FSF, August-September 2009 Page 6

  His passion wheels like a condor on a changing wind. “Sí! Sí, señora, in my lifetime I alone, four ghosts I have met. Mi tia, sister of my father..."

  Some time later, inside, seated on the beige sofa and drinking an execrable South American brand of powdered instant coffee, you have learned that his aunt after dying at four in the morning had gone to sit on the beds of all the neighbors in her village, unwilling to leave. He is from Chile, where people live all their lives in the one village so poor. Here in the Estados Unidos he is rich, he has the automobile, he sends money home to his sisters. His grandmother after death had come back as a cold miasma terrorizing her family until all the babies were christened. Here in the Estados Unidos he lives in the house very nice and his employers are good to him; he does not know what to tell them about the new room upstairs. His mother, who died in childbirth, came back every night to pull the hair of his father sleeping.

  "But I am alive,” you point out after a while. “How can I be a ghost?"

  "How do I know that you are alive, señora?"

  "You are sitting here talking with me."

  "Stranger things have happened."

  You explain to him about the sleeping, the dreams, the coincidence that led to your finding the house.

  "It was no, how you say, coincidence, señora. Your great-uncle now dead, he led you here."

  "But I didn't even know him. I was just going to his funeral because I thought I ought to."

  "He led you here, maybe, same reason. Family is family."

  "But I am not a ghost!” Seeing his face stiffen, quickly you soften your tone. “I do not want to be a ghost. Do you think your mother wanted to be a ghost?"

  "No, señora, of course not. The ghosts, they, how you say, haunt, because they are unhappy."

  "Oh,” you say rather weakly, because once again it is too true, although you have seldom acknowledged your unhappiness; discontentment, like larceny or adultery, you have allowed no mental compass.

  "Why, señora, have you caused the circle room upstairs, with the bed in it?"

  You do not tell him how the empty shoebox of a room made you wake up to find yourself in a cheap motel bed weeping, or attempt to explain the white fire fountain that ensued within your chest, the manifestations you yourself do not fully understand. Instead, you say, “When I sleep somewhere else, in my dream I come here and haunt this house, is that not true?"

  "Sí, indeed I have seen it many times with my own eyes. So?"

  "So if I sleep here, in my very own room, then what is there for me to haunt?"

  * * * *

  Everything about your room makes you feel exalted: the dome ceiling with circular skylight, the countryside view from your six arched windows, the glass bubbles floating and emanating a firefly glow above your head, the soft round rug with its pattern ever gently shifting like a pastel kaleidoscope, the similarly changeful mandala mosaics on the walls, the flower-shaped pillows on which you will rest your head, the sheer undeniable reality that it is daytime yet you have climbed the spiral staircase and opened the arched door and there is your condign dwelling just as you have shaped it in your dreams.

  The caretaker remains at the bottom of what he calls the “ladder,” the stairs. He will approach no nearer. Most reluctantly he has agreed to this experiment. “For one night only,” he repeats for perhaps the fifteenth time, shouting up from his distance, although he knows as well as you do that it will not be for one night only. “You need anything? I am leaving."

  This raises your eyebrows. “Are you frightened?"

  "But sí, yes.” He does not deny it the way an American man would. “Are you not?"

  "No, not at all! I am very....” With astonishment you realize what you are saying, and how true it is. “I am very happy."

  "Ay caramba!” Complaining to Madre Maria, he goes away.

  You truly do not need anything from him; once more you do not require food. The bed, a great water lily, floats on its kaleidoscope carpet pad, and you wish only to recline into its white softness. You do so, lying like a compass pointing five ways, and you gaze, gaze up through the skylight, watching blue and white turn to puce, greige, twilight and night. Unsleeping, you have nevertheless passed into a state in which you know no time. You gaze at the indigo sky, and like your reflection in a dark mirror the moon gazes back at you, a middle-aged moon in all her full-circle glory, wheeling luminous into her waning.

