Dreamsongs. Volume II

  We can make up all the definitions of science fiction and fantasy and horror that we want. We can draw our boundaries and make our labels, but in the end it’s still the same old story, the one about the human heart in conflict with itself.

  The rest, my friends, is furniture.

  The House of Fantasy is built of stone and wood and furnished in High Medieval. Its people travel by horse and galley, fight with sword and spell and battle-axe, communicate by palantir or raven, and break bread with elves and dragons.

  The House of Science Fiction is built of duralloy and plastic and furnished in Faux Future. Its people travel by starship and aircar, fight with nukes and tailored germs, communicate by ansible and laser, and break protein bars with aliens.

  The House of Horror is built of bone and cobwebs and furnished in Ghastly Gothick. Its people travel only by night, fight with anything that will kill messily, communicate in screams and shrieks and gibbers, and sip blood with vampires and werewolves.

  The Furniture Rule, I call it.

  Forget the definitions. Furniture Rules.

  Ask Phyllis Eisenstein, who has written a series of fine stories about a minstrel named Alaric, traveling through a medieval realm she never names…but if you corner her at a con she may whisper the name of this far kingdom. “Germany.” The only fantastic element in the Alaric stories is teleportation, a psi ability generally classed as a trope of SF. Ah, but Alaric carries a lute, and sleeps in castles, and around him are lords with swords, so ninety-nine readers out of every hundred, and most publishers as well, see the series as fantasy. The Furniture Rules.

  Ask Walter Jon Williams. In Metropolitan and City on Fire he gives us a secondary world as fully imagined as Tolkien’s Middle Earth, a world powered entirely by magic, which Walter calls “plasm.” But because the world is a single huge decaying city, rife with corrupt politics and racial tensions, and the plasm is piped and metered by the plasm authority, and the sorcerers live in high-rises instead of castles, critics and reviewers and readers alike keep calling the books science fiction. The Furniture Rules.

  Peter Nicholls writes, “…SF and fantasy, if genres at all, are impure genres…their fruit may be SF, but the roots are fantasy, and the flowers and leaves perhaps something else again.” If anything, Nicholls does not go far enough, for westerns and mysteries and romances and historicals and all the rest are impure as well. What we really have, when we get right down to the nitty-gritty, are stories. Just stories.

  And that’s what we have in this final section of the book. Some stories that I wrote. A little of this with a little of that. Weird stuff, folks, just weird stuff.

  “Under Siege,” for instance. It’s a time travel story. By definition that makes it science fiction (though, come to think of it, isn’t time travel actually a rather unscientific fantasy?), yet it began life as a mainstream historical. If you started reading this book at the beginning (as you should have!) and didn’t skip over my juvenalia, certain aspects of this story will seem oddly familiar to you. Yes indeed, it’s our old friend “The Fortress,” which earned me an A and my first rejection, courtesy of Franklin D. Scott and Erik J. Friis. In 1968 “The Fortress” went into the drawer to hibernate. In 1984 I took it out again, added a dwarf and some time travel, called it “Under Siege,” and sold it to Ellen Datlow for Omni. (Never throw anything away.)

  Then there’s “The Skin Trade,” the first (and only) story in my series about PI Randi Wade and Willie the werewolf collection agent. I wrote that one for the 1988 installment of Dark Harvest’s annual horror anthology, while I was out in L.A. working on Beauty and the Beast. I shared Night Visions 5 with Stephen King and Dan Simmons. To play on the same field as those two, I knew I’d need to bring my game. Hunched over my computer at the old Seward offices of Beauty and the Beast long after everyone else had left, I would drink whole pots of coffee to keep myself awake, and stagger home so wired that I couldn’t sleep even when I tumbled into bed. It is a wonder that Willie Flambeaux didn’t come out talking like Vincent, or vice versa. My deadline came and went, and on I wrote, months after King and Simmons had delivered. I have no doubt that Paul Mikol of Dark Harvest was sorely tempted to give my place to someone faster. But when I finally got the story in, Paul wrote to say, “All right, it kills me, but it was worth the wait.” In 1989 “The Skin Trade” won the World Fantasy Award for Best Novella, and I took home one of Gahan Wilson’s wonderfully gloomy busts of H. P. Lovecraft to adorn my mantel. Sometimes I put a little hat on him.

