Part 17 (1/2)

Within days of the first outbreak, the town of Cecil was completely vaporised, and poor unfortunates who had been baptised Cecil were forced to change their names to Ardraven or Belochnazar or other wimpish monikers lacking the macho virility of their own true names.

How is it that I dare to mention the word Cecil Cecil to you now? I have this amulet, which magically erases the word to you now? I have this amulet, which magically erases the word Cecil Cecil from the minds of listeners after ten minutes have pa.s.sed. Instead, you will remember a conversation littered with small chiming sounds where the word from the minds of listeners after ten minutes have pa.s.sed. Instead, you will remember a conversation littered with small chiming sounds where the word Cecil Cecil has been erased. has been erased.

But I digress. Where was I? Yes. Frantic messages from the Dwarves went unanswered, as their messenger service took so long to walk over the mountains that they weren't actually received until three years after the dire warnings they contained were sent. In any case, Falanor and Eminholme were unprepared to send men to war. Instead, they offered a troop of armoured monkeys and the entire population of a reform school for small children.

This elite force went into the mountains and never returned alive. However, they did come back dead, even more horrible than before and in the service of Cecil . . . I mean the Overlord.

Shocked, the kingdoms ordered a ma.s.sive mobilisation, and the kings had extra horses harnessed to their personal escape chariots. Yet even as they extracted the most valuable items from their treasuries, many feared it would be too late.

The forces of Cecil were on the march. Slowly, it is true, for dead Dwarves march even slower than live ones. Yet it became clear to the minds of the Wise that within the next seventeen years something must be done.

But it seemed that there was no power in the south that could resist the Overlord. For he was the mightiest sorcerer in his age bracket, the winner of all the gold medals in the Games of the Seventeenth Magiad. He was also a champion shotputter, who practiced with the skulls of his enemies filled with lead. And his teams of goblin synchronised swimmers could cross any moat, could emerge at any time in private swimming pools, or even infiltrate via the drains, dressed in clown suits. No one was safe.

It was then that the Wise remembered the words written on the silver salad bowl they had been using for official luncheons the last hundred years. It was brought from the kitchens, and despite the scratches and dents from serving utensils, the Wise could still make out the runes that said 'Sibyl Prophecy Plate. Made in Swychborgen-orgen-sorgen-lorgen exclusively for aeki.'

The other side appeared completely blank. But when olive oil was drizzled upon it, strange runes appeared around the rim. Slowly, letter by letter, the Wise began to spell it out.

'A s-a-i-l-o-r w-e-n-t t-o s-e-a s-e-a s-e-a t-o s-e-e w-h-a-t h-e c-o-u-l-d s-e-e s-e-e s-e-e.'

Days went by, then weeks, then months, as you would expect. If it was the other way around, it would be a sign that the Overlord had already triumphed. Finally the Wise puzzled out the entire prophecy.

A sailor went to sea sea sea to see what he could see see see But all that he could see see see Was the bottom of the deep blue sea sea sea The meaning of this prophecy was immediately clear to the Wise. They knew that somewhere in the Lower Kingdoms a boy would be born, a sailor who would use the power of the sea to defeat the Overlord. A boy with eyes as black as the bottom of the deep blue sea. A boy who might even have vestigial gills and some scales or maybe a sort of fin along his back.

But the Wise also knew that the Overlord would know the prophecy too, for his spies were everywhere, particularly among the waiters at the Wise Club. They knew that he knew that they knew that he knew.

They all knew that the Wise must find the boy with the power of the sea at his command first, and take him somewhere where he could grow up with no knowledge of his powers or his destiny. They must find him before the Overlord did, for he would try to turn the boy to the powers of darkness.

But who was the boy? Where was the boy? Was there a second salad bowl, a second verse to the prophecy, long lost to the Wise but known to an aged crone in the forest of Haz-chyllen-boken-woken, close by the sea, where a small boy with eyes the color of dark mud swam with the dolphins?

Yes, there was.

THREE ROSES.

INTRODUCTION TO THREE ROSES.

I WROTE THIS STORY THE DAY BEFORE WROTE THIS STORY THE DAY BEFORE I needed to read something at an event in Melbourne in late 1997. The occasion was the annual celebration organised by Australian children's literature champion Agnes Nieuwenhuizen for librarians, teachers, and book aficionados, and this one was ent.i.tled 'An Enchanted Evening.' Half a dozen authors were to speak, each reading or telling a story about love or in some way related to love. I needed to read something at an event in Melbourne in late 1997. The occasion was the annual celebration organised by Australian children's literature champion Agnes Nieuwenhuizen for librarians, teachers, and book aficionados, and this one was ent.i.tled 'An Enchanted Evening.' Half a dozen authors were to speak, each reading or telling a story about love or in some way related to love.

