Ballad of the Rails and Other Stories Read online

  ALL THE DIMMING STARS

  1.

  The last sorcerer in the world made his way into the garden.

  The slanting, late afternoon light spilled across the mage grass and nymph vine—an untended riot. The gnome he paid to weed the garden claimed to have a toothache again.

  Far above the garden, Fyin’thaeh was having a grand time. She raced up her new sparkleweb, all the way to the top before jumping clear, and then tumbling, head over heels over head, shrieking with delight when the long, rapidly unwinding silk cord stopped her at the very last instant. She played with the sparkleweb, and the sparkleweb played with her: the perfect toy.

  A common spider web in the garden had inspired the creation of this special gift for his daughter’s hundredth moon day. For threads and rungs alike, he had used real spider silk, which was extremely strong due to the tight crystalline arrangement of its proteins. The bridge thread joined two low-lying clouds. (He had persuaded the clouds to be still for a few days—flattery was the best tool for cajoling clouds.) The anchor threads ran from each cloud down to an iron hook sunk into the earth. He coated the silk spiral rungs with an elastic fiber of his own invention. When the fiber detected the presence of a foot, it vibrated and gave a helpful push. He sprinkled the entire web with special phosphors that glowed by night and sparkled by day.

  (Bargaining with the spiders in the wood to procure sufficient silk for all the threads and rungs had not been that pleasant.)

  “Come and sit with me, Fyin’thaeh,” he called while she bobbed at the end of her cord. He lowered himself into the bench. The slats subtly adjusted to his weight, which was somewhat greater than it used to be. “We need to have a conversation.”

  Her face clouded with exasperation.

  “I don’t like that new name, Papa!” She twisted; the cord swung pendulum-like until she could jump back onto a spiral rung. The rung quivered and propelled her upward. “Mama said I can keep being Violet! Vy-oh-lett!”

  Back up the sparkleweb she climbed, singing very loudly:

  “Happy moon day to me! Happy moon day to me! Happy moon day, dear Vy-oh-lett!”

  “Fyin’thaeh!” he called. “Come back! I do need to tell you about tonight!”

  But she had already climbed too high. She didn’t hear him. Very well, they would have their talk at dinner. He had to make sure she understood why, of all her moon days, the hundredth was the most important … and what would happen to her in the hour of the whisper.

  The night before he had found an album of four-dimensional images of baby Violet that Duen’dhiy had recorded. He had lingered over the images late into the night. He had not gotten enough sleep. The bench was so comfortable, and the sunlight was so warm. Why not have a little doze on the bench for now?

  But as soon as he drifted off …

  2.

  “I see you’ve created another toy for her.”

  “Ah, Duen’dhiy, my sweet. Yes, watching her play gives me such pleasure. Now that you’re gone, she’s all I have left.”

  “I notice she doesn’t like the name you’ve chosen for her.”

  “Today is her hundredth moon day—”

  “Seven years old, going on eight, as her mortal friends count ages.”

  “—and the time has come for her to take her mage-name and begin the True Training. My grandmother was the High Enchantress of Later Atlantis, and Fyin’thaeh was a good enough name for her. It hurts my heart when my own daughter rejects that name.”

  “I think what hurts is that she doesn’t embrace the life you want for her. The name is only a symbol of that life. The era of the sorcerers is ending, Beloved. With you the line ends. Accept this reality, with grace.”

  “My sweet, you have departed this life-phase, and you don’t understand. We have to look at the bigger picture. Return to the sleepy halls of Neptune. It’s time for me to wake and cook dinner.”

  “Think about what I’ve said, Beloved. And kiss her for me.”

  3.

  The sorcerer climbed back to the land of wakefulness. He grew aware of a weight against his arm. He opened his eyes—the weight was a head with a mass of silver curls. (Duen’dhiy had given their daughter a jar of stardust dye for her seventy-fifth moon day.) Remembering his wife’s request, he bent to kiss his daughter’s head; the curls tickled his lips. The girl looked up solemnly.

  “Finally! Papa, I thought you were going to sleep forever.”

