This year's finalists exemplified the competition's increasingly wide diversity of treatments: science fiction, fantasy, horror, and the ever-popular slipstream in which genre borders blurred mightily. Being a great advocate of new blood, I was delighted to read all of these. As has happened in other years, I admired the range of promising writing careers, some more clearly closer to the embryo stage, others heartbreakingly brushing shoulders with escape velocity. So far as I'm concerned, at least two of the ten finalists are in shape to compete favorably with everyone else in the professional slushpile.
My favorite contender from the year 2000's crop imaginatively and ambitiously aims to bridge the gap between the rational and the irrational. Top honors go to "Annie" by New Jersey's own Larry Taylor. Mr. Taylor's piece of historical science-fantasy, if you will, bites off one heck of a lot, and then chews it well and with abandon.
The year is 1853 and famed naturalist and evolutionary theoretician Charles Darwin is still sunk in the grieving melancholy left by the death of his beloved daughter Annie two years before. Even the loving support of his wife and other children, along with his good friend Boz, novelist Charles Dickens, isn't helping as Darwin sinks into a despairing crisis of faith. He can no longer believe in God; he cannot trust science. With a fair amount of storytelling sleight of hand, author Taylor jars his protagonist back to painful awareness with a startling confrontation between the old ways of myth and magic and the new age of science and technology. The story lurches just a bit in its vividly executed climax, but the author's footing is mostly sure. "Annie" stood up well each time I read it. Larry Taylor's talent is clearly one to watch. Read Larry's story below and judge for yourself.
 |
In memory of Tina M. Spell, Clarion Class of '98 and a beloved friend The city of Brighton at his back, London's bustle far away, the Beagle but a dull memory, Charles stood at the farthest point of the windswept promontory and stared at the white moon, and then into the dark Atlantic sea. He held a walking stick in one hand, a slim blue volume and a child's white thimble in the other. Fog drifted in toward the rocky outcropping. As he watched with detachment, the fog spread, curling about his legs. He breathed the damp air and coughed.
Waves crashed onto both sides of the promontory. As was his fashion, he watched for ships' lights in their riggings. Without warning, a monstrous, slumberous hulk cleaved the water and swam on the water's surface - one, two, three black humps, he counted with wonder - and it sounded to the depths again. Even as it disappeared, ripples spread from ur-leviathan's wake. The circles grew and faded and the sea was closed again.
Charles gripped his walking stick; he felt the thimble's edge cut into his other palm. He shook his head, unable to accept either the loss of his daughter or the proof of his own eyes as the monster had passed before him. Neither seemed real.
Dear child.
He wrestled with his dark night, as he had before. He tried to sense within himself an affinity with nature, a connection, insights, something more than he felt now. What have I really accomplished? Volumes on faceless coral reefs? Lepadidae? Damnable barnacles?
He looked at the empty surface of the sea. Science, he said to himself, not mythology. But he sensed only the dark and the mysterious.
Dear child. How I have prayed for your young soul. And for mine.
The Church offered no solace, and Science said nothing to him at all.
Dearest child.
Charles put the book and small thimble into his coat pocket and stepped to the rocky edge. He tasted salt and heard voices murmuring from the depths; his hands trembled and as he leaned forward his head swam dizzily. Then the wind pushed him back a pace and he planted his feet again. Scientist at heart, he let his vision roll across the sea to seek the beast; as if in answer, a whale and calf rose and turned noisily in the water and sank again.
Charles banged his walking stick on the rocks.
Cetacea. Two whales. Remarkable in this narrow neck, but nothing else.
His rented hansom stopped behind him, a hundred yards away from the promontory's forward edge. A voice shouted in moonlight.
"Ride, Mr. Darwin? It's a short ride, but a damp evening, sir. This fog's thick as Mrs. Shufflewick's soup." The coarse voice clashed with the soft voices in the tumbling waves.
As Charles walked toward his driver, he put his hand on the thin blue volume and quoted from memory. "'So pale...'" His voice faltered. "'So pale. A young and gentle spirit has fled.'"
"Sir?"
"It's from Oliver Twist. Mr. Dickens read his stories aloud to the whole family. We all laughed and cried. It was her favorite, though we never finished the tale." Charles took a last glance at the sea and climbed down from the promontory, past the sand and wild grass and onto the street's cobblestones. "Reggie, you know whom I mean?"
"Yes, sir. Miss Annie. Two years back, spring of '51. God bless."
"Yes. Two years this day. Drive back to our lodgings, Reggie, and go to bed. I'm going to walk awhile." Charles handed him ten pounds. "Return the rental in the morning. Then ride back to London on the train with Mrs. Darwin and myself."
The driver nodded. His whip licked softly at the horse's back; the horse steered the cab onto Broad Street and Charles was alone again.
By moonlight Charles studied the street's well-proportioned stones, each the size of a hen's egg. With his walking stick, he dislodged one and lobbed it toward the sea. He walked for hours through the fog. A light rain fell; Brighton seemed less friendly then and he bent low into the cold April wind. He arrived at his lodgings well past midnight and let himself in. He put his walking stick into a stand made of an elephant's foot, then went upstairs and lit the hallway lamp.
Emma opened their bedroom door and stepped into the hallway. Charles held the flickering lamp high. In the yellow light, her sleep-tousled hair was a soft russet, her cheeks smooth and pale-red.
"Charles, you're dripping on the carpet." She kissed his lips. Her lips lingered for the length of two heartbeats, then she put her palm against his cheek. "You seem feverish. It's ague."