  You are such a one. Why, oh why, does the world find you invisible? The world must be sleeping.

  You sleep. You do not realize you are asleep until you find yourself outside of a house. A development house, triangles on top of rectangles, taupe, of course. The new houses are all taupe unless they're tan or beige. And all the others on the street are dark except for their little Malibu lights ranked along their foundation plantings. But in this one, you are surprised to see the living room lights still on at this time of the night. You fumble your keys out of your purse—for some reason you are once again carrying the black purse, wearing the navy-blue suit—and attempt to let yourself in, but the lock does not respond. You step inside anyway, through the hollow-core door, blinking when you see your husband and teenage children sitting in their usual places, fully clothed, yet not watching the TV. They look bewildered and somewhat aggrieved.

  "Hi, I'm home,” you say.

  They do not hear you or look at you. Shrugging, you go on with your usual routine, your nightly ritual, hanging up your coat, setting your purse on the hallway table, glancing at the mail—junk, bills—then heading for the kitchen. The sink is piled with dishes. You open the dishwasher, find clean dishes still in it, and start putting them away in the cupboards.

  You hear your husband talking to the children. “C'mon, guys, think. Where could she be that she's not using her credit cards?"

  "Dead,” says one of the kids.

  "That's stupid,” says the other. “Who would want to kill Mom?” They sound bone-tired and uncommunicative, as if returning from a sleepover.

  "It's a possibility we have to face.” Your husband sounds the same way. “But until they find her or at least her car, I'd rather think she ran away. Where would she go? Did she ever say anything to you?"

  "Just about that dumb-head dream of hers."

  Meanwhile, handling the dishes, you notice what satisfying discs they are, what attractive circles in this otherwise angular place. And you like their stylized folk pattern, cornflower blue, but why in the name of the moon goddess must they all be the same? You would like each plate to be lovely and unique, like the mandalas—womandalas?—you have recently created in your dumb-head dream.

  Dumb? You're dreaming now. You can do things.

  And with the awareness comes resentment, mixing oddly with your joy as your mind caresses onto each plate its own radial symmetry, its unique primal pattern. As you ensoul each circle of pottery, you load the dishwasher, put detergent in it, slam it closed, and turn it on. No one hears, of course, or pays any attention, and why should they, when this has been going on for years and years?

  Yet generally people do notice ghosts. The way slugs notice salt.

  It's obvious, then, that what you have been saying all along is true. You are not a ghost.

  "I can't see what her idiotic dream has to do with anything,” your husband is saying. “Well, I guess we might as well face it, the phone's not going to ring. Let's try to get some sleep."

  "Good night,” you call automatically, and you drift into the living room to watch them trudge upstairs, wondering whether they will notice when they get up in the morning that you took care of the dishes for them.

  Novelet: A TOKEN OF A BETTER AGE by Melinda M. Snodgrass

  Melinda Snodgrass is the author of Circuit, Runespear, and many other novels and stories. Along with her good friend George R.R. Martin, she created the “Wild Cards” series. Her most recent novel is The Edge of Reason and a sequel, The Edge of Ruin, is scheduled for publication next year. According to the bio posted
on her Website ( www.melindasnodgrass.co ), she is also an accomplished singer, horse rider, screenwriter, and she manages a small natural gas company.

  Her F&SF debut is set in the same universe as the “Edge” novels, but you don't need any extra background info in order to enjoy the tale.

  "I'm going to be broken on a wheel of swords and then beheaded,” the man said in answer to the Centurion's question.

  The Centurion was surprised. That was a high honor, a mark of respect. Well, at least the beheading part was, he amended. When he'd asked about the man's crime, he'd expected a story like his own—convicted and sentenced to fight in the arena until defeated and killed. But this poor bastard wasn't even being given the chance to fight. He was going to be tortured and then killed.

  Another, closer look, revealed what the Centurion had missed with his first, cursory glance. Beneath the dirt and dried blood the tunic was fine wool and the man's boots were well made and hardly worn. The Centurion could see where decorations had been torn from the tops of the boots. He also saw where the skin on the man's arms was lighter, marking the places where armillae once rested.