  “Fyin—ah, Violet, did you get tired of playing?”

  “Nah, I just came to tell you a sparkleweb rung came undone. Can I play on the comet swing instead?”

  “Did you finish all your homework?”

  “I couldn’t do chapter twelve of Maths of Weather Spells; the proofs are hard. But I did my respiratory system worksheet without looking at the book, and my toad dissection was perfect! Papa, I think when I grow up I should be a scientist.”

  A scientist! How could she not understand? It was science that was ending their very race. He took a deep breath and prepared to explain it all again.

  “Darling, when the child of a sorcerer celebrates her one hundredth moon day, a certain … well, let’s just say, a certain thing … needs to be done. So that she can develop the special talents that are already in her blood.”

  “I know all that, Papa. It’s just that … well, you know, what happened to Mama that day …”

  He frowned. He didn’t like to remember that. Duen’dhiy had been casting a routine glamour projection; all her preparations had been correct. A rare alignment of obscure forces intercepted the casting. A once-in-an-eon fluke.

  “I mean,” Fyin’thaeh hurriedly added, “I’m sure magic is important and all, and I love the toys you make for me … but, well, Mama never wanted to be a sorceress in the first place …”

  He was genuinely startled.

  “Darling, what are you saying?”

  “It’s true, Papa! She told me herself. And her brother didn’t want to, either, but their Mama and Papa never gave them a choice. And if she hadn’t been a sorceress, she wouldn’t have been doing magic that day. I’d still have a mama.”

  Her child’s illogic struck him to his heart. He started to explain: how Duen’dhiy had given birth to her only child very late in life. Had his dear late wife stayed a mere mortal, she would have passed to the next existence eons ago. They would never have had a daughter at all.

  But there was something greater at stake for the child to understand now. How could he explain it? How could he make her understand? He was the last sorcerer. No others remained. She must prepare for the True Training, and the process must begin this very night. The line of sorcerers must not die out forever.

  He would explain it during dinner. Yes, he would prepare his arguments. He would lay out the case. Everything rode on this.

  “Yes, you can play on the comet swing.” He hoped she hadn’t noticed the way his voice trembled for a heartbeat. “I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

  4.

  The sorcerer thumbed through his recipes until he found the parchment he sought. Hmm. It was considerably more complicated than he remembered. But a special day called for a special effort.

  First he prepared the honeysuckle faerie-brew, which he poured into molds. While the molds cooled, he went to the barn, which was ruled by a certain rooster hatched during a transit of Venus across the Sun (or so claimed a fast-talking merchant at a bazaar he had visited). The hens squawked as he examined their various nests—ah, excellent! On one heap of straw lay four large eggs, each with a pair of downy wings. The essential ingredient for his archangel’s food cake.

  When at last he had the cake mixed, baked, frosted, and topped with one hundred elfin candles—one for each moon day—the sorcerer was feeling his centuries. The rest of the dinner would have to be mundane: microwaved pepperoni pizza, with veggie platter.

  Fyin’thaeh ate with her usual hearty appetite. The sorcerer heard himself ramble:

  “… so many practitioners of
magic once. Sorcerers, enchantresses, sorcerers, wizards, not to mention necromancers, enchantresses, charmers, summoners, and all the rest. Why, there were practically as many of us as stars in the sky. But we’re entering a new age. Science and reason advance, and our stars are dimming out. Our birth rates decline, accidents take place—”

  “Could you pass the ranch dressing, Papa?”

  “Darling, have you heard anything I’ve said?”

  She dipped a pizza crust.

  “Sure, I totally get it. There’s only one star left up there now, and it’s you. So you need me to take the True Training. It’s just, well—Papa, shouldn’t I get a choice in it?”

  5.

  Fyin’thaeh lay in the bed, her face lovely in sleep, her silver curls spread across the pillow.

  He eased back in the rocker and laid the book aside. The Gnome Who Tried to Eat Stonehenge—it was his tradition to read it to her on her moon day. Tonight she’d fallen asleep before the gnome gnawed the first standing stone. Well, perhaps she was growing tired of children’s stories.