"I'm fine."
"We'll return to Down House in the morning. I bought all our train tickets today. The children miss you, and your London friends will all be there." Emma put her hands on his shoulders. Her hands trembled and she fumbled for words. She put her lips against his neck. "I want another child," she whispered. "Let's have another, Charles. Love me tonight." She glanced at a tall, narrow window at the hall's end; moonlight streamed in, striking through the entire glass and falling on the carpet's pale pattern of fleur-de-lis. Still holding him close, she spoke with measured words. "Have you given this more thought?"
"Emma, you're forty-four. You have six children at home. Please let this go."
"Anne Elizabeth was my daughter, too. I miss her so. But it was no one's fault. We should try again. I want a baby at my breast."
Charles took Emma's hands away and squeezed them gently. He was fearful that she would cry, but she nodded and went back to her bed. Charles brought the lamp into the bedroom and closed the door.
He moved a decanter aside and emptied the contents of his pants pockets onto the elegant dresser: a handful of crumpled pound notes, two halfpennies, two uncashed London theatre tickets that had expired. From his coat, he put the slim book onto the dresser but caressed the white thimble for an extra moment. He undressed and folded his clothes onto a chair, then blew out the lamp. He glanced at Emma, breathing softly. He bent and gave her a kiss on her pink cheek, then got into his own bed, beside his wife's.
He slept fitfully; while he dreamed, great beasts rolled in ancient seas, and outside, great wings pounded at his casement windows.
"It's tea." Mrs. Shufflewick's shrill voice carried through Down House. Charles entered the breakfast room from a walk through his expansive gardens and estate. As she held a silver teapot and watched the stairs, he sat and waited to be served.
Harsh knocks sounded at the front door. Mrs. Shufflewick poured his tea. "Mr. Dickens with his stick, no doubt. Shall I set another place?"
"I'm sure he'd like some tea."
Charles put milk and honey into the center of the thick, brown tea and sipped. "This milk is sour."
"I'll get some fresh milk. And ginger snaps?"
"His favorite. But please let him in."
"Sir."
Charles glanced at his neatly-folded morning Times. Mrs. Shufflewick put the teapot onto a silver serving tray and wiped her hands, then plodded through the eternally unfinished Down House toward the front, where the sharp raps had begun again. Charles watched as she passed between a pile of folded, purple overalls and stiff brushes and a five-gallon bowl of cold stucco, tinged nicely, he thought, with Spanish-brown.
Childrens' voices murmured from the garden. As Charles read his morning paper, settling into his old routine, he glanced through the window. Rain began to splatter on his roses. He noticed that barrows, still full of bedding plants, lay about. Workmen had left many things unfinished while he and Emma had been away.
He moved to the back door and opened it, taking in the scrabbled scene of mortar, mud, and glass: a small section of the glinting new greenhouse roof unfinished, the new conservatory slab unpoured, new flowerbeds unturned. He wondered also where his fowl and pigeon coops were moved.
His dogs, two massive dappled Danes, ran through the sprawling gardens, chasing one another until they vanished behind the long greenhouse. The rain poured now and he stepped back and closed the door.
Charles heard a new voice and turned. Dickens entered the drawing room and announced himself with a grand bow, as if he always moved with a stage beneath his feet. He held on to his cane, but dropped his umbrella; Mrs. Shufflewick, standing by, caught it and left the room. Her layers of petticoats rustled as she walked.
"I'm glad you're home," Dickens said.
A horrendous bolt of lightning struck near the house. Charles pulled the curtains wide and looked outside. The sky was black. Rain slammed against the roof and gray streaks lined the panes. As the lightning struck again and lit the sky, something loomed behind the greenhouse, a primeval forest canopy, its treetops swept by great winged creatures. The image faded with the flash, and he saw only the plain greenhouse and the rain. A trick of the storm's light, he thought.
He turned and clasped Dickens' arms. "Boz, you've saved me from another dreary day."
"My pleasure. You missed a fine performance here last week. I sent tickets for you and Emma. Is she with the children now?"
"She's still upstairs. But Mesmerism? I don't think much of it. I'm a scientist. This fad will pass." Charles waved toward the table. "Sit down and have some tea. Tell me the London gossip."
Mrs. Shufflewick returned with nut and cheese sandwiches, a crystal cookie plate, and fresh milk. She set the things down and poured as Dickens chewed. Dickens pointed at her with a half-chewed ginger snap. "Mrs. Shufflewick, do you believe that Dr. Mesmer can help you with your ailments and miseries?"
"Leave her alone," Charles said gently.
"None of my affair," she said.
Dickens turned rapidly through the Times. "It's been in all the papers."
Mrs. Shufflewick straightened her bulky petticoats and pursed her lips. "Papers? Use 'em for spoiled meat and fish bones," she said. "Keeps the scraps out of the dogs."
Dickens finished his snap. He brushed his hair back, leaving a greasy spot on his palm. He wiped his hand on the editorial page. "Mrs. Shufflewick, as always, you are a revelation!"
She returned the teapot to its tray and left the room.
Charles refolded the Times and picked up the silver teapot. A clock chimed; Charles turned his head and saw a brown mouse scamper from beneath its mahogany bulk. His hand shook slightly as he poured himself more tea. "Boz, your melodrama will annoy my housekeeper. And who'll finish serving our meal?"
"You be mother," Dickens said, holding out his empty cup. "I'll play all the other parts."
