FSF, January 2008 Read online

  * * *

  Spilogale, Inc.

  www.fsfmag.com

  Copyright ©2008 by Spilogale, Inc.

  * * *

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  THE MAGAZINE OF

  FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

  January * 59th Year of Publication

  * * * *

  NOVELETS

  THE TWILIGHT YEAR by Sean McMullen

  PRIDE AND PROMETHEUS by John Kessel

  MYSTERY HILL by Alex Irvine

  SHORT STORIES

  IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE by Michaela Roessner

  MARS: A TRAVELER'S GUIDE by Ruth Nestvold

  THE QUEST FOR CREEPING CHARLIE by James Powell

  DEPARTMENTS

  BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint

  BOOKS by James Sallis

  PLUMAGE FROM PEGASUS: THE PUBLISHING HOUSE ALWAYS WINS by Paul Di Filippo

  FILMS: HOW I WONDER WHAT YOU ARE by Kathi Maio

  COMING ATTRACTIONS

  CURIOSITIES by F. Gwynplaine MacIntyre

  COVER: “HYPERMAIL” BY DARREL ANDERSON

  GORDON VAN GELDER, Publisher/Editor

  BARBARA J. NORTON, Assistant Publisher

  ROBIN O'CONNOR, Assistant Editor

  KEITH KAHLA, Assistant Publisher

  HARLAN ELLISON, Film Editor

  JOHN J. ADAMS, Assistant Editor

  CAROL PINCHEFSKY, Contests Editor

  JOHN M. CAPPELLO, Newsstand Circulation

  The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (ISSN 1095-8258), Volume 114, No. 1 Whole No. 668, January 2008. Published monthly except for a combined October/November issue by Spilogale, Inc. at $4.50 per copy. Annual subscription $50.99; $62.99 outside of the U.S. Postmaster: send form 3579 to Fantasy & Science Fiction, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Publication office, 105 Leonard St., Jersey City, NJ 07307. Periodical postage paid at Hoboken, NJ 07030, and at additional mailing offices. Printed in U.S.A. Copyright © 2007 by Spilogale, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Distributed by Curtis Circulation Co., 730 River Rd. New Milford, NJ 07646

  GENERAL AND EDITORIAL OFFICE: PO BOX 3447, HOBOKEN, NJ 07030

  www.fsfmag.com

  Click a Link for Easy Navigation

  * * * *

  CONTENTS

  The Twilight Year by Sean McMullen

  Books To Look For by Charles de Lint

  Books by James Sallis

  It's a Wonderful Life by Michaela Roessner

  Pride and Prometheus by John Kessel

  Plumage From Pegasus: The Publishing House Always Wins by Paul Di Filippo

  Mars: A Traveler's Guide by Ruth Nestvold

  The Quest for Creeping Charlie by James Powell

  Films: How I Wonder What You Are by Kathi Maio

  Mystery Hill by Alex Irvine

  Coming Attractions

  FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION MARKET PLACE

  Curiosities: How Like a God by Rex Stout (1929)

  * * * *

  The Twilight Year by Sean McMullen

  Sean McMullen is the author of about a dozen novels, the most recent of which is Before the Storm. Here he brings us a gritty tale of life in Albion in the sixth century. Mr. McMullen tells us that in the mid-530s, the volcano Krakatoa exploded, blanketing the world in dust and giving Europe a year without a summer. He says also that it occurred to him that if the temptation to tell stories of a British warlord named Arthur is strong now, imagine how much stronger it must have been to storytellers back then!

  The overgrown ruins had been built at the height of the Roman Empire's power, yet they were still imposing after centuries of neglect. A rough-hewn Christian cross stood atop the tallest surviving column, marking the place as shrine, where sanctuary, rest, and prayer could be found in the wilderness. I arrived late in the evening and found the priest, Oswald, alone. We took an instant dislike to each other.

  "Why do you bards sing of Arturian, but never Christ?” muttered Oswald, snapping twigs for the small fire outside his hovel.

