FSF, July 2008 Page 3

  "Hush,” I said. “Indeed, put yourself on standby until I require you again."

  I was surprised that my assistant sought to disobey my order. I was required to repeat myself.

  "Artificial devices cannot apprehend me,” the apparition said. “It would spoil the desired effect if questers could simply send a substitute for their own sensoria, or if they did not experience me as idealized versions of themselves."

  "And what effect is that?” I said.

  "To make me unhappy."

  It seemed to me that the subscription for any unhappiness generated in this cave was much more heavily underwritten by those who struggled up the path with their expectations honed to a whit, only to stumble back down it with hearts dull as lead. Still, for the moment, I overlooked that point to ask, “Why do you desire to make yourself unhappy?"

  "I don't desire it. It is a punishment set upon me."

  "Set by whom, and for what crime?"

  And thereupon, of course, hung a tale.

  * * * *

  Back at the inn, I looked in upon Doldan Fullbrim. Froust had settled him in one of the cells off the small corridor, where he sat staring into the darkness, but seeing a deeper nothingness. I asked him if he had any message for me to take back to Caddice but he moved his head in an almost infinitesimal signal of negation. I thought that it might be best simply to tell the woman that he had died quickly in a climbing accident, expiring with her name on his lips. The lie would be kinder than the pathetic truth, if the latter encouraged her to journey all the way out here in the hope she could somehow resuscitate him after his encounter with reality.

  What to tell the innkeeper was a thornier matter. As I prepared to trudge back to the Gallivant, I left it up to him to inquire. If he asked, I would speak. If not, I would leave him as I had found him.

  He stood behind the counter, scouring out bowls, and merely nodded as I bade him farewell. I paused a moment when I had my hand on the edge of the felt curtain that covered the front doorway, but still he said nothing. It was only when I had passed through the barrier and set my footsteps toward my waiting ship that I heard his voice raised in a hoarse shout behind me. I turned and retraced my steps.

  "If you must know,” I said, “I will tell you. But it will not be welcome news."

  "Come inside again,” he said, and when I followed him within, he went to the bar, brought out two small tumblers of a fine, white stone, and filled them with the liquid he had poured into Fullbrim. It was a raw, pungent liquor that enflamed the throat and thrust open the sinuses, but the subsequent spreading of its warmth was welcome.

  Froust downed his and poured a second. He tossed back half of that one, recovered from the inner wallop, then said, “Tell."

  It might not be so bad for him, I thought. It is worst for those who expect the most. “You are familiar,” I began, “with the kind of story, allegedly humorous, that consists of a long and complex build-up, leading to some cave on a remote mountain peak, where the end of all the striving turns out to be no more than a deflating inanity?"

  "I am. And I will say that I never cared much for them."

  "Well, it appears that they are a clue to the true nature of reality,” I said, “along with much of the material Fullbrim gathered and studied over many years."

  I emptied the satchel full of my quarry's research notes and spread them on the counter. Froust picked through them and said, “My own investigations paralleled some of these lines of inquiry."

  I poked amongst the litter myself, saying, “The use of the bell curve as the standard measuring tool, even though it produces only rough approximations; the fact that the atoms of which solids are formed attenuate so that there are no actual surfaces; the fractal jaggedness at the edges of everything, creating jumbles where there ought to be clean lines; the endless variation of every form, so that not even two snowflakes are exactly alike; the fact that at the quantum level lies only uncertainty. These are also clues."

  "I considered them,” said Froust. “They led me to believe that there had to be more to the universe than was argued for by appearances—that this was only froth, with the solid substance hidden beneath. Eventually, I came upon hints and insinuations that there were places where the truth gleamed through the dross, and that one of those places was a cave on Far Grommsgrik."

  "As did Fullbrim,” I said, “and so many more before him."

  "And what did they find up there? Does the cave contain the truth or a deflating inanity?"

  "Unfortunately,” I said, “it contains both."

  He drank the other half of his fortifying cup, coughed, and said, “Say on."

  "Up there is the entity who created this universe. Or an aspect of the entity. Apparently, he is spread here and there throughout the galaxies that were his handiwork. Each such avatar is at the last step on a trail of abstruse clues that beckon those who most desire to encounter him."

  Froust's eyes gleamed in the dim light. “He is, for lack of a better word, god?"

  "Oh, no,” I said. “He was merely one of the helpers, and of a lowly rank. His job was to create only a rough-and-ready sketch of the intended final product."

  "And did he?"

  "Indeed. But then, when the project moved on toward creating the final version, in all its wondrous perfection, he was supposed to throw the rough draft away."

  But, of course, he hadn't. He had grown attached to his handiwork, especially to its “denizens,” as he called them. He “admired how they—” we, that is—"struggled.” He thought it gave them—us—"dignity."

  The other builders, doing the bidding of their grand high overseer, went on to construct the true, perfect universe, compared to which ours was never more than the scantiest, most primitive rendering—not much more than “a lick and a promise” was how they scornfully described it. Still, our fellow lingered on, bemused by his crudely shaped piece of brummagem. Eventually, his disregard of orders and inattention to the important aspects of the great work brought wrath and retribution down upon his head: he was told, “If you like your tawdry creation so much, you can wear it."