The rain stopped and they took their tea outside. They walked through the closest garden; as Dickens sipped, Charles paused to check his damaged roses. His dogs padded up and rubbed their noses on his pants.
"I'm going to a performance tomorrow night," Dickens said.
Charles set his teacup onto the damp ground and cupped a cluster of pink roses between his hands, gently shaking the water from their petals. "The mesmerist again?"
"A spiritualist. Wilkie Collins swears by the man. Wilkie insists that he's been inspired to write two new tales. His father's dead, you know." Dickens moved closer and spoke in a stage whisper. "Wilkie thinks he's been talking with The Other Side."
"We've been on holiday. I've seen enough of that."
"What? Stay home and putter with your plants and snails? What worlds have you conquered lately? What new discoveries have you revealed?"
"I know you don't like science, nor talking about it. But I've collected notes since my days on the Beagle, and am presently organizing them into notebooks." He brushed his dogs. "We live in transition, Boz, in revolutionary times. These pages will bridge the gaps, back to the great beasts of antiquity. But I fear this book. It may tear us all apart." Charles coughed softly; his heart pounded and he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen.
Dickens tapped his cane on his shoe. "Make it a massive book with illustrations: faeries and gryphons and sea serpents on every page. Leave nothing out; the Church will ostracize you. It will be a best-seller then."
Charles tugged on the dogs' collars and shooed them away; they chased the mottled toads that filled the damp grass. "May I borrow your clasp knife?"
Dickens gave him the knife; Charles unfolded it and separated two pink roses from the bush, thinking to put them in the dining-room. "What matter fecundity," he said, "if it not be the heart?" His blade moved to the first rose's throat. "It must be the heart of things, my father used to say." His hand shook; he missed the cut and nicked his finger, just above the second joint. As he held his finger level, a drop of red blood pooled.
"I thought of you in London. If not the mesmerist, perhaps you'd enjoy the spiritualist instead. Come with Wilkie and me tomorrow night."
Charles shook his head. He rubbed his breast and felt the child's thimble deep beneath the cloth. He stared at the cloudless sky, thinking to go by the cemetery that evening after the others had gone to their homes and beds. He had sat by Annie's perfectly chiseled headstone for weeks after her burial, kneeling in moonlight and whispering prayers until the sun came up. Emma had finally pulled him away from her grave, fearful for his spiraling melancholy, troubled that he neglected his other children. Or so she had said that bright spring day. Charles' shoulders sagged.
Dickens cleared his throat.
Charles turned to him. "I thought of you in Brighton, Boz. How you used to read to us in the afternoons. And Twist. Her favorite tale of all."
"I'm sorry for your loss. Annie was a treasure to us all. But it's been two years. What still haunts you so?"
"You haven't read aloud from that book since. I do sometimes; it comforts me. And we have to finish the tale, Anne Elizabeth and I; not all duties cease with death."
"Come with me tomorrow night. You must. Perhaps you'll feel closer to her there; many in that hall will grieve aloud for their departed ones."
Charles took out his handkerchief and coughed into the silk.
"Your eyes are rheumy," Dickens said. "Your hands shake with ague."
"Boz, may I use your gloves?"
"You still bleed a little. Leave the roses on the stem. Gather some bright flowers instead."
"I hadn't thought of that." Charles wiped his hand on his handkerchief, then folded and gave back the knife.
Charles picked up his teacup from the ground. He stared at the greenhouse and looked for the new beds of alyssum, dense clusters of yellow and white flowers that he had ordered planted before they'd left for Brighton for the cure. He saw beds of asphodel instead.
His dappled Danes padded up, each dangling a toad from its jaw. Charles rubbed his chest and coughed, then stared; he hadn't remembered any gargoyles perched above the greenhouse door.
The children were in bed asleep. Emma stood in darkness at the top of the stairs, her body circled by a pale yellow halo from the lamp behind. Charles stood at the bottom; the lower rooms were dark. He could smell cabbagelike odors - turnips, radish, horse-radish, perhaps - from Mrs. Shufflewick's wraps, the packages still sitting on the kitchen cuttingboard. He expected more rain and wondered if he'd fully closed the study window that opened to the gardens. As he stood on the first step, the window's white curtains blew softly, in his mind, and lay still again. The house was quiet after that and the odors disappeared.
Charles took a troubled step, remembering, uncalled, Annie's pale limbs reaching from her last bed. He looked at Emma at the top of the dark stairs. He ached for Emma's arms, but also wished for oblivion, Lethe, a release.
Emma moved a step down the stairs. "Charles. Please come to bed."
He walked up the stairs. He stopped midway as a window banged downstairs.
"Charles. Let's go to bed."
Wearily, he climbed the last few steps. Emma brought the lamp into their bedroom, then returned and took his arm and led him inside. She tried to close the bedroom door, though it sat a few inches ajar, the jambs still unplaned, and pressed him toward their bed. She undressed him and threw the blankets to the floor. He got into bed and covered himself completely with a sheet, as if to shrive himself.
"It's been too long," she said. She pulled the red chemise, scarlet in the yellow light, above her head. As the fabric floated to the sheet and she stood naked, he thought her breasts full of milk. He wanted to suckle her breasts.
Emma slapped the sheet away and fell onto the bed, touching his pale, thin legs. She brushed his hand aside and kissed his face. She kept her lips against his cheek until he gently pushed her away. She pulled his arms around her waist and whispered urgently, "Love me. Please. Love me, Charles."
He linked his hands and twisted on his wedding band.