  “Unsound Variations” is my chess story. It’s got some time travel too, sure, but mostly it’s my chess story. Not long after moving to Santa Fe, I had this swell idea for an anthology of science fiction and fantasy stories about chess. I could reprint “Midnight by the Morphy Watch” by Fritz Leiber, “The Marvelous Brass Chessplaying Automaton” by Gene Wolfe, and “Von Goom’s Gambit,” a wonderfully weird Lovecraftian short originally published in Chess Review. The rest of the book I would fill out with originals. I knew lots of writers who loved chess.

  Fred Saberhagen was one of them. Unfortunately, when I wrote him about my book, he wrote back to tell me he’d just sold a chess anthology to Ace, and would be reprinting “Midnight by the Morphy Watch” and “The Marvelous Brass Chessplaying Automaton” and “Von Goom’s Gambit.” So instead of him writing a story for my anthology, I wrote a story for his Pawn to Infinity, drawing on my experiences as the captain of Northwestern’s chess team. The story is fiction, to be sure, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is coincidental…but I would like to point out that I myself once actually fielded six teams for the Pan-American Intercollegiate Team Championships, a record that endured for close to thirty years.

  “The Glass Flower” has a sadder distinction. It marked the last time I ever returned to my old SF future history. Kleronomas was one of the touchstone names of that history, along with Stephan Cobalt Northstar, Erika Stormjones, and Tomo and Walberg. I thought it was past time that I brought one of my mythic figures onto the stage. “The Glass Flower” appeared in Asimov’s in September, 1986. Except for Avalon, the abortive novel I began before getting caught up by A Game of Thrones and Doorways, I have not since visited any of my thousand worlds. Will I ever return to them? I make no promises. Maybe. That’s the best that I can do. Definitely maybe.

  “The Hedge Knight” is a prequel to my epic fantasy series A Song of Ice and Fire, set amongst the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros about ninety years prior to A Game of Thrones. Since the epic itself is far from finished, it would never have occurred to me to write a prequel had not Robert Silverberg phoned me to invite me to contribute to Legends, his gigantic new fantasy anthology. Big fantasy anthologies had been done before, of course, but Silverberg had put together an all-star roster of contributors for Legends, including Stephen King, Terry Pratchett, Ursula K. Le Guin, and most of the world’s other leading fantasists. It was plain that this book was going to be huge, and I knew I had to be a part of it. I did not want to give away anything about the end of A Song of Ice and Fire or the fate of its principal characters, so a prequel seemed the way to go. (Several of the other Legends contributors took the same route, as it turned out.)

  “The Hedge Knight” is high fantasy, nothing could be plainer. Or could it? Doesn’t fantasy require, well…magic? I have dragons in “The Hedge Knight,” yes indeed…on helmet crests and banners. Plus one stuffed with sawdust, dancing on its strings. Oh, and Dunk remembers old Ser Arlan talking about seeing a real live dragon once, perhaps that should suffice. If not, well…you can say “The Hedge Knight” is more of a historical adventure than a true fantasy, except that all the history is imaginary. So what does that make it? Don’t ask me, I just wrote it. I have since written a sequel, “The Sworn Sword.” Look for it come Christmas, in Silverberg’s LEGENDS II. More tales of Dunk and Egg will follow in the years to come, unless I’m run down by a bus or a better idea.

  The last story in the book is “Portraits of His Children,” a
novelette for which I won the Nebula and lost the Hugo back in 1986. This is a story about writing, and the price we writers pay when we mine our dreams and fears and memories. Back when “Portraits” was nominated for those awards, there was some spirited debate about whether or not it should actually be eligible. Is it a fantasy story, or just a tale of madness? Is it neither, is it both? You be the judge. So long as it’s a good story, that’s enough for me.

  Stories of the human heart in conflict with itself transcend time, place, and setting. So long as love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice are present, it matters not a whit whether that tall, lean stranger has a proton pistol or a six-shooter in his hand. Or a sword—

  Armor clinking, Lord Durston rode toward the crumbling old castle, hard by the waters of the Dire Lake, a drear land a thousand leagues beyond the realms of men. He reined up as he drew near…and at that point a tall, lean elven lord stepped out from the mouth of a cave, a glowing longsword in one moon-pale hand. “Throw down your blade, Lord Durston,” the tall stranger lipped thinly. “You know it not, but you shall ride no more through the land of faery.”

