FSF, May 2008 Read online

  "Cat!” shouted Jerry. Jacks jumped once, turned and dashed downstairs. Jerry heard the pet door slap open and close and watched Jacks race into the yard outside. The cat, always expecting danger to be somewhere close, sprang up the cottonwood tree.

  Jacks won't get her today, thought Jerry. Jerry and Rebecca were alone now.

  "Jerry, this isn't going to work,” said Rebecca, returning to the mirror so she could look at Jerry as she spoke.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Jerry is dead,” she said.

  "I'm right here."

  "No, you're not,” she said, her voice quavering. “It's not the same."

  Jerry didn't know what to say. He felt the same. Or at least he thought he did. How could he really be sure?

  "It's not the same,” Rebecca said again.

  "It's all right,” said Jerry. “It'll just take some getting used to."

  "Getting used to? Getting used to what? Getting used to you hanging around my neck all the time?"

  "I am kind of limited in moving about,” said Jerry.

  "It's over, Jerry. I hung with you for forty-two years, but it's over."

  "Don't,” said Jerry.

  Rebecca stared into the mirror, stared into her own brown eyes. She had shoulder-length gray hair and smooth, olive skin, except for a tiny scar on her left cheek. “I was there for you, Jerry.” She didn't seem to be addressing Jerry at all now. “I was there when you joined the Army. I was there when you came home.” Her face was strong and her voice tense. “I was there when you tried to open that store with almost no money. I was there to raise two kids with you. I was there to take care of you when you were dying.” She started to cry. “I was there as cancer was eating you up. I was there, Jerry. I was there."

  "I know,” said Jerry. He didn't know what else to say. Rebecca stared past Jerry, looking at herself, deep into herself.

  "What now?” asked Jerry. He had heard stories of lockets being tossed into the trash while they were still on. Infinite Electronics strongly discouraged that, even printing a banner on the Eternilocket directions: PLEASE TURN LOCKETS OFF BEFORE DISCARDING. Rebecca followed directions. She would turn Jerry off before tossing him into the garbage. At least that gave Jerry some consolation. “What's going to happen now?” he asked.

  "I don't know,” said Rebecca.

  Jerry was quiet. Even a little afraid. He had never felt so powerless.

  * * * *

  The gray cat sank low to the ground and stretched her plump body out as far as she could. She smelled fish coming from the garbage behind the large house next door. She had made many a fine meal on what she had found in that part of the alley, but it was always dangerous work, demanding her utmost concentration. She moved slowly, almost imperceptibly.

  As she drew closer to the garbage cans, as they loomed over her, the smell of fish grew strong, almost overwhelming. Fish. Fish. It wouldn't be much longer. She held her pace, creeping along, barely moving.

  "Here, Kitty!” A voice. A voice was near.

  The gray cat froze, determined she was safe, and then turned her head slowly, looking for a human to go with the voice. She looked at the discarded lettuce hanging out of the cans; she looked up and down the alley; she looked at the azalea bushes framing the back of the large house. No one was there. She had been chased away from garbage cans by people many times before, but there had always been a body to go with the voice. But there was no body now, so she went back to sniffing about. As a rule, humans weren't much of a threat, tending to be slow and clumsy.

  "Kitty!” said the voice.

  The gray cat looked around again, finding nothing. Nothing. She resumed her search for food and discovered a tuna can, still half full, had fallen on the ground. She lowered herself until her stomach scraped the gravel underneath her and approached the can as if it were some kind of wild prey.

  "Now!” shouted the voice. The cat turned to the sound as a large dog charged out of the bushes near the back of the house and bore down on her. She had been through this many times before.

  "Faster!” came the voice. The cat flipped around and sprinted as fast as she could.

  "Hurry!” cried the voice. The cat had been chased many times before. A few dogs had even come close to catching her, but humans had never kept up until now. The cat raced for the cottonwood tree at the end of alley, her place of refuge. The dog grew close, but the cat darted left, then right, throwing the dog off his pace. As she leapt onto the tree, the gray cat looked behind her and saw something swinging under the dog's neck. It was gold and red and it was singing now: “Freude, schöner Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium!"