Emma lay quietly with him awhile, then stood and searched through the shadowy room. She found a pin he had bought for her in Brighton, a long ivory pin with scrimshaw on its length; she stood against the shadeless window and put her hair up.
As she stood silhouetted by the nearly-full moon outside, he searched for familiar shapes of things: the chair against the wall, the door slightly ajar, the sentimental bric-a-brac that cluttered every dresser and table in the room. As she fell onto the bed and reached for him, he turned away and coughed. She gripped his shoulders and pulled his chest against her breasts.
"Love me, please love me. Please love me." Emma moved down to the bed's foot and pushed up his knees. She kissed his knees, his thighs, his groin. She placed her hand between his legs and caressed him, then moved her lips to her own fingers. She laved his penis, speaking so softly he only heard noises and murmurings. She finished and rose and spit into a porcelain basin. All the while he had said nothing, and, rather than caress her breasts so full of promise, had turned his head away that she might not see him cry.
She glanced at the moon and returned to bed. She laid her head on his chest and went to sleep. He lay awake and shivered through the night. Dreams came without sleep, as if sleep were the place where he might hide and staying awake something not to be believed at all.
The grandfather clock chimed softly in the background. Charles walked through the house and read to himself. As he studied the smudged page, he read the same lines again and again. He entered the smoking room and paced; his Danes lay by the cold fireplace, their heads moving and their eyes watching his restless movements. Childrens' voices murmured from the study. As he stepped out and approached the drawing room once more, Emma stood at its entrance.
She took the book away. "This Twist again. Trap-doors, dark cellars, that terrible Jew. Must you read this thing?"
"It comforts me."
"The dining-room's unpainted, dear. Where are your workmen? The upstairs rooms need sashes and doorknobs. We can't even close our bedroom door." She stepped closer and spoke softly. "We've been home two weeks. William and Henrietta have been doing your favorite chores. And we haven't entertained in ages."
"Yes." He took back the book.
"You have dozens of letters to answer, Charles."
"Of course."
"Reggie is on the street. He's been there for ten minutes."
"Yes. Of course." He put the slim blue volume into his coat pocket and retrieved his stick. Mrs. Shufflewick appeared with hat and coat.
Charles walked toward the lane where his carriage sat. The fog was heavy - a great yellowness that floated through the lane. Stoop-shouldered children played around the big wheels' spokes; street children, he thought, malicious if left unattended. As he walked faster, the children ran away.
The horse favored its right foreleg, Charles noticed with a practiced eye. As he stepped up into the carriage, he noticed a pool of blood beside its polished shoe.
He laid his hat onto the seat and tapped the ceiling twice.
"Sir?"
"Reggie, your horse is injured. Those Arabs that played beneath my cab."
Reggie climbed down and attended to his horse. "Didn't see them, sir. I'll keep a watch next time." He climbed up and cracked his whip. Charles closed the carriage curtains.
Charles sat impatiently, Dickens was late. Reggie stepped down and went to Tavistock House and knocked on the door.
Charles heard scratching beneath the carriage floor. He opened the door and leaned out to look, but drew back, assaulted by the smell of fresh dung. Dickens came out and walked with Reggie to the carriage. Reggie climbed up and cracked his whip into the air.
Charles faintly heard splashes of conversations and the cries of street peddlers up and down the walk; a hurdy-gurdy man loomed into his vision and fell back as the carriage pulled away.
"Thank you for arranging this meeting with Mr. Halworthy. Though I wonder the value - a spiritualist. But I haven't slept or eaten well for weeks."
"We'll be there soon."
The carriage swerved into Grosvenor Circle. As the horse slowed, Charles heard scratching beneath his feet and fists pounding against the carriage floor. Charles furtively searched his friend's eyes.
"Tell me," Dickens said after a long pause. "What haunts you so?"
Charles turned away. As the carriage rolled, Charles stared into the passing shops, trying to avoid more words. Still they mocked him: Printer, Tailor, Breadmaker, Jeweler, Bookbinder, Fixer of Clocks, he read silently. And Slaughter-House. He'd passed this way a hundred times but never seen such a horrifying place; the angry shouts, the cracking bones, the cries of dying animals. But when the carriage lurched and he looked back the shop was gone. He kept his eyes averted from Dickens' sharp observations, afraid his friend would think him mad.
"Do you have a pistol?" Charles said absently.
"A London Navy, calibre .36." Dickens played with his signet ring. He put his hand on Charles' shoulder. "What haunts you so? Tell me. More than the child?"
Charles coughed again, a drawn-out wrenching noise that filled the expansive coach. "I ache for my daughter. Must there be more than that?" Charles sat back and listened to the big carriage wheels clack against the cobblestones. Dickens breathed softly, sitting wordless and with a somber expression.
The silence was more frightening; Charles organized his thoughts. "I've written nothing for months. My mind is filled with images - jungles, primeval forests, ancient seas. I dream of hangings and death and dismemberments. In sunlight, I see, from the corners of my eyes, terrible things that can't be real: Mythological beasts, grinning gargoyles with red eyes, armies of toads and snakes. A world of living, breathing creatures from my mind." Charles began to sob. "I thought it trivial but they persist. I must believe, or lose my faith in my own faculties."
"What have you seen and heard?"
"Shadows. Whispers," Charles said in a trembling voice.
Charles stared out the carriage window. A group of nuns huddled on the curb, eyes wide as the carriage swung close. They jumped back as the water splashed their skirts. "Science is my first religion. What shall I believe if not the facts before my eyes? Must I abjure?"