  Fantasy? Science fiction? Horror?

  I say it’s a story, and I say the hell with it.

  UNDER SIEGE

  ON THE HIGH RAMPARTS OF VARGÖN, COLONEL BENGT ANTTONEN stood alone and watched phantasms race across the ice.

  The world was snow and wind and bitter, burning cold. The winter sea had frozen hard around Helsinki, and in its icy grip it held the six island citadels of the great fortress called Sveaborg. The wind was a knife drawn from a sheath of ice. It cut through Anttonen’s uniform, chafed at his cheeks, brought tears to his eyes and froze them as they trickled down his face. The wind howled around the towering gray granite walls, forced its way through doors and cracks and gun emplacements, insinuated itself everywhere. Out upon the frozen sea, it snapped and shrieked at the Russian artillery, and sent puffs of snow from the drifts running and swirling over the ice like strange white beasts, ghostly animals all asparkle, wearing first one shape and then another, changing constantly as they ran.

  They were creatures as malleable as Anttonen’s thoughts. He wondered what form they would take next and where they were running to so swiftly, these misty children of snow and wind. Perhaps they could be taught to attack the Russians. He smiled, savoring the fancy of the snow beasts unleashed upon the enemy. It was a strange, wild thought. Colonel Bengt Anttonen had never been an imaginative man before, but of late his mind had often been taken by such whimsies.

  Anttonen turned his face into the wind again, welcoming the chill, the numbing cold. He wanted it to cool his fury, to cut into the heart of him and freeze the passions that seethed there. He wanted to be numb. The cold had turned even the turbulent sea into still and silent ice; now let it conquer the turbulence within Bengt Anttonen. He opened his mouth, exhaled a long plume of breath that rose from his reddened cheeks like steam, inhaled a draught of frigid air that went down like liquid oxygen.

  But panic came in the wake of that thought. Again, it was happening again. What was liquid oxygen? Cold, he knew somehow; colder than the ice, colder than this wind. Liquid oxygen was bitter and white, and it steamed and flowed. He knew it, knew it as certainly as he knew his own name. But how?

  Anttonen turned from the ramparts. He walked with long swift strides, his hand touching the hilt of his sword as if it could provide some protection against the demons that had invaded his mind. The other officers were right; he was going mad, surely. He had proved it this afternoon at the staff meeting.

  The meeting had gone very badly, as they all had of late. As always, Anttonen had raised his voice against the others, hopelessly, stupidly. He was right, he knew that. Yet he knew also that he could not convince them, and that each word further undermined his status, further damaged his career.

  Jägerhorn had brought it on once again. Colonel F. A. Jägerhorn was everything that Anttonen was not; dark and handsome, polished and politic, an aristocrat with an aristocrat’s control. Jägerhorn had important connections, had influential relatives, had a charmed career. And, most importantly, Jägerhorn had the confidence of Vice-Admiral Carl Olof Cronstedt, commandant of Sveaborg.

  At the meeting, Jägerhorn had had a sheaf of reports.

  “The reports are wrong,” Anttonen had insisted. “The Russians do not outnumber us. And they have barely forty guns, sir. Sveaborg mounts ten times that number.”

  Cronstedt seemed shocked by Anttonen’s tone, his certainty, his insistence. Jägerhorn simply smiled. “Might I ask how you come by this intelligence, Colonel Anttonen?” he asked.

  That was the question Bengt Anttonen could never answer. “I know,” he said stubbornly.

  Jägerhorn rattled the papers in his hand. “My own intelligence comes from Lieutenant Klick, who is in Helsinki and has direct access to reliable reports of enemy plans, movements, and numbers.” He looked to Vice-Admiral Cronstedt. “I submit, sir, that this information is a good deal more reliable than Colonel Anttonen’s mysterious certainties. According to Klick, the Russians outnumber us already, and General Suchtelen will soon be receiving sufficient reinforcements to enable him to launch a major assault. Furthermore, they have a formidable amount of artillery on hand. Certainly more than the forty pieces that Colonel Anttonen would have us believe to be the extent of their armament.”

