Fearful Symmetries by Ellen Datlow
Authors: Ellen Datlow
tree. “This is my son,” he says. “Say hi, Max.”
The mouth shrieks. It stops to draw in a gasping breath, then repeats the sound. The cry is sustained for several seconds before stuttering into a sob, and then going silent again.
“He keeps growing. He’s going to be a big boy before it’s all over.”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
“Who’re your friends, Jack?”
I have to think about that before I answer. “I really don’t know,” I say, finally.
“So what do you want? You want me to tell you you’re off the hook? You want me to tell you you’re free to go?”
“You told me that before. It turned out to be bullshit.”
“Yeah, well. That’s the world we live in, right?”
“You’re on notice, Eugene. Leave me alone. Don’t come to my door anymore. I’m sorry things didn’t work out here. I’m sorry about your son. But you have to stay away. I’m only going to say it once.”
He smiles at me. He must have to summon it from far away, but he smiles at me. “I’ll take that under advisement, Jack. Now get the fuck out of here.”
We turn and walk back up the stairs. It’s a long walk back to my bookstore, where I’m anxious to get to work on the atlas. But I have a light to guide me, and I know this place well.
THE WITCH MOTH
BRUCE MCALLISTER
The Black Witch moth can grow up to 16 cm. and is known as “La Mariposa de la Muerte.”
—
Encyclopedia Americana
The Black Witch moth should be seen at night when it cannot be seen because it is so black. In the daylight it is a hole in the universe, one that leads to a world where there is no light.
The first Black Witch moth I ever saw was in the sunlight of Balboa Park, when I went there for a dahlia show to keep my grandmother company—which I did often when I was ten because my grandmother’s love kept me from darkness in my family, where my mother’s spells could reach us all.
The moth flew from a hydrangea bush I had rustled with my hand, hoping something might burst from it—a lizard or butterfly perhaps. At first I didn’t understand what the darkness was. A small rubber bat on the end of a child’s string? A black handkerchief given life by a spell? Or was it just my eyes playing tricks on me, blinded by the sunlight that made the flowers so bright?
It limped through the air and disappeared into the hole it had made in the universe. My grandmother had stopped because I had. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered. I often said such things to her, but she didn’t mind. She knew that all light carried shadow and that there were things in the world—and in every family—you couldn’t see even if you had the entire sun to see them by.
“You saw something,” she said, as if she knew exactly what it was and where everything was going to end.
“Yes.”
“I’m sure you did, but if it’s important you will see it again; and if not like this, then later, when you need it even more. Let’s go look at the dahlias now. We can come back here later if you want, if you haven’t seen it somewhere else in the park by then.”
I nodded. She was right. I would find it again if I needed to, and if not today, then sometime, in some way.
Some people who love see only the light. My grandmother saw the darkness, too, and still loved. That made me feel safe in a world where, she’d once told me, “There are more witches than even the witches know. . . .”
Because we lived on a Navy base, one that hugged the bayside of the peninsula, I took my little brother, who was six, with me when I went to the tallest piers, to their oily pilings and oily planks, which you could smell. He felt safer when we went to the floating docks, because the water was close to you. You didn’t have far to fall. But the boats there were small—patrol boats, skiffs, and a sailboat or two for the personal use of officers. We both liked the great steel ships—which could only dock at the tallest piers—and if I
The mouth shrieks. It stops to draw in a gasping breath, then repeats the sound. The cry is sustained for several seconds before stuttering into a sob, and then going silent again.
“He keeps growing. He’s going to be a big boy before it’s all over.”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
“Who’re your friends, Jack?”
I have to think about that before I answer. “I really don’t know,” I say, finally.
“So what do you want? You want me to tell you you’re off the hook? You want me to tell you you’re free to go?”
“You told me that before. It turned out to be bullshit.”
“Yeah, well. That’s the world we live in, right?”
“You’re on notice, Eugene. Leave me alone. Don’t come to my door anymore. I’m sorry things didn’t work out here. I’m sorry about your son. But you have to stay away. I’m only going to say it once.”
He smiles at me. He must have to summon it from far away, but he smiles at me. “I’ll take that under advisement, Jack. Now get the fuck out of here.”
We turn and walk back up the stairs. It’s a long walk back to my bookstore, where I’m anxious to get to work on the atlas. But I have a light to guide me, and I know this place well.
THE WITCH MOTH
BRUCE MCALLISTER
The Black Witch moth can grow up to 16 cm. and is known as “La Mariposa de la Muerte.”
—
Encyclopedia Americana
The Black Witch moth should be seen at night when it cannot be seen because it is so black. In the daylight it is a hole in the universe, one that leads to a world where there is no light.
The first Black Witch moth I ever saw was in the sunlight of Balboa Park, when I went there for a dahlia show to keep my grandmother company—which I did often when I was ten because my grandmother’s love kept me from darkness in my family, where my mother’s spells could reach us all.
The moth flew from a hydrangea bush I had rustled with my hand, hoping something might burst from it—a lizard or butterfly perhaps. At first I didn’t understand what the darkness was. A small rubber bat on the end of a child’s string? A black handkerchief given life by a spell? Or was it just my eyes playing tricks on me, blinded by the sunlight that made the flowers so bright?
It limped through the air and disappeared into the hole it had made in the universe. My grandmother had stopped because I had. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered. I often said such things to her, but she didn’t mind. She knew that all light carried shadow and that there were things in the world—and in every family—you couldn’t see even if you had the entire sun to see them by.
“You saw something,” she said, as if she knew exactly what it was and where everything was going to end.
“Yes.”
“I’m sure you did, but if it’s important you will see it again; and if not like this, then later, when you need it even more. Let’s go look at the dahlias now. We can come back here later if you want, if you haven’t seen it somewhere else in the park by then.”
I nodded. She was right. I would find it again if I needed to, and if not today, then sometime, in some way.
Some people who love see only the light. My grandmother saw the darkness, too, and still loved. That made me feel safe in a world where, she’d once told me, “There are more witches than even the witches know. . . .”
Because we lived on a Navy base, one that hugged the bayside of the peninsula, I took my little brother, who was six, with me when I went to the tallest piers, to their oily pilings and oily planks, which you could smell. He felt safer when we went to the floating docks, because the water was close to you. You didn’t have far to fall. But the boats there were small—patrol boats, skiffs, and a sailboat or two for the personal use of officers. We both liked the great steel ships—which could only dock at the tallest piers—and if I