The Other: Stories from Elsewhere

The Other: Stories from Elsewhere

by James David Audlin

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by James David Audlin

Cover photo and design by the author

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coïncidental.

Freaks first appeared in Science Fiction Age, Vol. II, No. 1; copyright © 1993 by James David Audlin. Reprinted with permission.

The End of Childhood first appeared in Tales from the Great Turtle, edited by Piers Anthony and Richard Gilliam; copyright © 1994 by James David Audlin. Reprinted with permission.

All translations are by the author.

DEDICATED

with love to all the other-than-human and -cat people

who were, are, and will be kind enough to make their home with me

and share so generously their perfect love with me, especially:

Rusty, Benjamin, Sprite, Mojo, Moof, Boston,

Inktome, and Sobe.

Table of Contents

Preface

The Mermaid

Jason

The City of Mists

The Story

A Dream

Freaks

The End of Childhood

The Remembrance of Things to Come

At the Gates of Heaven

Die Götterdämmerung

The Caravan of the Dead

On the Beach at Cancún

Thank God it’s Friday

Some Kind of Weisenheimer

The River

Character and Author

Shadows

Beyond the Bedroom Wall

The Invention of Hills

W

Lex Onda Beach

The Unicorn

In the Bar at Cancún

Shadows of Light

Notes on the Stories

Preface

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In much of my fiction my quest is for the unknowable, to describe the indescribable. Much of my writing is comfortably categorized (if categorization is your wont) as fantastic literature or science fiction; the reason is that in these genres particularly there is still room for a sense of wonder, a willingness to suspend the rules, the conventions, and let the story be exactly what it is.

The Other, in my fiction, is a term without gender or number – the word may refer to one, or many, or none at all; all I can tell you is that it refers to that which is entirely outside human ken. There is a great deal that falls beyond our realm, perhaps an infinity; certainly we must think of deity, spirits, alien beings, and indescribable presences as beyond-the-human.

Certainly it is impossible for a human writer, composing human words for human readers, to succeed in depicting the truly, wholly Other. While there have been some tantalizingly close near-successes (I think of the ocean in Lem’s Solaris and the Martian in Weinbaum’s A Martian Odyssey), my writing is no more likely to succeed in this than they, to surpass the speed of light than any other physical object.

But we can try. We are bound to try. We cannot help but try. Though the archangel Raphaël was wise to remind Adam that

Heav’n is for thee too high

To know what passes there; be lowlie wise:

Think onely what concernes thee and thy being;

Dream not of other Worlds, what Creatures there

Live, in what state, condition, or degree ...

Adam was perhaps foolish but still quite correct to retort that

... apt the Mind or Fancie is to roave

Uncheckt, and of her roaving is no end.

These stories are those in which my mind or fancy was allowed to rove unchecked, when inspiration was allowed free rein.

To my thinking composing a successful short story is difficult because the briefer the form, the more compressed it is, the more every word must be the absolutely right one. Yes, I’ve written a fair number of good poems, but, even though they are yet more compressed and therefore theoretically more difficult to write than stories, a brief lyric poem bursting forth in a moment (often a dream) can be recorded in that same instant, while it takes much longer to record even notes for a story, even when it’s from a dream, and by the time I get to actually writing it the initial inspiration has usually waned. A novel, however, is born from not only the original moment (again, often a dream) but several successive moments of inspiration, and these can carry the work through passages that are less intensely written. For these reasons, the longer the written work, as captured on paper, the less it resembles the original that exists only in the Spirit World: like a wild creature in a zoo, it can only pace about behind the bars of literary convention and dream of being free.

These stories are presented in the order in which they were written, from 1970 to the present. In preparing this volume I have resisted all temptations to improve (meddle with) the earlier stories, restraining myself only to minor corrections and necessary revisions.