  Cronstedt was nodding, agreeing. Even then Anttonen could not be silent. “Sir,” he insisted, “Klick’s reports must be discounted. The man cannot be trusted. Either he is in the pay of the enemy or they are deluding him.”

  Cronstedt frowned. “That is a grave charge, Colonel.”

  “Klick is a fool and a damned Anjala traitor!”

  Jägerhorn bristled at that, and Cronstedt and a number of junior officers looked plainly aghast. “Colonel,” the commandant said, “it is well known that Colonel Jägerhorn has relatives in the Anjala League. Your comments are offensive. Our situation here is perilous enough without my officers fighting among themselves over petty political differences. You will offer an apology at once.”

  Given no choice, Anttonen had tendered an awkward apology. Jägerhorn accepted with a patronizing nod.

  Cronstedt went back to the papers. “Very persuasive,” he said, “and very alarming. It is as I have feared. We have come to a hard place.” Plainly his mind was made up. It was futile to argue further. It was at times like this that Bengt Anttonen most wondered what madness had possessed him. He would go to staff meetings determined to be circumspect and politic, and no sooner would he be seated than a strange arrogance would seize him. He argued long past the point of wisdom; he denied obvious facts, confirmed in written reports from reliable sources; he spoke out of turn and made enemies on every side.

  “No, sir,” he said, “I beg of you, disregard Klick’s intelligence. Sveaborg is vital to the spring counteroffensive. We have nothing to fear if we can hold out until the ice melts. Once the sea lanes are open, Sweden will send help.”

  Vice-Admiral Cronstedt’s face was drawn and weary, an old man’s face. “How many times must we go over this? I grow tired of your argumentative attitude, and I am quite aware of Sveaborg’s importance to the spring offensive. The facts are plain. Our defenses are flawed, and the ice makes our walls accessible from all sides. Sweden’s armies are being routed—”

  “We know that only from the newspapers the Russians allow us, sir,” Anttonen blurted. “French and Russian papers. Such news is unreliable.”

  Cronstedt’s patience was exhausted. “Quiet!” he said, slapping the table with an open palm. “I have had enough of your intransigence, Colonel Anttonen. I respect your patriotic fervor, but not your judgment. In the future, when I require your opinion, I shall ask for it. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Anttonen had said.

  Jägerhorn smiled. “If I may proceed?”

  The rebuke had been as smarting as the cold winter wind. It was no wonder Anttonen had felt driv
en to the cold solitude of the battlements afterwards.

  By the time he returned to his quarters, Bengt Anttonen’s mood was bleak and confused. Darkness was falling, he knew. Over the frozen sea, over Sveaborg, over Sweden and Finland. And over America, he thought. Yet the afterthought left him sick and dizzy. He sat heavily on his cot, cradling his head in his hands. America, America, what madness was that, what possible difference could the struggle between Sweden and Russia make to that infant nation so far away?

  Rising, he lit a lamp, as if light would drive the troubling thoughts away, and splashed some stale water on his face from the basin atop the modest dresser. Behind the basin was the mirror he used for shaving; slightly warped and dulled by corrosion, but serviceable. As he dried his big, bony hands, he found himself staring at his own face, the features at once so familiar and so oddly, frighteningly strange. He had unruly graying hair, dark gray eyes, a narrow straight nose, slightly sunken cheeks, a square chin. He was too thin, almost gaunt. It was a stubborn, common, plain face. The face he had worn all his life. Long ago, Bengt Anttonen had grown resigned to the way he looked. Until recently, he scarcely gave his appearance any thought. Yet now he stared at himself, unblinking, and felt a disturbing fascination welling up inside him, a sense of satisfaction, a pleasure in the cast of his image that was alien and troubling.

  Such vanity was sick, unmanly, another sign of madness. Anttonen wrenched his gaze from the mirror. He lay himself down with a will.

  For long moments he could not sleep. Fancies and visions danced against his closed eyelids, sights as fantastic as the phantom animals fashioned by the wind: flags he did not recognize, walls of polished metal, great storms of fire, men and women as hideous as demons asleep in beds of burning liquid. And then, suddenly, the thoughts were gone, peeled off like a layer of burned skin. Bengt Anttonen sighed uneasily, and turned in his sleep…