  The man was smiling at him. Genuinely amused. The Centurion tried to cover his confusion by blustering, “Ho, we have a patrician among us."

  Some of the other prisoners in the dungeon beneath the arena in Nicomedia looked over at them, but most were uninterested, lost in their own troubles and terrors over what tomorrow would bring. In the dimness of the dungeon, lit only by smoking, flickering wall torches, their eyes glittered. It reminded the Centurion of the big cats in their cages that he had passed on his way to the dungeon, and he decided it was a good comparison. Most of the people in here were also dangerous killers. And the Centurion was no exception.

  In addition to the gladiators there were a few frightened criminals who stayed in the corners, sniveling. The Centurion was a criminal, but he was also a soldier and he would not show such fear.

  Near the stone bulk of a supporting pillar a handful of Christians droned their prayers. The emperor hated the Christians and had started another round of persecutions. So far their god hadn't appeared to stop him.

  "So, what are they killing you for?” the Centurion asked.

  "Saving a city.” The Patrician gave a sideways look from the corner of his eyes. Again he seemed amused. “And you?” he asked. “Gladiator?"

  "No, no, I'm a legionnaire, a Centurion.” The leather straps of his lorica creaked a bit as his chest expanded, as if to say, I'm part of the greatest army in the world, and proud of it.

  "Neither of those will get you condemned to the arena."

  The Centurion deflated. “Sadly, I am also a thief."

  "Ah."

  It was suddenly important to the Centurion that this man know he had not been enslaved for his crime. He would walk into that arena a free man, and if he won every fight he would walk out—as a free man.

  "I plan to be the last man standing tomorrow,” the Centurion said. “Diocletian will be watching, and I'll end up in his guard.” Most of it was bluster. He also hoped the brave words would disguise his fear.

  "Wish for the first two. I'd avoid the third if I were you,” the Patrician said dryly.

  "Know the emperor that well, do you?” The Centurion spit on the stone slabs of the floor and then regretted it. He shouldn't waste spit, he was going to need it, especially if the guards didn't feed and water them in the morning.

  "I was in his guard."

  In his experience bullshit always trumpeted, but this was said quietly. Like it was a fact. The Centurion was suddenly embarrassed by the way he'd pushed in on the man, as if being in this cell made them somehow equals and comrades. A hand closed on his wrist, strong fingers that brought an ache to the bones. The Centurion hadn't even realized he was moving away from the Patrician until that grip stopped him. The Patrician looked up at him. His expression was serious and calculating. With a wave of the hand he indicated that the Centurion should join him.

  Nervous and flattered, he dropped down to sit next to the Patrician. Even through the rough wool of his tunic the hewn stone was cold against his haunches. He shivered briefly and wrapped his arms around his chest. The Centurion was suddenly aware that the other man's eyes were tracing the line of the biceps, and studying the tendons and muscles that wrapped his left wrist. The Centurion wondered if he was a boy lover, and felt his hand clenching into a fist. He would hate to waste his strength beating a catamite. But at the man's next words, he relaxed.

  "You can fight with either hand,” he said. The Centurion nodded. “That should give you an advantage."

  "For the first four or five. After that....” The Centurion shrugged.

  "Let us talk through the night. I'll tell you my tale, and when you walk from the arena tomorrow you'll take the story back to my mother in Lydda."

  The Centurion make a rude noise. “Look, I'm not getting out of this. It was just brag ... what I said."

  "I think you might. I think your opponents won't be at their best tomorrow."

  The Patrician touched the intricate buckle that held his wide leather balteus. The buckle was a strange thing, made up of curves and spirals and many shades of gray. His fingers slid through the loops, and stroked the glass-like material. The Centurion wondered why no one had taken it from him, but why would they when there was gold to be had, and this was a dull nothing? Still, there was something about the thing that made his scalp prickle.