I have provided at the end of the volume some notes on the stories, giving at least the writing and editing dates insofar as they were recorded, and sometimes a few additional comments that I think the reader might find interesting. As to the meaning of each story, that is up to the reader – and, at this point, I am a reader too, with no special advantage when it comes to its interpretation, if indeed an interpretation is even necessary or useful. When writing a story, I simply let the story tell itself, and I do not deliberately have a meaning in mind; if I did, I would provide it explicitly therein. A story should be complete in itself, and not rely on an external interpretation for it to be appreciated by the reader. Still, while it is natural to reflect on the meaning of a story, I prefer to leave such reflections, if any, to the reader, including me. The notes are therefore not at all necessary to the full appreciation of the stories.

A good short story, in my view, should have the same ring of authority and truth that is found in traditional stories (that is, to give a brief definition, stories by a people rather than by a writer) worldwide. It should not merely entertain, but point like Buddha’s finger to the moon of wisdom, lest we ever forget how close it is. A good short story should read aloud well, especially in front of a campfire on a dark night. And a good short story should challenge the reader or hearer to consider the mystery that is embraced by the story the way music embraces silence. I have enjoyed the writing of them; I hope the reader finds them worth the reading.

The Mermaid

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Click Here for Notes on this Story

The cry of a low-flying seagull woke him. He sat up on his makeshift raft, rubbing the salt out of his eyes. The green sea was undulating on all sides, just as formless and empty as it had been the night before. He was alone in the center of an endless ocean. The sky above was equally dreary, with only a couple of wispy clouds. The sun was only a little way up, but already it was becoming a hot day.

A wave broke over his raft, soaking his tattered clothes, bringing him back to consciousness of his immediate surroundings. The pieces of the ship which he had gathered in a bunch to create a makeshift raft were now slowly drifting apart with every wave. He took his belt and what was left of his tie and shirt and did his best to rope the mass of wreckage together. Then he lay back on the driest part of it. He kept his eyes tightly shut because the tropical sun was very bright. It quickly dried him, leaving him with a crust of salt that flaked off when he moved. The smell of salt and rotting wood filled his nostrils. It was a good, clean smell.

His sunburn was peeling off now, exposing raw, pink skin beneath. He took off the rest of his soaked and tattered business suit and arranged it like a tarpaulin on some smaller pieces of wood he jammed into chinks of the raft. Now he didn’t have to worry as much about exposure.

He tried not to think about it, but he was terribly thirsty and hungry. He had not had a meal since the morning the liner had sunk, so his stomach growled fearsomely. He smiled and thought he could live off his pot belly for a long time, but he didn’t know what it would do to his ulcer.

He leaned over the edge of the raft, planning to catch a fish. But, when one finally came near enough, it dashed off before his chubby hands could grab it. Oh, well, he thought as he leaned back, I’ll live. He watched half-asleep as the seagulls wheeled far overhead.

* * *

He woke again just as the sun was setting. The red orb glinted on the waters like a painting. Then it was suddenly gone and, save for a think band of red on the horizon which was melting into a deep violet, all was black. It suddenly grew cold. He took down his clothes, shook out the salt, and wrapped himself in them, shivering spasmodically. It was such a sudden change from the day’s heat, he sneezed.

As he huddled there on the raft he wondered if there were any other survivors from the liner. He badly needed someone to talk to. The sloshing of the waves and the groaning of the timbers beneath him lulled him into a doze. But he woke when the moon slowly rose from beyond the horizon. Then, in its silvery light, he heard a sudden splashing next to his raft. He perceived a hand holding on to the edge – a little, pink hand. With webbing. Then another hand appeared. And then, out of the waves, a face. She was very pretty: she had large, luminous eyes, and a small mouth, all framed by masses of long, golden hair, wet and smooth against her round shoulders.

Are you a survivor of the ship that sank? he asked.

She pursed her red lips, shook her head, and softly said, No.

Then, he queried, who are you?, even though he already subconsciously knew.

She didn’t reply, but instead got onto the aft. Now he could see the rest of her, besides her face, and he was embarrassed, for she was naked. She had small, soft breasts, and a curving waist. But below that was the tapering, green tail of a fish.

"You’re a mermaid! But I thought they were only a myth."

For answer she only smiled.

But why have you come to me? he persisted.