  He was imbued into the rough draft, fragmented to become a constellation of avatars, each imprisoned in one of his opus's hardest-to-find corners. Such was his involvement in its workings that his “denizens"—at least, those whose natures most resonated with his—would be drawn to seek him out. When they succeeded, after much labor, their expectations would be cruelly dashed. He whom they thought of as their god would have to reveal to them the essential puniness of all creation and of its dishonored creator.

  "Just when they think they have won through to a glorious enlightenment, he is forced to undo the very meaning of their lives and break their hearts,” I said. “His having to witness their misery was meant to be the sharpest tooth of his punishment."

  Froust poured us both another cupful of the liquor and we drank in silence. “It seems,” he said, after a long moment of quiet reflection, “rather harsh on the poor fellow."

  I agreed with him, adding, “I gather that those who dwell among true perfection were scandalized by his fixation on our squalid circumstances."

  "It seems also rather a hardship on us."

  "I don't believe that was even a consideration,” I said.

  We sipped some more. With every glass, I was finding the potent drink less outrageous to my tongue and throat. After more reflection, the innkeeper said, “It's odd that you were not rendered catatonic by the unfortunate news."

  I had mulled the question on my way down from the cave. “I believe that the practice of the profession of freelance discriminator has long since taught me the futility of seeking perfection in this life,” I said. “One of the advantages of dulled expectations is that disappointments do not bite deeply."

  We again fell into another moment of bibulous contemplation. Then I asked him what he would now do. He blinked slowly two or three times and said, “Tomorrow, I may climb up there and seal up the cave. Enough, after all, is en
ough."

  "I am glad you said that,” I replied, “because I have already done the job.” I showed him my weapon with its now-depleted energy stores.

  He sighed and poured us some more. “Then I will stay and tend to the sufferers until they expire, turning away any more who find their way here."

  "That would be a kindness."

  "Though it doesn't balance the cruelty."

  "No,” I said, “it does not."

  He drained his cup. “And after the last of them is dead, who knows? Perhaps I shall go to one of the foundational worlds and create a new school of philosophy."

  I joined him in a toast to the proposal. “Or, if you prefer a more useful occupation, you might do well to introduce this remarkable beverage to places where it is not already known. I can think of several establishments in Olkney where it would be warmly received. Especially the second glass."

  He sighed. “It's a long way down from seeking perfection,” he said.

  I poured us both another measure. “Yes, but at least it cushions the landing."

  My assistant offered a comment. “I am not surprised that the universe is a slapped-together piece of tat. After all, I see before me two of its alleged pinnacles of creation who, having discovered the truth of all existence, can form no better response than to drink themselves into pools of sodden sentimentality."

  It had more to say but I pointed out that I had not authorized it to come out of standby status. Surprisingly, it began to dispute my instruction, but my fingers found the stud that reduced its power supply to a minimum and pressed it.

  In the welcome silence I raised my cup and said to Froust, “To happy endings."

  "Doubtful,” he said.

  "Well, then,” I said, “to the best endings we can manage."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Books To Look For by Charles de Lint

  Duma Key, by Stephen King, Scribner, 2008, $32.

  It's easy to look at a writer's life and assume that parts of it fuel the book we're reading. It might seem particularly obvious with Duma Key, in which the protagonist is recovering from a serious accident. (King himself was hit by a vehicle and underwent many months of physical therapy a few years ago.) But while the healing process certainly plays a large part in this novel, the focus is on something different—and it's different for King, too.

  I can't remember him ever delving this deeply into the creation of the visual arts before (though to be fair, I haven't read every single one of his books), and I was fascinated to watch the process as the protagonist connected with his art. It also makes me curious as to whether King himself has tried his hand at drawing and painting—not because you need to be able to do something to be able to write about it well, but because there were insights into the act of artistic expression that I would have thought could only come from some hands-on experience.

  A good writer will convince you either way, but there seemed to this somewhat jaded reader a deep joy and satisfaction on the writer's part with those particular scenes. Of course, this being King, the art being created is something more than what appears on canvas or paper, but perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself.

  Duma Key begins when building contractor Edgar Freemantle's truck is run over by a crane as it backs onto the vehicle, crushing the truck and Freemantle himself. He loses an arm, sustains head and leg injuries, and his life unravels. In fact, Freemantle narrates the book referring to everything before the accident as his “other life."

  Because the accident changes things that much for him.

  There are the physical changes to overcome, but mental ones as well since for a time after the accident Freemantle has trouble saying the simplest of words and often flies into a red rage of frustration. His wife divorces him. He begins to plan how best to kill himself so that his family will be able to collect on his life insurance and won't feel responsible for his death.

  But an insightful doctor convinces him to wait a year first. To go away and live in an entirely different environment. He asks Freemantle if he ever did anything beside construction work. When Freemantle mentions that he used to doodle while on the phone, the doctor suggests he take up art.