Dickens patted Charles' hand. When the carriage stopped, Reggie helped them out.
"Meet us at Trafalgar at three," Dickens said.
"Sir."
Dickens brushed Charles' coat. "We'll chat with Mr. Halworthy. Then come to my performance at Tavistock tonight. I'm reading the role of David Copperfield myself."
Charles followed Dickens up the stairs. Dickens knocked with his cane. "This mood will pass. This is melancholy."
They were met by a butler and led into the drawing room. Mr. Halworthy, a frail, elderly gentlemen dressed in rumpled wools, sat at a harpsichord. A rich, resonant Bach lifted across the room; Sleepers, Awake! Charles realized. He smiled and relaxed as they were seated and told to wait.
Mr. Halworthy began to sing: "Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme..."
"It's a hymn, Boz." Charles glanced around the room, admiring the expansive book collection. He absently classified a cluster of African violets that dominated one corner of the high-ceiling room.
They stood when Mr. Halworthy rose from the harpsichord.
"A pleasure, Mr. Darwin. And Mr. Dickens. Good to see you again. How is Mr. Collins?"
"He's doing well. May we begin?" Dickens said.
"Let's walk, Mr. Darwin. I have a large garden. Perhaps you'd like to see it."
"Excellent. Please call me Charles. And Boz, do you mind waiting in the library?"
Dickens bowed and began to examine the books.
They walked through the garden. Charles admired the selection of flowers and plants, many chosen to flourish in English weather and soil.
"Call me Philip. I'm sorry I don't go to people's homes, it's sometimes disconcerting. What can I do for you today?"
"I am a scientist. I don't believe in goblins or faeries or mythological beasts. I do not live in any time other than my own."
"Yet these things are happening to you."
"Yes."
"You've lost someone."
"Yes, my daughter." Charles paused in their walk, startled that he was so comfortable with the words. "Over two years now, yet she possesses me."
They turned into a narrow manicured path and walked between long rows of rich, full roses clustered in colors, so that the rows, viewed from a distance, looked like the spectrum of light. Charles admired the thought that had gone into creating the effect.
"Do you have something of hers?"
Charles reached in his coat pocket and handed Philip the thimble. The spiritualist closed his hand and the thimble disappeared. After a moment he opened his hand.
"It's not hers."
Charles leaned against faux-Roman columns covered with ivy. "No. I bought it for her the morning that she died. The sewing girl painted it white. She said Annie would like that very much. When I came home that afternoon, my servants hovered in the drawing room; I had to let myself in." Charles stood straight. "I went upstairs and found my wife standing quietly beside the stairs. I went to my daughter's bed. She seemed so pale."
"She was a beautiful child," Philip said.
"She was the most gentle child I've ever known."
"You wanted to give her the thimble."
"It wouldn't have changed anything," Charles realized.
"She loves you still. Please know that. She worries for your soul." Philip reached into the bushes and pinched off a perfect white rose. "This is for you."
Charles shivered as though he had dived into the Antarctic Sea. His hands shook uncontrollably; he began to weep.
"Something else is wrong."
"I'm mad," Charles said. "What else?"
"No. Merely sad. It is a deep melancholy, the parent's loss of a child. It never completely heals. It is the unforgivable sin, that the child dies before the parent's death. Forgive yourself." Philip touched his roses. "But something else pursues. And with hellish anger."
"What have I done?"
"You seem a good man. Better to ask, 'What have I not done?' That's all I can offer, I'm afraid." Philip returned the thimble. "Let's go inside."
"But what shall I do?"
"What can any man do? Pray they tire of you. God bless."
He and Dickens stepped onto the street, a street strewn with garbage and crusted mud and layers of horse dung that rose in clouds. They were preceded by a crossing sweeper; Charles smiled and gave her two pennies. They walked through Trafalgar Square. Dickens kicked through the pigeons, stabbing his cane at the more recalcitrant ones.
Charles drifted from his friend, gravitating toward Lord Nelson's enormous column - with the hero of Trafalgar at its top - that adorned and dominated the square. He stopped in front of an old woman who stood on Nelson's flat granite toes. She gathered from her basket a bouquet of cut roses and irises, then thrust it at him. Charles saw Dickens across the square, bent over and talking to a pale-faced child. Charles smiled and took the bouquet.
"One pound?" he asked. "Is that enough?"
"Sir. A quid, it's too much."
Charles handed her the note. While he wiped his brow and squinted at Nelson's distant head, the flower-seller waddled off. Charles noticed something nestled in Lord Nelson's bronze hair. He stepped aside quickly as a fist-sized chunk of granite whistled from above and slammed into the hard surface near his boot.
Dickens appeared and pointed with his cane. "What's that?"
Charles walked around the tall column. A snake, he thought. No. Several large fat snakes, with wings. Mythological. Basilisk. He glanced away; the sun's glare had made him feel faint.
"What's that?" Dickens said. "Some nesting birds?"
"It's too far to see," Charles said. He looked at his pocket watch. "My mouth is very dry. Has Reggie arrived?"
"He's waiting with the other carriages, between the clarence and the barouche. May we stop at Tavistock before we return for tea?"
After a quick stop, they returned to Down House and to the drawing room. Mrs. Shufflewick moved from setting to setting, placing saucers and cups and silverware in a haphazard way. She brought the pot on a silver serving tray and scraped out again to get the sandwiches and cakes.