She blushed and giggled. I saw your face from my watery abode as you leaned over the edge of your raft today. I wanted to meet you, for, she paused, I love you.

"Me? But I’m old and fat. How could you love me?"

Again she only smiled, from behind long lashes.

And he smiled too, for he was deeply and contentedly happy.

Then she looked at the starry sky and said, It is time for me to go, lest the Sea-King miss me. But I shall return tomorrow night. Until then, here is a token of my love. Around his neck she placed a silver necklace with a huge scintillating jewel for a pendant. He felt cold drops of water drip from her soft skin to his. Then a kiss touched his cheek. Good-bye, my dearest.

Good-bye – he answered, waving uncertainly.

* * *

Again he woke to the cries of seagulls. Again he arranged his clothes as a sunshield overhead. His thoughts constantly returned to the lovely mermaid. Now, in the light of day, it seemed almost like a dream, but he reassured himself by fingering the magical necklace she had given him.

The sun beat down, even through the clothes over his head. He waited impatiently for evening. Then, on the horizon, he saw a dark spot with a smudge of smoke above it. Could it be a ship? His heart began pounding. Yes, it was. Slowly it neared him, its ponderous prow cutting through the waves. It was a big freighter, the Dominion of Canada. On deck he could see men lining the rail, staring and gesticulating at him.

When after a few minutes it was alongside him, it stopped. A rope ladder was thrown over the side. He didn’t want to be rescued, for he wanted to see the mermaid again. He was on the point of ignoring the ladder, but, he remembered he did need food and water. So he started climbing, planning to ask for some. It swayed dizzily back and forth, and he had to frequently rest, but he soon reached the top. A dozen sailors helped him over the rail. They all began at once to question him as to his name, home, and what had happened. The captain blew his whistle and told them to let him speak.

I’m Charles Parson Weems, a tailor from New York. One of the best, too, he added shyly but proudly. "I was on the Intrepid, a liner bound for London – you see, at last I’ve been able to get a vacation. He swayed from dizziness at this point. A sailor grabbed his arm to steady him. Thank you. Well, the ship sank suddenly – I don’t know why. All I can remember is the people singing hymns and trying to squeeze into lifeboats. I let the women ahead of me, so, before I could get on, the deck tipped under me. I don’t remember anything more until I woke up, floating all alone in the sea. I gathered some wreckage and made a raft out of it. And now you’ve picked me up."

Well, chuckled the captain, I bet you’ll be glad to get back to New York.

I don’t want to. All I ask for is some food and water and put me back on my raft.

What in the devil’s name for? exploded the captain.

Well, uh, he began, unsure, there’s a mermaid out there, and I ... love her.

"A mermaid? You’ve been too long at sea! You’re having delusions!"

She’s not a delusion! the little man said with force that wouldn’t seem to be in his corpulent body. She’s ... wait, her necklace! ... Look, I have a ... he began, fumbling madly under his tattered shirt. I ... I ... Then it hit him. Delusions ... She’s a ... and he crumpled at the captain’s feet, a pitiful wreck.

Apocryphal Ending

Nighttime came in the domain of the sea. The white moon rose crystalline and far-away, reflected in long, liquid ovals that grew and disappeared randomly in the endless waters, waters which seemed tenuous, like the stuff which mists the edges of dreams. The sea was alone with itself; the silent fish thinking their wordless thoughts, only to be imagined, as they hung solemnly beneath the gently rushing musky waves. The cormorants and gulls were gone from the sky, crouching, perhaps, on crags, heads hidden under wings, dreaming jagged dreams.

The raft floated slowly, two if its timbers already drifting off on lonely voyages of their own. What remained lay silent in a pool of moonlight, a silhouette of once-sharp but now soft edges on a swirling ivory glinting skin of water.

Another log comes off and from it there drops a circlet of tiny silver sparks that no one sees, not even the ever-watchful nightbirds.

And it floats down into an alien land, perhaps, to be lost forever. And a mermaid waits forever too among the kelp and the coral, the silent fishes unable to soothe her tears of