  "All right, but if the emperor changes his mind ... if you walk out, you must go to my mother in Luceria, and tell her what happened to me,” the Centurion said, and he tried to match the man's off-handed tone.

  "Done."

  They gripped forearms. The Centurion scooted back to rest his back against the wall, and settled in to listen. The man had a good voice, deep and soft.

  * * * *

  The word had gone out that a serpent—no, it was more than that, a giant lizard, no, greater than a lizard, a dragon—was afflicting Cyrene. The tale flew up and down the coast, whispered in crossroads colleges, taverns, and marketplaces.

  I paid attention to such tales. Most times they were just flights of fancy, concocted by bored and credulous people, but sometimes they brought us word that one of the Old Ones was abroad in the world.

  It's beneath my dignity as a military tribune to loiter in taverns, marketplaces, and crossroads colleges, but the first two locales offered no impediment for my slave. I sent Scientius out among the people.

  I waited for his return in the roof garden of the fat merchant's villa we'd commandeered to house the tribunes. The man's taste was atrocious, so very few of his possessions had been taken. It was a fortunate circumstance for him that he was a clod, less so for young tribunes trying to get ahead. While the sun sank, turning the waves of the sea to shivering flames, I sipped wine, tuned my lyre, and waited for Scientius's return. Even the tart/sweet scent of blossoming orange trees that shaded me couldn't hide the stink of the tanneries down by the docks. My troops called Cilicia “the shithole” and I couldn't disagree.

  I've always savored this time of day. The breathless heat and the assault of the sun ended, and for a few hours I was treated to the soft cry of night birds, the squeak of bats, and the stars. Scientius showed me they are burning globes like the sun, but they are so far away they look like jewels....

  * * * *

  The Centurion glared, thinking the Patrician was mocking him. Tales of wonder to hold the fear at bay were one thing, but this.... He was not a fool.

  "Now that's a bunch of horse dung,” he said.

  "No, I've seen them. Through glass lenses that Scientius constructed."

  "Well, there's your mistake. Slaves are cunning and slothful. You've gotta watch them."

  The Patrician smiled at the lecturing tone. “Mine is certainly cunning, but he's been right about many things."

  * * * *

  My lyre gave a soft cry, a series of whispered notes. My slave had returned. He waited in the d
oorway until I motioned him forward, and he bowed when he reached me. We always observed the formalities. It wouldn't do for people to realize that the slave was actually the master. He's an interesting-looking man.

  * * * *

  "And it's important that you pay attention and remember this,” the Patrician said, and his look was intense as he leaned in close to the Centurion.

  "Why?"

  "Because you must recognize him tomorrow when you leave the arena."

  "I told you, it won't—"

  "Have faith.” And a strange, almost bitter, little smile curved his lips.

  * * * *

  Scientius is as powerfully built as a Gaul or a Goth, but his skin is Nubian black, and his eyes are akin to those of the people of Sinae.

  "It's one of ours,” he said to me as he bent low to refill my wine cup.

  His voice is deep and bell-like, and the chimes that hung in the trees shivered and breathed their music into the onrushing night, and mingled with the voice of my lyre. Scientius has this effect on instruments. I have a friend who is a musician, and he always wants my slave in the dining room when he plays. He swears the instruments sound better. I've always just smiled indulgently, and never indicated that what he's said is true.

  I was sure Scientius was right about the dragon, but Cyrene was far away, and I was suddenly very comfortable in Shithole. “You're sure? This isn't the most convenient time for me to ask for leave."

  He pulled a scrap of Egyptian papyrus from his sleeve and read, “They're reporting a stink that fills the air, and catches in the throat, an advancing darkness, otherworldly winds that filled the streets of Cyrene with ash, and there are voices in the winds and faces in the mirrors.” The papyrus was folded over several times and returned to the sleeve. “It's a tear in the world,” he said, and nodded for emphasis.

  "I've lost track of how many relatives I'd sickened or killed just so I can get leave,” I complained.