  "Because you priests never sing of Arturian,” I replied.

  Without looking up from his pile of twigs, Oswald said, “The sun is nearly down, go to sleep."

  "But I have a fire, a harp, and an audience. I'll charm your soul with a ballad."

  "More likely you'll play so badly that even outlaws would flee this place."

  I was tuning a small harp that I had built myself. It was just a stout triangle of oak, ten gut strings, and ashwood pegs. I brushed the strings softly, as anxious not to mask the tread of approaching feet as to hear the notes. Suddenly a dead rabbit was tossed onto the ruddy snow beside our tiny fire.

  Oswald and I bounded to our feet, axe and quarterstaff raised. A graying but well-muscled man walked into the field of the fire's glow, his arms folded and his shield slung over his back.

  "Had I meant harm, you would both already be dead,” he announced.

  "Then welcome,” said Oswald, still wary. “I am Oswald. My chapel offers shelter, prayer—"

  "And good music,” I interjected.

  "I watch over my guests as they rest,” sighed Oswald, waving a hand in my direction, “although the devil is tempting me to strangle that one."

  We sat down together. The newcomer was clearly a warrior, but neatly groomed and well spoken, unlike those who live as outlaws. I exchanged glances with the priest, then picked up my harp and brushed the snow from it.

  "I saw several bodies two miles south of here, at Newberry Hill,” the newcomer said as he began to skin his rabbit.

  "Dangerous times,” was my thought on the subject.

  "You should be more vigilant,” he advised.

  "Had the bard not been jangling his harp, I'd have heard you approaching,” said the priest smoothly, his chest puffed out in triumph.

  "Just now you said my playing would drive outlaws away."

  "Bard,” the stranger asked, “is your harp damaged?"

  "It's built for strength,” I replied, pointing to two deep grooves in the wood. “It has been on my back through five battles, and has taken blows meant for me."

  "More likely they just wanted to stop your playing,” said the priest.

  "I have been traveling here and there,” I explained, ignoring him. “I am a bard. I compose ballads about the doings of warlords."

  "Ballads about warlords that are paid for by warlords are all the same,” said the priest. “They slay a hundred of the enemy in every battle, drink enough for ten of their companions, are stronger than their own horse, but alas, are not as intelligent."

  "I am further embellishing my ballad about the mighty Arturian. He and a dozen companions recently defeated a thousand Saxons at the battle of Newberry Hill. Three hundred of the enemy were slain and their king was captured."

  "The fight at Newberry Hill?” scoffed Oswald. “My last guest said nothing about Arturian being there. Nine Saxons died, five escaped, and a chieftain named Dermerrius the Rank is holding the Saxon warlord for a ransom of twelve sheep!"

  "Er, and I only saw nine bodies,” added the stranger.

  "If my ballad says that Arturian won, then Arturian won,” I said firmly. “Some people do not appreciate poetic license."

  "Dermerrius is a fine warrior,” began the stranger.

  "Arturian roams the woodlands, robbing the rich and degenerate, and giving to the poor,” I proclaimed, strumming my harp. “That's in my ballad
, too."

  "I'm poor,” said the priest, poking a finger through a hole in his cloak. “He's never given me anything."

  The stranger skewered the rabbit with a sharpened stick and began to roast it over the fire. By now we had grown less suspicious of him, because a man cooking with skill is never considered to be a dangerous man.

  "What is your name?” I asked.

  "Valcian,” he replied without either looking up or demanding to know my name.

  "So, how come you to be about and alone in such dangerous parts?” asked the priest.

  "All parts are dangerous, and we all must be somewhere."

  "Pah, true, it's the times that makes the danger. There are great portents in the sky. The very sun itself is fading, noon is like twilight, and look at that sunset! Red as blood. Even the snow falls red from the clouds."

  "Snow of any sort in July is a novelty,” I added.

  "The snow is mixed with fine red dust,” Valcian pointed out. “Perhaps a storm raised it from a distant desert, or a volcano blasted it into the winds."

  "To me it resembles blood,” said the priest.