"Let's sit," Charles said. He held Emma's chair, then seated himself. As Mrs. Shufflewick returned to pour, Charles leaned and opened the curtains and glanced outside.
"The dogs, sir. They've run off."
"Both dogs?"
"Sir, every dog in the neighborhood. Every bleeding one."
Dickens smiled at the strong language. Charles felt an uncomfortable twinge; he caressed Emma's hand. "I'm sorry we were late."
"The flowers are lovely." Emma kept his hand. She glanced across the room and at the chest; sickly irises sagged in a vase.
"Let's have our tea," Charles said.
"How pale you are," Emma said. "Your hand is cold and bloodless."
Charles lifted his teacup and smiled, then dropped the elegant cup into his lap, scalding his thigh. As Emma screamed, Charles fell from his chair and crashed to the hardwood floor and stared at the swaying baskets of marbled ivy above. His feet and hands shook violently. A spasm climbed through his shoulders and neck and into his head. His face muscles quivered and jerked; his eyes burned in pain.
Dickens carried Charles up the stairs.
Charles woke with a start. Dickens had cleared off a dresser of bric-a-brac. Along with Charles's personal things - his silver watch and chain, the white thimble, a slim blue volume bookmarked with a Brighton newspaper clipping about a whale - a half-filled bottle of ether and a fresh cup of tea now sat there, too. Charles leaned on an elbow and brushed his beard with his fingers.
"Have your tea," Dickens said. "I put a spot of brandy in it."
"Please. Help me dress."
"You're ill. You've slept for hours. The doctor says you've had malaria, which comes and goes." Dickens fumbled for his watch. "I missed my curtain call, first time. It started at half-past eight. Don't get up, I'll be back shortly."
When Dickens left the room, Charles rose and stumbled toward the dresser. He moved past tall sashes - still not hung - and stopped and peered through the yellow oil-cloth clinging to the window. As he pressed, the greasy cloth fell and he stared through the clear panes.
Below in his gardens, hundreds of creatures, dwarves, goat-things, faerie and more, capered in mania. He faintly heard an eerie, hypnotic chant; the glass panes throbbed with its primitive tune. A small sphinx rocked on its haunches, watching the high window's glass.
A monstrous manticore, surrounded by writhing knots of snakes and toads, sat alone in its leonine majesty. A baleful basilisk as large as a grown elephant stalked through Charles's garden, its breath scorching all in its path. All danced or sat in repose or stalked in silhouette against a full yellow moon, revelling in their ascendancy.
The music stopped. All eyes below looked up at the panes. The manticore's grotesque face, yet still that of a man's, spread its jaws, flashing three rows of razor-sharp teeth. The beast roared, rattling the glass. Charles swooned then and fell into the dresser.
Dickens rushed back at the noise and carried him to bed. Dickens sat in a chair at the bedroom door, his hand in his coat pocket. Charles leaned and vomited several times into a porcelain basin, then took a breath of ether and drifted away.
Charles woke with a violent trembling and a shout. Emma mopped his brow, then kissed his lips.
"You seem better. Did you have another awful dream?"
"I dreamed again that I was hanged." He furiously scratched his arm below his elbow, then stopped and smiled at Emma, as if to comfort her. "May I have some breakfast?"
Emma ordered a morning tray, eggs and bacon, toast, milk and tea, and when it arrived, bent and set the tray onto his lap. As she stood straight again, finger on her lip, a rumbling came from below.
"Darling, I'll look downstairs. It sounds like the boys are at mischief in your study." He heard her footsteps whisper down the stairs.
Childrens' voices murmured nearby. Charles pushed the tray aside to read his correspondence. Dickens walked in and sat at Charles's feet.
"You spent the night?"
"I'm shabby, I know. But you were delirious and needed help. God knows who read my role aloud last night. At Tavistock."
"Would you read to us today?"
Dickens smiled.
"I have to answer these letters," Charles said. "Then we'll talk."
Dickens rifled through the breakfast tray and found a piece of bacon. "Letters from your worshippers?" He pointed the bacon, then chewed.
"I correspond with intelligent men. I have written fundamental science all my life," Charles said. "And once I had faith in God. Now I wonder in what I should believe."
Dickens rose and walked to the dresser. He picked up the white thimble.
"Please put it back. It was a gift to my daughter."
"To Henrietta?"
"For Anne Elizabeth. She loved to sew with her mother." From habit and anguish, Darwin reached for the toy. "The sewing girl had painted it white. 'It's more pretty that way,' she'd said. But Annie died before I got home again."
"You never gave her this?"
Charles shook his head and turned his face away.
Mrs. Shufflewick came into the bedroom and cleared away the tray. Emma came in also and whispered to Dickens, then smiled faintly at Charles and left.
"We must go downstairs," Dickens said. "Something has happened in your study."
Charles dressed quickly. He left the bedroom and peered down the hallway. "Where is my family?"
"They've gathered in the drawing room. Let me help you down the stairs."
"I can walk."
In his study, Charles stood in the room's center. He stared in horror at the chaos, taking in tumbled bookcases, shredded rugs, dark smearings on the walls. Water trickled from smashed vases and potted plants. Old issues of Lancet and stacks of privately printed journals soaked in oily water. Broken glass lay everywhere, as if the windows' glass panes had been methodically smashed.
Charles stared without comprehension at the unfinished rosette of teak and inlay that dominated the ceiling, hoping that the intricate designs might make some sense of this. He felt a white light fill his eyes. He stumbled and Dickens caught him again. As they bumped, he felt something heavy in Dickens's coat pocket.
