
Just as soon as the child stopped staring at her.
Like she owed her an explanation.
“Do you know why?” Heavy, choked, weak. Kalindris’ words.
The human child did not say a thing. Her mother wrapped her arms around the child’s tiny form, tried to hold her back. The child would not lower her knife.
“Why I have to kill you?” she asked again.
The child said nothing. Kalindris opened her mouth to tell her. No words came.
“Your knife is too small,” Kalindris said. She held up her own blade, thick and choked with red. “You can’t do anything with it. You aren’t meant to hold it. Put it down.”
The child did not put it down. Kalindris raised her weapon, took a step forward, as if to step around the child. The child moved in front of her, thrust her little knife at Kalindris like it would do something. Like she could use it. Like she wasn’t scared.
Kalindris hesitated. She looked over her shoulder, as though she expected the child—her child—to be there.
“You don’t have to die here,” she said, without looking at the child—the human child. “Your … your father isn’t you. Your mother isn’t you. I’ll take them. You can run.”
She looked at the child and her little knife.
“Go. Run away.”
The child did not run. The child did not move.
“Why aren’t you running?”
“I can’t.” The child spoke in a terrified voice.
“Why not?”
“Because she’s my mother.”
The pages of a book fallen from a shelf, turning. Ashes in a long-dead fireplace settling beneath charred logs. A mother weeping. Birds singing. Blood pattering onto the floor from a hole in a soft throat, drop by drop.
Slow sounds.
Quiet sounds.
Full of nothing.
Kalindris could hear the whisper of leather as she slid the blade back into its sheath. Kalindris could hear the sound of her boots on the floor as she turned around and walked out of the cabin. Kalindris could hear the sound of the human child drop to the floor and weep.
She could hear it all the way back to the forest.
And her child.
A river running. Wind blowing through the leaves. A wolf howling.
And birds singing.
No matter how hard she tried, how she angled her ears, how she strained to hear something else, something full of meaning, this was all she could hear. These sounds, common and pointless, the sort of thing any ugly creature could hear.
The Howling wasn’t talking to her.
“Where were you?”
The child.
Asking.
Concerned.
She walked into the clearing with her bow on her back and her knife in her belt. The child was sitting down on her heels, looking up at her as she walked past.
“You washed,” the child noted, looking at her clean, bloodless hands. “When? What did you do?”
She did not look back at the child as she sat down beside her. She let her legs hang over a small ledge, dangling over a dying brook whose babble had turned to poetic muttering as it sputtered into a thin stream. She looked to her right and saw the child’s feet in their little boots, covered in mud, flecked with blood from the dead deer.
Only a few droplets of red. The rest mixed with the mud. It seemed like so much to look at it.
“Why do we kill, child?” she asked absently.
“You already asked me this.”
“I know. Tell me again.”
The child kicked her feet a little. A few flecks of mud came off. Not the blood.
“I guess I don’t know,” the child said.
She said nothing.
They stared, together, into the forest. Their ears pricked up, listening to the sounds. Birds kept singing, one more day they marked by noisy chatter. The wind kept blowing, same as it always had. Somewhere far away, one more deer loosed a long, guttural bugle into the sky.
“Did you kill the beast?” the child asked.
She said nothing.
“I was supposed to do it.”
“I didn’t.”
The child looked at her. “I’m not an idiot.”
“No.”
She reached over, wrapped an arm around the child and drew her close. A heart beating; excited. A breath drawn in sharply; quivering. A shudder through the body; terrified. She drew the child closer.
“But let me pretend you are for a little while.”
No more noises. No more sounds. No more distant cries and close Howling. Only words. Only the child’s voice.
“I was supposed to kill it. Father said.”
“Your father isn’t always right.”
“You are?”
“No.”
“Then why should I believe you?”
“Because.”
“That’s not a good reason.”
She looked down at the child and smiled. “I’ll think of one later, all right?”
The child looked back at her. Her smile came more slowly, more nervous, like she was afraid it would be slapped out of her mouth at any moment. Kalindris blamed herself for that look, for these words that came heavy and slowly. She would learn how to use them better.
There would be time for that. Without so much blood and cold nights. Without so many thoughts of Rokuda and his words. She would learn them on her own. She would tell them to the child.
Her child.
Her daughter.
Smiling.
There would be time enough to look into her daughter’s eyes, long from now, and know what it meant to need no words. There would be a time when she would look into her daughter’s eyes and simply know.
For now, she had only the sound of her daughter’s smile. And forever.
Pat Cadigan
Everyone knows what that road to hell is paved with, don’t they?
Pat Cadigan was born in Schenectady, New York, and now lives in London with her family. She made her first professional sale in 1980, and has subsequently come to be regarded as one of the best new writers of her generation. Her story “Pretty Boy Crossover” has appeared on several critic’s lists as among the best science fiction stories of the 1980s, and her story “Angel” was a finalist for the Hugo Award, the Nebula Award, and the World Fantasy Award (
one of the few stories ever to earn that rather unusual distinction). Her short fiction—which has appeared in most of the major markets, including Asimov’s Science Fiction and The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction—has been gathered in the collections Patterns and Dirty Work. Her first novel, Mindplayers, was released in 1987 to excellent critical response, and her second novel, Synners, released in 1991, won the Arthur C. Clarke Award as the year’s best science fiction novel, as did her third novel, Fools, making her the only writer ever to win the Clarke Award twice. Her other books include the novels Dervish Is Digital, Tea from an Empty Cup, and Reality Used to Be a Friend of Mine, and, as editor, the anthology The Ultimate Cyberpunk, as well as two making-of movie books and four media tie-in novels. Her most recent book was a novel, Cellular.
CARETAKERS
“Hey, Val,” said my sister Gloria, “you ever wonder why there aren’t any female serial killers?”
We were watching yet another documentary on the Prime Crime Network. We’d been watching a lot of those in the month since she had moved in. Along with two suitcases, one stuffed with products especially formulated for curly brown hair, and a trash bag containing two sets of expensive, high-thread-count bed linens, my little sister had also brought her fascination with the lurid and sensational disguised as an interest in current events—the inverse of expensive sheets in a trash bag, you might say.
“What about Aileen What’s-Her-Name?” I said.
“One. And they executed her pretty fast. So fast you can’t remember her last name.”
“I can remember it,” I said. “I just can’t pronounce it. And it wasn’t that fast—at least ten years after they caught her. They executed Bundy pretty quickly, too, didn’t they? In Florida. Her, too, now that I think of it.”
Gloria gave a surprised laugh. “I had no idea you were such an expert on serial killers.”
“We’ve watched enough TV shows about them,” I said as I went into the kitchen for more iced tea. “I could probably make one on my iPad.” An exaggeration but not much; the shows were so formulaic that sometimes I wasn’t sure which ones were repeats. But I didn’t really mind indulging Gloria. She was fifteen years younger, so I was used to making allowances, and as vices went, true-crime TV was pretty minor. More to the point, Gloria had been visiting Mom in the care home every day without fail. I’d expected the frequency to drop after the first two weeks but she was still spending every afternoon playing cards with Mom or reading to her or just hanging (unquote). I had to give her credit for that, even though I was fairly sure she felt this made her exempt from having to look for paid employment.