  "It is gritty between the teeth, unlike blood."

  "A portent is a portent!” the priest snapped. “The snow still looks like frozen blood, it doesn't have to be blood. The summer is chill, so the winter's to be freezing. Mark my words, there will be famine. The Empire of Rome will fall."

  "The Empire fell a century ago,” said Valcian.

  "There's bits of the Empire left,” the priest pointed out. “They'll fall."

  "Oh I agree, and they're the very last fragments,” I said as I stood up and played a few introductory notes on my harp.

  "Play that thing again and you're a dead man,” warned the priest as he fed more twigs into the fire.

  "The end of the Roman Empire! Could a bard ask for anything better than to chronicle the downfall of the mightiest empire in all the world's history?"

  "The world falls apart, but for you it's an excuse for a song."

  "An excuse for a ballad, if you please. The most mighty of empires falls, blood rains from the sky, the countryside descends into lawless chaos, and into this land wracked by nightmares comes—"

  "A plague of bards to sing about it!” cried Oswald, sounding as if his patience had run dangerously low. “That's enough. No more."

  It was five hundred and thirty-five years since the birth of Christ, at least by the reckoning of the scholar Dionysius. The original Roman Empire had fissured into eastern and western parts a century and a half earlier, then Rome had fallen, and fallen again, and fallen yet again. There were now dozens of princelings claiming the title of the western Emperor of Rome. Emperor Honorius had withdrawn the last legions from Britannia when Rome first fell, and since then the rich Roman farmers refused to pay taxes, saying that they got nothing in return. They had retreated to their estates, raised private garrisons, and settled down to live in great luxury amid the gathering chaos.

  All around the great estates, the towns and cities decayed as the common folk plundered the abandoned Roman buildings for timber and stone to build their hovels. The Roman farmers traded with each other, and with the Saxon and Briton tribes. What little order there was outside the estates came from the forces of local warlords. Nevertheless, there were many who believed that the Roman Empire still existed.

  "The rabbit is done, gentlemen,” Valcian announced presently. “Who is for a share?"

  The scent of good food did its predictable work. Valcian was soon telling stories from Rome for the benefit of Oswald, and teaching me a few Roman tunes.

  "So, Rome's still a great empire?” asked the priest as Valcian finished a dance tune.

  "Well, it is ... different. The Eastern Empire is strong and is expanding. It now holds much of Africa's north coast."

  "But who is actually emperor in Rome?” I asked.

  "There is no emperor as such."

  "So the whole place is away to the hounds?” said the priest.

  "The Western Empire is ruled by bishops, more or less."

  "Then the Western Empire really is away to the hounds, the bishops rule nothing here. Can't spit without hitting a Saxon pagan. What's your business here?"

  "I want to visit the lord of a great estate, Quintus Flavorius."

  "Quintus Flavorius!” exclaimed the priest. “There's heathen worship on his estate. They worship the old gods. Jupiter, Apollo, Venus! All those statues showing their bums, titties and, and thighs, and....” For a moment an expression of longing softened the priest's face, but he suddenly snapped out of his reverie. “Well, you never see Christian statues showing all that!” he concluded, crossing himself.

  "More's the pity,” I said.

  "Hear that?” demanded the priest. “He's another one! He works for the likes of Quintus Flavorius."

  "Do you really?” asked Valcian. “Can you take me to him?"

  "Why, yes! I am on my way to charm his company with music."

  "He makes up lewd songs about adultery, fornication, obscene excesses, and forbidden lovemaking. Those degenerate, pagan Romans pay good silver for that sort of thing!"

  "I would pay you to take me to his estate,” Valcian said to me. “Conditions are so confused hereabouts."

  "The journey will take less than a day,” I replied.

  "What's your business with him?” asked the priest suspiciously.

  "The restoration of Roman law, the collection of taxes, and the defense of the land."

  "Strange, at first glance you didn't look like a fool,” the priest said with a laugh.