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  Immortal Snake by Rachel Pollack

  Rachel Pollack is the author of Godmother Night, Temporary Agency, and Unquenchable Fire. She is the author of several Tarot decks including a surreal deck, See of Logos, that is due to be published soon, along with a new collection of short stories entitled The Tarot of Perfection.

  In her blog at rachelpollack.wordpress.com, Ms. Pollack said recently that a lot of people use the word “myth” to refer to old stories that have no reality, but she prefers to use the word to mean “a story that has an inner truth that cannot be put into simple explanations.” You'll find that definition, and an awareness of the power of story, at play in this gorgeous new fantasy.

  Long ago, in a time beyond memory, Great Powers owned the land, the water, and even the air. Of all these empires, the strongest was a land called Written in the Sky. The soldiers of this land, who called themselves the Army of Heaven, traveled in rolling multi-level engines covered in sheets of black glass so that pillars of darkness moved across the earth.

  And yet, despite the strengths of its forces, the true power of the country lay in the wisdom of a group called Readers, priests trained to follow the tracks of heaven known as God's writing in the sky. The priests lived in an observatory called the Kingdom of God, high above the palace of the country's ruler. Every night they watched and calculated the slow movements of the stars, and the swifter movements of the planets. If any clouds dared to obscure the night, the Readers let loose their white bulls, whose bellows of rage cleared the air of rebellious vapors.

  Through their perfect knowledge the Readers could tell the Army of Heaven where to strike, or the owners of mines where to dig for copper or gold, or the creators of spectacles what grand images of beauty and desire would entice audiences to love them and long for them.

  Most of all, however, the Readers studied the sky for the greatest of all messages, the secret that caused the finger of heaven to stroke Written in the Sky with power—the death of its ruler.

  Though the merchants and slave traders managed the empire's wealth, and the Army commanded obedience, all power officially belonged to the ruler who lived in a palace in the central circle of a city called The Nine Rings of Heaven and Earth. The name of this man was always the same, no matter who it was that sat on the Throne of Lilies. They called him Immortal Snake.

  During the time of his reign, each Immortal Snake enjoyed more delights than any single person could imagine. Whole teams of people worked beyond exhaustion to devise new pleasures for him to experience. And everyone loved him. Every house contained portraits of him, and figurines to set above the bed, and there were statues in even the smallest towns. Children were taught to write letters to him, grateful for his love and protection. In every wedding the bride swore love to Immortal Snake and then her husband, who in turn declared himself a stand-in for the beauty and devotion of the ruler.

  And yet, all of it, all the adulation and the pleasure, could end at any moment. For as the Readers insisted, it was only the willing death of the Snake—the “shedding of the skin"—that convinced God of the country's worthiness.

  No one knew when it would happen, but a night would come when all the stars and planets locked into place. Then the Readers would put on their purple hoods and march through the city, blowing copper trumpets blackened
by age, and driving their herds of white bulls maddened by loneliness, through the streets of The Nine Rings of Heaven and Earth. All through the city people doused their fires, even the lanterns in their kitchens, and then locked themselves in rooms without windows or chairs.

  At the beginning of his reign each Immortal Snake chose a male and female “companion,” two people who served only one function. They died first. The Readers alone knew the exact manner of their death, but their hearts and lungs and genitals went into a dish cooked in a stone pot. Every Immortal Snake knew something very simple. If he wanted to live he must resist the food the Readers brought to him. It was so easy. But lights flashed in the bubbles of steam; and the smell excited tiny explosions all up and down his tongue; finally, like every Immortal Snake before him, he would tell himself that just a taste, just a drop, could not possibly harm him.

  When he had eaten the entire dish he would begin to vomit. All his insides would pour out, even his bones, which the food had turned to brightly colored jelly. When nothing but the skin remained the Readers would drape it over a wooden cross they then would carry through the city back to the vaults underneath their observatory. And then, from the directions written in the sky, they would choose a new Immortal Snake. And everyone would celebrate.