Charles gasped for breath; he walked with infinitesimal steps to his desk. Most volumes had been knocked to the floor. A few had been opened and twisted with great strength; those books' spines were broken, handfuls of pages torn out and tossed aside.
His vast collected notes of On The Origin Of Species, his personal copy of Voyage Of The H.M.S. Beagle, important correspondences from other scientists - many were in shreds, as if raked by claws.
Charles ran his hands numbly across the desk. He held out his hands in supplication. Yellow light struck through empty panes and made strange patterns on the damaged books.
As Charles stood and stared in bafflement at the study destroyed, a piteous cry came from the greenhouse, then another much alike, and then an answering, guttural howl brought up from Hell, as if a madman had seen in his mirror the thoughts passing through his mind.
Dickens's expression grew solemn; Charles covered his ears and leaned against the desk. When he recovered his balance, he pawed through his top desk drawer. He found an ancient derringer, its barrel twisted and the metal still hot.
Dickens took a horse pistol from his coat pocket. "My London Navy," Dickens said. "And what comes next?"
Emma looked inside, fearing, Charles thought, to cross into the study. Mrs. Shufflewick stood stolidly. All six children huddled behind her, perhaps afraid they might be blamed. Each child was in tears.
"Something else was here," Emma said. "Something cruel. It wasn't our children, Charles."
"Of course not."
"George saw some of them. Unspeakable things," Emma said. "One touched him. It stroked his arm."
"Go upstairs to my library. I have two shotguns in a glass case, and shells inside the drawer. Load the guns. Give one to William."
"He's thirteen."
"Go on now. You must all do your parts. Take Mrs. Shufflewick to help." Charles kissed Emma's lips. The children pressed in for a moment, then followed the women upstairs.
Charles asked for the pistol. He and Dickens stepped into the garden and the bright morning sun. Books and papers were strewn across the back of the estate; he stepped past pages torn from his precious notebooks.
They moved to the greenhouse door. Charles paused at the threshold, wondering for a moment where the stone gargoyles he'd seen above had gone. Dickens moved a pile of purple workmen's overalls and picked up a pickaxe. He swung it in a wide arc, nearly striking Charles. He seemed satisfied with his new weapon and followed Charles inside.
The humid greenhouse was more of a shambles than the chaotic study had been. Mist filled the greenhouse with a bitter taste and smell, like vinegar spilled and pomegranates gone bad with heat. As Charles stood in pools of shallow water that filled the greenhouse aisles, he surveyed the irreplaceable cuttings and experiments he had nurtured for so many years. He wondered how the tropical vegetation had so increased. Creepers and vines covered the walls and struts; huge, thick trunks like banyan and mahogany, cypress and black poplar had spread out and pushed through the greenhouse roof.
Dickens whispered, "Door." Charles looked back wildly at the entrance. He heard loud scratchings, and something pounding on the outer door. A cry rose from the greenhouse rear, more anguished than the others they'd heard earlier.
The two friends turned from the door and pushed toward the back of the long greenhouse, through dense dark flora, abundant and chaotic, entwined in ways they'd never seen before.
"What in God's name has happened?" Dickens said.
"Nature has gone mad. What other answer can it be?" Charles moved more slowly, pointing the pistol at grotesque shadows moving in the mist.
"Hold," Dickens said. He moved a web of tangled vines and dipped into a shallow pool. He lifted a long piece of bone, much like a man's leg but stripped of flesh. He used the pickaxe handle to poke through the dark water and found more bones and shreds of purple cloth. "They hunt you, Charles."
"What do these devils want from me? Why do they haunt my dreams? And why disturb my grief? She slumbers, why do they uncover the dead?"
"They are damned, dear friend. Perhaps that is enough."
Charles gripped the pistol and stepped past the fetid pool, as if he were afraid of the purple cloth itself. He wanted to flee, to give his friend the gun. The cries had stopped but they could hear soft moaning, almost a soothing sound. Charles fumbled at his breast, then realized that the thimble still sat on his bedroom dresser.
They pushed to the rear of the greenhouse, constructed like an oriental fan, its back wall spread in a half-circle to hold more plants. The vines and wild jungle plants were thickest there, and though Charles was but two dozen paces from the greenhouse's end, it seemed an infinite reach.
The water grew deeper as they moved forward. Snakes swam through the murk; others clustered in knots at the gnarled roots of trees. Immersed to his knees in the dank water, Charles felt the cold mist twist around his thighs. He raised a hand to halt.
"But it's there," Dickens said. He pointed toward a mound of dirt in the center of the back wall, standing like a small island and covered with moving, gibbering shapes.
One of the gray, monkey-like shapes climbed swiftly up a slanted trunk that rose to the greenhouse ceiling. Another followed, then many together, moving as a pack. Soon they were all near the ceiling, their red eyes watching Charles, testing Charles' resolve, he knew. And he knew then what they were.
As the red-eyed gargoyles moved about the huge trunk, large leaves fell to the bottom and half-sank into the water. As more leaves fell, bright streaks of sunlight broke through and reflected on the still water. Charles stared at the island, now bare of all save a mound of softly whimpering flesh.
He moved closer and touched the mound with the London Navy's nose. As Charles stood, more light hit the mound, exposing the half-eaten flanks and limbs and the gnawed skull, its collar still about its neck. Charles saw recognition in the dappled coat, and in its piteous eyes; he saw something noble that he had once loved. He cocked the heavy pistol and fired into its brain.