  * * * *

  Although he had a horse, Valcian walked beside me as we set off the following morning. He was of a mind to learn as much as he could about Quintus and his estate before we arrived, and because it is my trade to talk and sing, I talked as much as he wished.

  "This really is the age for bards,” I said to my new companion as we warily followed a track that was no more than a ribbon of countryside where the ruddy snow had been trampled down. “There are rich, idle lords of estates who want to hear songs of dalliance and revelry, warlords who want me to sing of their deeds of arms, and grubby villagers who want to hear anything by anyone who has come from further away than ten miles."

  "Do you never feel threatened?” he asked.

  "Continually, but I have nothing of value upon my person and I am armed. I am a very poor prospect when it comes to easy loot."

  "Easy loot.” He laughed. “Surely the estate of Quintus Flavorius is just that?"

  "The Roman has two score cavalry, and twice that number of men on foot with spears and bows."

  "Impressive numbers. How does he keep them loyal?"

  "By being Roman. While all else around them is in chaos, his estate prevails. It grows a surplus of grain and meat for trade, and provides luxuries and pastimes that cannot be had elsewhere."

  "Indeed?"

  "Oh yes. Within the villa's walls the guests favored by Quintus may sleep in heated rooms under tiled roofs that do not leak when it rains, and there drink wine, eat fine food, make sport with ladies of pleasure, and ... well, you are sure to see the rest for yourself. It draws surprising goodwill from the chieftains and warlords hereabouts."

  "It cannot last."

  "But for now it is lasting, so Quintus has backing."

  "I have heard that Arturian and his riders have burned many Roman estates, and that he is bent upon scrubbing the last trace of Roman rule from the land."

  "Oh aye, I can sing you a ballad—"

  "Later, but for now can you tell me why Arturian would hold such a grudge against Romans? There have not been Roman troops in Britannia for over a hundred years, and it is decades since a Roman ruled anything larger than a farm in this land."

  "If you want an answer, you must listen to a story."

  "Spoken like a true bard. Go on."

  "Say that a man kills your father and ravishes your mother when you are just a boy. Thirty years later you are in your prim
e, and you come upon the fellow. He is fifty, and has mellowed and prospered, he even has a large family that loves him. Would you have your vengeance, and kill him?"

  "Of course."

  "What about when he is seventy, and growing frail?"

  "The crime still stands."

  "Ninety? He's drooling into his gruel, not even able to recall the crime? You are dead, but your son comes upon him?"

  "He must still die, it is a matter of justice."

  "Say the man has lived one hundred summers. He is on his deathbed, just days from slipping into the afterlife? Your grandson chances to be there. Should he kill the miscreant?"

  "Yes, yes, yes!” barked Valcian, suddenly displaying considerable emotion.

  I have always been good at raising emotions in my audiences, and I never cease to practice.

  "Why?” I asked simply, having found his measure.

  "Others must be shown that time does not diminish guilt."

  "Now then, change your grandson's name to Arturian, the felon's name to Rome, your mother's name to Britannia, and the length of time to just shy of five hundred years."

  Valcian did not answer at once. It was a sure sign that I had made my point.

  "The killing of a felon in his dotage is not a valid comparison,” he finally decided. “Who could burn with hatred for deeds done fifteen generations ago? Could you?"

  "Ah, but I am not Arturian. I am a mere bard."

  "Have you met him?"

  "Alas, no."

  "I should like to meet him."

  "Then I pray that you find him while I am with you,” I said brightly.

  * * * *

  We reached the edge of some tidily cultivated fields, and in the distance could see white walls and buildings standing out against the red snow. A tall and sturdy lookout tower made of timber dominated the estate, however, reminding everyone that Roman rule was strong, skilled, and all-seeing. Slaves were at work, scraping snow aside so that the sheep could find grass, and guards mingled with them, alert for raiders.

  We were quickly noticed and intercepted by a squad of horsemen. I established my identity by showing that I could play my harp, while Valcian was pressed on all sides with questions about the world beyond Britannia. Presently we were escorted into the presence of Quintus, who wore a clean, white toga and was groomed to perfection.