I don't know why I wrote a story about a dead wife, since at that time I was single, I had never been married, nor had I ever had a significant partner die. I also don't know why it came out as a fable or fairy tale. Part of it was written on a plane, and part in a hotel room. It wasn't even typed when I read it for the first time at 'An Enchanted Evening.'

But it surely was a tale of love, and the evening was indeed enchanted, as I met my future wife, Anna, there. So perhaps it is the most important story I have ever written, for the greatest reward.

THREE ROSES.

THIS IS THE STORY OF A GARDENER who grew the most beautiful single rose the world had ever seen. It was a black rose, which was unlikely, and it bloomed the whole year round, which was impossible. who grew the most beautiful single rose the world had ever seen. It was a black rose, which was unlikely, and it bloomed the whole year round, which was impossible.

Hearing of this rose, the King decided to see it for himself. With his entourage, he rode for seven days to the gardener's simple cottage. On the morning of the seventh day, he arrived and saw the rose. It was even more beautiful than the King had imagined, and he wanted it.

'How did you come to grow such a beautiful rose?' the King asked the gardener, who was standing silently by.

'I planted that rose on the day my wife died,' replied the gardener, looking only at the flower. 'It is a true, deep black, the very color of her hair. The rose grew from my love of her.'

The King turned to his servants and said, 'Uproot this rosebush and take it to the palace. It is too beautiful for anyone but me.'

But when the rosebush was transplanted to the palace, it lasted only a year before it withered and died. The King, who had gazed upon it every day, angrily decided that it was the gardener's fault, and he set out at once to punish him.

But when he arrived at the gardener's cottage, he was amazed to see a new rosebush growing there, with a single rose. But this rose was green, and even more beautiful than the black rose.

The King once again asked the gardener how he came to grow such a beautiful rose.

'I planted this rose on the anniversary of my wife's death,' said the gardener, his eyes only on the rose. 'It is the color of her eyes, which I looked into every morning. The rose grew from my love of her.'

'Take it!' commanded the King, and he turned away to ride the seven days back to his palace. Such a beautiful flower was not fit for a common man. The green rose bloomed for two years, and the King looked upon it every day, for it brought him great contentment. Then, one morning, it was dead, the bush withered, the petals fallen to the ground. The King picked up the petals and spoke to no one for two days. Then he said, as if to convince himself, 'The gardener will have another rose.'

So once again he rode off with his entourage. This time, they took a spade and the palace jardinier.

Such was the King's impatience that they rode for half the nights as well as days, but there were wrong turns and flooded bridges, and it still took seven days before he once again rode up to the gardener's cottage. And there was a new rosebush, with a single rose. A red rose, so beautiful that the King's men were struck silent and the King himself could only stare and gesture to the palace jardinier to take it away.

Even though the King didn't ask, the gardener spoke before the spade broke the earth around the bush.

'I planted this rose three years after the death of my wife,' he said. 'It is the color of her lips, which I first kissed under a harvest moon on the hottest of summer nights. This rose grew from my love of her.'

The King seemed not to hear but kept staring at the rose. Finally, he tore his gaze away and turned his horse for home.

The jardinier watched him go and stopped digging for a moment.

'Your roses are the most beautiful I have ever seen,' he said. 'They could only grow from a great love. But why grow them only to have these memories taken from you?'

The gardener smiled and said, 'I need nothing to remind me of my wife. When I walk alone under the night sky, I see the blackness of her hair. When the light catches the green gla.s.s of a bottle, I see her eyes. When the sun is setting all red against the hills and the wind touches my cheek, I feel her kiss.

'I grew the first rose because I was afraid I might forget. When it was gone, I knew that I had lost nothing. No one can take the memory of my love.' The jardinier frowned, and he began to cut again with his spade. Then he asked, 'But why do you keep growing the roses?'

'I grow them for the King,' said the gardener. 'He has no memories of his own, no love. And after all, they are only flowers.'

ENDINGS.

INTRODUCTION TO ENDINGS.

THIS IS ONE OF THOSE ODD STORIES that come out of nowhere. It was written in one sitting and then revisited numerous times over several years as I tried to make it work. Finally, when I thought it did work, I wasn't sure what I could do with it, as it was very short. Fortunately, a year or so after I felt it was done, an opportunity arose for it to be the final story in the anthology that come out of nowhere. It was written in one sitting and then revisited numerous times over several years as I tried to make it work. Finally, when I thought it did work, I wasn't sure what I could do with it, as it was very short. Fortunately, a year or so after I felt it was done, an opportunity arose for it to be the final story in the anthology Gothic! Gothic! , edited by Deborah Noyes. As a kind of coda for the whole collection, it found its place in the world. , edited by Deborah Noyes. As a kind of coda for the whole collection, it found its place in the world.

I was particularly pleased (and surprised) that this story also then went on to be selected for the inaugural volume of The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy for Teens The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy for Teens, edited by Jane Yolen and Patrick Nielsen Hayden. It'll be interesting to see if they put it at the end, as at the time of this writing I haven't seen that book.