  In front of the Kingdom of God the Readers would hoe a small patch of earth, into which the new Immortal Snake would plant a seedling tree. As the tree grew the people would take seeds from it to plant in their own villages, a promise that they would never go hungry. When the new Snake in turn would shed his skin the priests would uproot the tree, then prepare the ground for the next planting.

  So it happened once again, after so many times. The man who had ruled for a span of years and months that no one was allowed to count (for according to doctrine there was only one Immortal Snake, and his reign was eternal) vanished into a torn skin flapping on sticks. A new ruler emerged, a young man called Happier Than the Day Before. When the Readers came to tell him of his ascension he shouted with joy, for he could hardly imagine all the gifts and pleasures that would pour into his life at every moment. When they left him he stood on tiptoe, stretched his arms out to the sides, and spun around until he fell down laughing. “Immortal Snake,” he said out loud. “I'm Immortal Snake. I'm the ruler of the world!"

  And indeed, over the next weeks countless marvels and delights arrived from all the lands that owed tribute to Written in the Sky. There were carpets woven from the wings of butterflies. There were bottles of wine sprinkled with the tears of old women remembering the kiss of the first person who'd ever loved them. Performers and teachers from every level came to entertain and instruct the new ruler. Hermits who'd sealed themselves in caves for half a century reported on what the shapes of stalactites taught them about human longing. People marched in and announced they'd committed atrocities just so they could come to The Nine Rings and recount all the details to Immortal Snake, who laughed as he pretended to cover his eyes in horror. Poets who'd been torn apart by wild dogs and then brought back to life as babies floating on the sea arrived to solve any riddle anyone had ever devised.

  The spectacle lasted fifteen days, and in all this time only two things wounded the Snake's pleasure. The first was his minister, a man with pinched features named Breath of Judgment, who insisted that Immortal Snake consider his duties, a subject that did not interest the new ruler in the slightest. As far as Immortal Snake could tell, these duties consisted primarily in choosing his male and female companions. And that was a subject he did not want to think about at all.

  The second annoyance was his sister, an unpleasant young woman named More Clever Than Her Father and Everyone Else. Even before her brother's glorious rise the woman had always done everything to make him feel impure and trivial. She would never go to any of his parties, never laugh at his jokes, never accept the boys he chose for her. She ate only the simplest foods, drank only the smallest sips of wine, and spent her days studying ancient texts, or writing poetry, or designing elegant furniture, or filling the walls of her rooms with murals depicting the mysteries of Creation. She wore long dark dresses buttoned to the neck (though they always contained streaks or panels of intense color), and shoes made of flat soles and worn leather straps that wound round and round her ankles. When her brother and his friends staged elaborate parties, More Clever Than Her Father would trace her way through the Nine Rings until she emerged into the desert. There she would spend hours watching tiny creatures scurry back and forth to no purpose.

  And now that her brother had ascended to his glory, the woman strode into the throne room, rudely ignored all the acrobats, contortionists, and life-size wind-up giraffes, and simply demanded that he use the power of Immortal Snake to raise the lives of the poor and helpless.

  Her smugness made him want to jump off the throne and tear her hair out. But then a better idea came to him. With a smirk he turned to Breath of Judgment. “Good news!” he said. “I've chosen my female companion."

  More Clever stepped back. “No!” she said. “Don't say it. There's still time. You can stop."

  Slowly, her brother shook his head so that his wide grin swept all across her. He said, “I choose my sister, More Clever Than Her Father and Everyone Else, to accompany me through all the worlds as my female companion.” And then, because it sounded so good, he added, “Blessed forever is Immortal Snake."

  More Clever said nothing, only marched out past the laughter of all the courtiers who hoped to become the ruler's special friend. She went to her bedroom, where she pulled out a small wooden trunk from under her bed. Shaking, she took out the strands of hair from her first haircut, done at her name enactment, along with the pale blue dress she'd worn, and the black doll in a gold dress her mother had given her as a present after the ceremony. She put these in a basket and took them to the farthest ring of the city, where a small stone building inside the walls housed the Temple of Names.