  He pulled a stoppered vial and gilt case from a pocket in his robe. The vial held a single swallow of wine. Inside the case, atop a velvet lining, lay a tiny iridescent, subtly pulsing lozenge. Like a jewel, the six facets of the lozenge flashed in turn: indigo, coral, jade, lavender, sienna, ivory. This was the Oversoul.

  He unstoppered the vial and dropped in the Oversoul. Once the wine had been drunk, the crystals of the six facets would attach to red blood cells and thus receive transport to the soul (located just above the liver). Here, they would reassemble and envelop the human soul. Once in place, the Oversoul would begin to release its magical potentials.

  A moonbeam crossed the bedchamber. The sorcerer noticed a familiar glint in the beam. Duen’dhiy had more to tell him. He glanced at the sand in the dayglass on his daughter’s bureau. The hour of the whisper had arrived; a little time yet remained. He leaned back in the rocker and closed his eyes.

  “You delay, Beloved. Are you wavering?”

  “No. I have researched everything carefully. It’s not yet time for the age of magic to end. Science and reason have limitations. Our race still has a place. We can be built up again. We can assume our former places of power. We can—”

  “I too have done research. The philosopher-spirits here on Neptune all agree on an important point. Beings who lack the Oversoul measure their span in mere decades, true, but while they live they carry in their hearts a spark that our race does not know. They can love with a passion beyond our ken. Their minds, unbound, create ‘songs’ and ‘stories’ and ‘art.’ The inventiveness of our race runs in different directions. I think the life of Mortals is what our daughter yearns for, and so it is the life I yearn for her to have.”

  “Then the histories will remember me only as the last sorcerer. Our age will die out.”

  “But that is still in the distant future. You have many eons left.” A long pause. “Beloved, you could … have more children …”

  “What? No, no. I could never love again.”

  Another pause.

  “Well, you are sweet and ridiculous to say so. But think about it. That’s all I ask …”

  The sorcerer opened his eyes. On the bureau, the last of the sand was trickling through the dayglass. The hour of the whisper was drawing to a close. He rose from the rocker and approached the bed. Fyin’thaeh’s mouth hung slightly open. He gave the vial a light shake and removed the stopper. He put the vial to her lips …

  She moved. An eye half-opened.

  “Papa?” A sleepy mumble.

  “Nothing …” His fingers tightened around the unemptied vial. “Just checking on you. Go back to sleep now.”

  6.

  Sunlight streaming through the window woke him. His daughter’s bed lay empty, the blankets pushed aside. The rocker creaked as he rose. Time to make breakfast.

  He lingered a moment under the orrery that hung above the spiral stairs. Hmm … so Ganymede planned to align with Mercury tonight. Interesting. And a meteor shower out of Gemini. He would have to check the tables. Something rubbed against his leg. He glanced down at the tail wound round his leg.

  “Ah,” he greeted the cat, “you brought me a mouse. Of course, Mars is in Leo.”

  He opened the back door. There she was, out in the garden already, racing up the sparkleweb. He frowned; the bridge thread appeared to be wobbling. The two clouds at either end of the bridge thread were growing restive, introducing a troublesome wobble into the thread. They would need a stern talking-to; cumuli could be fickle.

  “Come in the house now, darling,” he called. “I’m going to make breakfast.”

  She shouted something, secured her spider-silk cord, and leaped clear of the sparkleweb.

  He pulled a pot from the cabinet. The cat jumped up to the counter and watched expectantly.

  “Have more children, at my age?” The cat licked a paw and chose not to answer. “Another woman in the house? Crazy idea. But then, Violet is adaptable. She might get used to it … she’s really very logical, don’t you think?”

  Originally “All the Dimming Stars Out His Window,” Fantasy Book, June 1984, Dennis Mallonee, exec. editor. Revised June-August 2021.

  AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD:

  All the stories in this book were published in magazines in the 1980s. I wanted to collect these stories in a single volume, but I also wanted to revisit them, to retell them, to see if I could make them better. In short, a man in his early thirties wrote these pieces, and a man considerably older revised them. It has frankly surprised me how the endings of some these stories have become so much more hopeful and optimistic.