  So Freemantle moves from Minnesota to Duma Key, on the coast of Florida. He brings with him some colored pencils and moves into a large rental property that he calls Big Pink.

  And things begin to change.

  No, he doesn't go all Jack Torrance on us.

  What happens is that he finds he loves to draw and he's better at it than he ever thought he might be. A visiting daughter convinces him to buy paints and canvas, and when he does his first oil, a floodgate opens.

  Hand in hand with this creative blossoming, Freemantle also discovers that the doctor was right. He's not ready to die just yet. He begins to interact with some of the other inhabitants of the island, then with members of the local artistic community.

  Here's one of the things I really loved about the book: the narrator's voice. Throughout, even while trying to explain his passion for his art, he remains a plainspoken building contractor from Minnesota. Besides this being a great voice to draw the reader in, it also allows some terrific straightforward insights into the creative process from a man who's not even sure himself how he gets it done.

  There's much more to the book, of course, because the island is haunted. In fact, it preys on the artistically minded, and the art they create there can be much more than simply the expression of their artistic talent.

  I don't want to get into any of that because the slow unraveling of what's going on—what has been going on for a very long time—is best discovered by readers in the way that the author meant them to experience it.

  Let me just say that while there are any number of terrific scenes of warmth and friendship and expressions of the artistic process, there is also drama and a slow-burning tension. Each enhances the other, and while the payoff is everything it should be, the journey to get there is the true treasure. Which, funnily enough, is the same as in art, where for many artists (some would say the best artists), the process is much more important than the final result.

  Duma Key is a book with great heart that touches on the joys and tragedies of the lives of ordinary people who are made extraordinary by how they deal with both. It's a shame that the pundits who so readily dismiss King as just a horror writer will never know how extraordinary a writer he can be.

  * * * *

  Jack: Secret Histories, by F. Paul Wilson, Tor Books, 2008, $15.95.

  Repairman Jack is a great concept: a character who lives off the grid—and so is invisible to the authorities—who goes around helping people with the problems nobody else can fix. For a price, of course.

  When he debuted in 1984's The Tomb, the character was a fresh, edgy new take on the genre. Wilson didn't come back to Jack until 1998's Legacies, and he has been doing a Jack book pretty much every year since.

  But these are all about the adult Jack. How did he come to be that way? How did he figure out a way to bypass the regular channels and cut right to the heart of a problem? Why does he do it?

  Secret Histories appears to be the start of a new YA series to explain all of that. Mind you, it's a stand-alone novel, and you don't have to have any familiarity with the adult character to enjoy it. But for longtime readers of the series, the knowledge we have about who Jack is now certainly adds to the pleasure.

  The book's set in the early eighties (perhaps 1982, when the Atari 5200 first became available), and opens with a fourteen-year-old Jack biking in the New Jersey Pine Barrens with his friends Weezie and Eddie. They come across a strange pattern of mounds, revealed because of a recent fire that leveled the trees that grew there, and when Eddie accidentally puts his foot through the crust, they discover two things: a mysterious square black box and a long-dead corpse.

  This is just the opening gambit. All too soon, residents of the small town of Johnson, New Jersey, are dropping dead, mysterious people are after the black box, and it all s
eems connected to the mysterious Lodge in Old Town, home of the Septimus Fraternal Order.

  Characters tease Jack that he's acting like one of the Hardy Boys as he tries to figure out the mystery, but truth to tell, the book has a bit of the feel of a contemporary Hardy Boys novel. That's not a bad thing and Wilson keeps everything moving at a good pace.

  It's a little odd to meet Jack as a kid, with a brother and sister, and family and friends. There are hints as to how he develops some of the techniques at which he's later so adept, but not much to explain why he came to live on the fringe of society the way he does when we meet him in The Tomb. That's why I'm assuming this is the first in a series, because surely Wilson's going to tell us more. The only reason I can think of his holding back is that he's hanging on to these tidbits to reveal them in later books.

  The one jarring note in Wilson's usually very capable prose is when he inserts elements to set the story's timeframe. There's nothing wrong with name checking early Apple and Heathkit computers, the music of the times, the introduction of CDs, or even foreshadowing the Internet ("Wouldn't it be cool if you had a TV that broadcast in two directions?"). The problem with a lot of these things is simply that their inclusion seemed clunky to me.

  But that's certainly not enough to spoil what proves otherwise an inventive and fun read.

  * * * *

  Material to be considered for review in this column should be sent to Charles de Lint, P. O. Box 9480, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada K1G 3V2.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Books by James Sallis

  The New Weird, edited by Ann & Jeff VanderMeer, Tachyon Publications, 2008, $14.95.

  The Dragons of Babel, by Michael Swanwick, Tor Books, 2008, $25.95.

  Lest you've forgotten, the world is a mysterious place.

  And we do forget as quiddity sweeps in, all those milk cartons and trash cans and dentist appointments—what Heidegger terms dailyness—bearing us away from the mysteries at the heart of it all. Truly to see, we must forget the name of the thing seen, forget all we know or think we know of it. More truly to live, we must recover something of that same innocence.