  The Name priests, who all wore oversize masks carved with letters from alphabets nobody remembered, feared she might produce a dead baby from inside that basket and demand they give it a name. But the new companion to Immortal Snake only dumped her relics on the rough stone floor. “My name no longer belongs to me,” she said. “I want you to take it back."

  The priests tried to talk her out of it. To go without a name, they said, meant that no one could bless her when they cast stones into the Well of Life. Even her dreams would not be able to find her. She suspected what really troubled them: the enactment to remove a name required the priests to inscribe the offensive words on inedible cakes that they would have to eat so that the name would pass through their bodies and be expelled to oblivion. She said, “I don't intend to go without a name. I've found a new one. My name now is Broken by Heaven."

  Sitting on the Throne of Lilies, Immortal Snake (once known as Happier Than the Day Before) continued to applaud his parade of gifts. He'd begun to open some of the rarer bottles of wine, and when the minister would ask for a decision on the male companion, the Snake would hold out the bottle as if to offer it, then take a long swallow.

  At last the great show came to an end. Only one figure remained, a slave by the look of his knotted hair, his clothes that were little more than a binding cloth and a tunic tied at the waist with a red rope. But he was tall and graceful, with deep eyes and long hands, and a wide strong mouth. Immortal Snake glanced at the sheet of gifts prepared by his Office of Numbers, but all he could see at the very bottom was “slave.” He said, “Where do you come from?"

  "Great Lord,” the slave said, “I come from the Emperor of Mud and Glory.” Immortal Snake smiled. The Land of Mud and Glory was a rival of Written in the Sky, but even they could not deny him his gifts.

  He said, “And your name? Does your emperor allow you a name?"

  "Great Lord, my name is Tribute of Angels."

  "Wonderful,” the ruler said. “We're making progress. Now. Tell me what treasures you bring me from Mud and Glory."

  Trib
ute of Angels cast down his eyes. He said, “I bring no treasure, Great Lord. I myself am the gift."

  Snake half rose from his throne. “A slave? Has he lost his imperial mud mind? Would he like his cities filled with the Army of Heaven?"

  The minister touched the ruler's arm. “Lord,” he said, “perhaps the slave carries some treasure inside his body. The formula for gold written on his bones, or a treaty hidden in his belly."

  But the slave shook his head. “Your forgiveness, Great Lord. My body contains nothing more precious than blood."

  The minister, fearful his ruler might order a slave's blood poured out onto the sacred floor, said quickly, “Then some talent? Some wondrous skill? What can you do, slave? What knowledge or power do you bring us?"

  Tribute of Angels raised his eyes. Their dark light shone into the face of the world's most beloved and hated man. “Great Lord,” he said. “I tell stories."

  There was a long silence and then Immortal Snake laughed loudly. “Stories!” he said. “Wonderful.” And then the Living World of Heaven inserted an idea into his head. A joke. He turned to his minister and said, “You want me to choose a companion? There. Tribute of Angels will be my companion."

  "Lord!” Breath of Judgment cried. “The creature is a slave!"

  "Ah, but he can tell stories. On those long boring nights when you and all the others are off making lists, or whatever you do, my companion can tell me a story.” He laughed again. “What better companion can a snake have than a storyteller?"

  * * * *

  In the Land of Written in the Sky there was no recording of time. Immortal Snake was the Living World's extension into the world of death, a finger from the Great Above stroking the Great Below, and just as the Living World was forever and unchanging, so was Immortal Snake. He existed always, only shedding his skin when God's writing in the stars and planets told the Readers to bring the Snake to renewal. Immortal Snake was forever, and there was no before and after.

  Still, time passed, or at least turned, and lesser creatures grew old and died, and the seasons replaced each other, and the Sun would return after a number of days to the same place in the sky. Though the years were not numbered their length was understood, 360 days, just like the 360 degrees of the circle, for wasn't Immortal Snake, like heaven, a great circle without beginning or end? In between the years there were five extra days, placed there by the Living World to allow people a moment outside their duties. Every four years there would be another day before the Sun could return to its place, but nothing that happened that day was ever written down, and so it did not exist.