  For example, the end of “The Shaman’s Son” (which you will come to later in this volume), as it originally appeared, found Berja in a state of abject despair. An utterly lost, broken man, with nothing to live for. In the new version, he finds to his joy—but I’ll let you discover all that in good time.

  And in the original “All the Dimming Stars,” the last sorcerer on earth is a defeated man. He has failed to resolve his existential crisis. Like Berja, he is without hope. The new version, however, holds out a glimmer. Put yourself out there, buddy. Take a chance. You never know who you might meet, and what it might lead to.

  Hey, maybe you won’t be the last sorcerer on earth after all.

  IMPORTANT MEMO TO MY STAFF

  (FROM YOUR DARK QUEEN)

  It looks like the time has come for me to clear up some misconceptions about myself, and about our work here in the Underworld. I’ve heard grumbling and discontent from the ranks, and speaking frankly, I don’t care for the tone of some of the recent notes in the Suggestion Box.

  Be assured that our mission is unchanged: we process Shades sent to us from the Domain of the Living and send them to their Final Destinations. I have, however, implemented a few changes to our procedures. In short, I’ve tweaked a few things, which I will address below in this memo. It is essential that everyone gets on board with these changes.

  Let me put one rumor to rest right now: I have not sent the Dark King to his Final Destination. I did assign him to a cage in Hall Twelve, where Churchill, Pilate, Mehmed II, and the rest of his menagerie of unprocessed “interesting historical figures” stay.

  While I’m at it, I better dispel another rumor going around. I am not holding the Dark King in some sordid “sex thrall.” All right, it’s true, I earned my living in the Domain of the Living as a prostitute. I was quite an exotic and well-paid one, if you must know. But I mean, come on. The Dark King is several hundred millennia old. Not exactly in his prime.

  Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing but admiration for the Dark King, especially the way he has always been so focused on his work. As we all know, the C1280 Aleph virus is rampant in the Domain of the Living these days, and the Shades are piling up faster than we can process them. The Dark King’s obsession with procedures and regulations have gotten in the way of efficiency and productivity. I am working to pu
t all that to rights.

  Example. Think how much effort we put into researching the life and sins of every single Muslim Shade so we can designate it for Paradise or Hell-fire. With a simple coin flip, we’d get it right half the time, maybe more. And how about your Catholics. We’re killing ourselves calculating centuries to be served for the Purgatory-bound. The Vatican is selling indulgences again. Why can’t we? Instead of money, we’ll take our payment in custodial labor. (Have you seen the state of the Underworld Ladies’ Room recently?)

  And then there are your Hindus. All the time we spend to come up with precisely the right lifeform for each reincarnation. I have an innovative plan to change the system. We’ll choose endangered species in the Domain of the Living (the Java rhino, black-footed ferret, and piping plover, to name a few) as reincarnation targets, and use a random number generator to make the assignments. Honestly, it’s win-win. Tell me I’m wrong.

  I can tell from the Suggestion Box that many of you question my motivation. What drives me? What do I really want? Look, I’m like the rest of you. I’m a Shade who’s not yet ready for her Final Destination. You all agreed to your various jobs (intake, research, dispatch, whatever) because you wanted to be part of something bigger than yourself. Something important. I feel the same way. I just have more ambition than you. My plan was always to run the whole operation.

  I don’t mind sharing how I brought my plan to fruition. On my intake form, under “Additional Comments,” I indicated that I had knowledge of a certain place in the Domain of the Living over which the Dark King held no sway. After that, all I had to do was wait on his well-known obsessiveness to do the rest.

  The wait was interesting. I have to admit the Underworld was nothing like I expected. Shades milled about everywhere, all of us in various stages of processing. Most of us with that ridge of purple scar tissue from ear to ear, the tell-tale of C1280 Aleph. All of us corporeal but translucent, revealing the internal organs. I chatted with a Shade (in the Domain of the Living, he’d been a biologist) who compared us to the glass frogs of Costa Rica.