"Where have they gone to?" Dickens asked suddenly.
Charles looked up. The gray creatures had all climbed the trunk's top; he heard their scratching as they crossed the roof. The last two, almost outside, stared back at the silent mound, their cold stone eyes watching without remorse, angry that they had been disturbed.
The first gargoyle dropped Charles's precious notes; they splashed into the limpid pools below. The second grinned a red grin and softly stroked the other's arm, the toy thimble in its twisted paw. Charles pointed and cocked, but stopped suddenly and turned toward a disturbing noise.
In the shadows, something huge had moved close to them; great waves of water were pushed ahead. Charles heard teeth gnashing like a thresher hard at work. As it moved for the first time into the light, Charles saw the living manticore, pausing to relish, he knew, another human feast.
Charles froze in terror. Dickens stepped forward as the manticore rushed in; he swung the long pickaxe and buried it into its human face. As the monster fell thunderously at their feet, Charles turned back, lifted his pistol and fired twice, with deafening reports; the stone creatures shattered and fell. In the eerie silence of nature gone wrong, Charles heard hollow explosions that seemed far away.
He gave Dickens the pistol back and pushed the bloody manticore aside. As he searched for his daughter's toy, he waded past the damp, blurred notes. He found the thimble and put it into his coat pocket, as he studied the wild jungle that sagged and crumbled even as he stood. He smelled a strong cabbage-like odor and saw a patch of white alyssum clinging to the wall's still-thick vines. He moved through the water. When he reached the wall, he pushed the gnarled brown vines and grayish leaves aside and touched the small flowers, each a vision of ecstacy, that huddled among the gray. In the heart of the white cluster he found a blue one, its petals perfectly formed.
As he plucked the flower, steam rose from the manticore's gases and its body sagged shapelessly. The fetid water began to drain. On the rooftop, he heard the gargoyles spiral and crash onto the ground.
SFWoE Note: SFWoE thanks Larry Taylor, the author of "Annie," for allowing SFWoE to place his SFWoE 2000 Contest First Place Story on the SFWoE Website. If you would like to learn more about the author, please read SFWoE's interview with Larry Taylor.
Peter Taschioglou's artwork in the story is a smaller version of his original creation. This smaller version (the lower part of the original) fits neatly into the story framework and loads quicker than his much larger original artwork. You may view Peter's original artwork (and learn how his wife Jennie influenced his choice of subject matter) by clicking on the SFWoE Swirl below.
Well, what's your opinion of Mr. Taylor's story? SFWoE invites you to send us your comments on "Annie." Please keep your opinion relatively short and to the point, and we will place your remarks online.
|
|
|
|
|
Loved Larry's style: his descriptions of the colours of the flowers, the smells in the air, the sights to be seen, all added to a vibrant landscape, with a sense of impending doom lurking in the background.The dilemma -- of trying to decide whether these things were really happening, or only happening inside Darwin's skull -- was delicious. The artwork seemed cleverly constructed to highlight that dilemma.
Thanks for the opportunity to read it.
--- Kain Massin Adelaide, SA Australia
Wonderfully written with amazingly sculpted detail that sets the reader in the place and time and more importantly, Darwin's mindset. The choice and rendering of detail not only made the story more vivid, but gave it credibility.This was written so well, I read to the end without feeling it was an effort. Rather, it was a feast of colorful strokes, etched with the pains of the human heart and imbued with eternal mystery. This is the kind of writing that transcends genre.
Kudos to Larry -- I hope he knows he has "what it takes."
--- Lynda Lehmann Long Island, NY
Definitely riveting. Lush descriptions. So, this is what is known as "slipstream;" I had wondered about that category. There are a number of poignant scenes: Charles' grieving for his daughter; the wife begging for another child; the care of his friends; the visit to the spiritualist.An excellent period piece.
The ending, though, doesn't take me to where I thought I was going. I don't really sense any "closure" re Annie's death -- just a return of the thimble from the creatures of his compendiums. Intriguing end, but I ask myself, "what does this signify given the rest of the story?" Karmic retribution for his scientific experiments? Methinks simple firearms would not banish these creatures to the other side...
Don't get me wrong. I do think this is an exceptional story.
--- Terrie Relf San Diego, CA
I agree with San Diego's Terrie Relf. Mr. Taylor's "Annie" is an excellent period piece. And I also agree with Ms. Relf's statements about the ending of the story. But you know, as hard as I tried, I could not come up with a more meaningful ending.So I salute the author for creating a most interesting tale, and the artist for capturing the "feel" of the story.
--- Karl Heinz Kaufmann Dusseldorf, Germany
I finally got a chance to read through Larry's story. The illustration is amazing! It captures the story perfectly. And of course the story is brilliant, but then I knew that . . .
--- Theodora Goss Brighton, MA
Larry Taylor's story is beautifully arranged, starting as a simple tale of grief, spinning closely to a mixture of loss of faith and emerging insanity, blowing into a grand piece worthy of Lovecraft's world of madness and horrifying truth.Two of the era's most notable people working together provide the true entwinement of science and fantasy by their work and personalities.
A truly inspiring work, and worth the effort of losing it several times to create this story.
--- Jillian Staik Merritt Island, FL
Larry, it only gets better. You invoke such a breathtaking emotional and physical landscape. And then at the very end, to sneak in your tiny flower. Marvelous! I'm looking forward to more.
--- Madeleine Reardon Shrewsbury, MA
