Beyond the Pale: A fantasy anthology

BEYOND
THE PALE

Saladin
Ahmed
Peter S. Beagle
Heather Brewer
Jim Butcher
Rachel Caine
Kami Garcia
Nancy & Belle Holder
Gillian Philip
Jane Yolen

Edited
by Henry Herz

Birch Tree Publishing
3830 Valley Centre Dr., Suite 705-432
San Diego, CA 92130
www.birchtreepub.com

Selection and editorial material
copyright © 2014 by Henry Herz. The moral right of Henry Herz to be identified
as editor of this work and the individual authors as the authors of this work
has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988. Individual copyrights are:

HOOVES AND THE HOVEL OF ABDEL
JAMEELA copyright © 2009 by Saladin Ahmed
THE CHILDREN OF THE SHARK GOD copyright © 2010 by Avicenna Development
Corporation
SHADOW CHILDREN copyright © 2010 by Heather Brewer
MISERY copyright © 2012 by Heather Brewer
EVEN HAND copyright © 2010 by Jim Butcher

DEATH WARMED OVER copyright © 2009
Roxanne Longstreet Conrad
RED RUN copyright © 2012 by Kami Garcia LLC
PALE RIDER copyright © 2012 by Nancy Holder
FROST CHILD copyright © 2011 by Gillian Philip
SOUTH copyright © 2012 by Gillian Philip
A KNOT OF TOADS copyright © 2005 by Jane Yolen
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF LIGHTNING MERRIEMOUSE-JONES copyright © 2006 by Nancy
& Belle Holder

Cover illustration “Snow White” copyright
© 2010 by Abigail Larson

All rights reserved. No part of
this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
including photocopy, recording, or information storage and retrieval system,
without written permission from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction.
Characters, businesses, organizations and events are either the product of the
authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living, dead or undead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-989-44873-4

With gratitude to my parents and the Author of
all things

Praise for
Beyond the Pale

“
Beyond the Pale
features a stellar,
diverse line-up, brimming with talent and imagination.”

 
- New York Times bestseller Jason Hough,
author of
The Darwin Elevator

“Beyond the edge of
fear and dread, shadows tell each other beautiful and frightening stories.
Crack open this book and listen to the voices.”

 
- New York Times bestseller Richard
Kadrey, author of
Sandman Slim

“Magic truly exists
in Beyond the Pale. These tales are at times elegant, witty, romantic,
frightening, exciting and always entertaining. Highly recommended.”

-
  
New York Times bestseller Jonathan
Maberry, author of
Fall of Night
and
V-Wars

“
Beyond the Pale
is the kind of thing to
keep loaded on your reader in case you need a quick fix of fine fantasy by one
of the field's finest fantasy writers.”

 
- Nebula Award-nominated Greg van Eekhout,
author of
California Bones

“Light a black
candle and crack open this collection of short stories from writers who are
more than mere wordsmiths.
 
A thrill
runs up my spine as I wonder, could these scribes be messengers from in-between
worlds sent here to prepare us for our own crossings? The veil thins and the
candle flickers. Fiction? I’m not so sure.”

 
- New York Times bestseller Frank Beddor,
author of
The Looking Glass Wars

CONTENTS

introduction

~

by Henry Herz

This is an anthology of fantasy, urban fantasy and paranormal stories
that skirt the border between our world and others. Was that my imagination, or
did I hear something under my bed? What was that blurred movement in my
darkened closet? There is but a thin Veil separating the real and the
fantastic, and therein dwell the inhabitants of these stories.

The noun “pale” refers to a stake (as in impaling vampires) or pointed
piece of wood (as in a paling fence). “Pale” came to refer to an area enclosed
by a paling fence. Later, it acquired the figurative meaning of an enclosed and
therefore safe domain. Conversely, "beyond the pale" means foreign,
strange, or threatening. You are about to go Beyond the Pale.

It was an honor and delight to work with such gifted authors. I hope
you enjoy reading their work as much as I did.

HOOVES AND THE
HOVEL OF ABDEL JAMEELA

~

by Saladin Ahmed

As soon as I arrive in the village of Beit
Zujaaj, I begin to hear the mutters about Abdel Jameela, a strange old man
supposedly unconnected to any of the local families. Two days into my stay, the
villagers fall over one another to share with me the rumors that Abdel Jameela
is in fact distantly related to the esteemed Assad clan. By my third day in
Beit Zujaaj, several of the Assads, omniscient as “important” families always
are in these piles of cottages, have accosted me to deny the malicious
whispers. No doubt they are worried about the bad impression such an
association might make on me, favorite physicker of the Caliph’s own son.

The latest denial comes from Hajjar
al-Assad himself, the middle-aged head of the clan and the sort of
half-literate lout that passes for a shaykh in these parts. Desperate for the
approval of the young courtier whom he no doubt privately condemns as an over-schooled
sodomite, bristle-bearded Shaykh Hajjar has cornered me in the village’s only
café—if the sitting room of a qat-chewing old woman can be called a café
by anyone other than bumpkins.

I should not be so hard on Beit Zujaaj and
its bumpkins. But when I look at the gray rock-heap houses, the withered gray
vegetable-yards, and the stuporous gray lives that fill this village, I want to
weep for the lost color of Baghdad.

Instead I sit and listen to the shaykh.

“Abdel Jameela is not of Assad blood, O
learned Professor. My grandfather took mercy, as God tells us we must, on the
old man’s mother. Seventy-and-some years ago she showed up in Beit Zujaaj,
half-dead from traveling and big with child, telling tales—God alone
knows if they were true—of her Assad-clan husband, supposedly slain by
highwaymen. Abdel Jameela was birthed and raised here, but he has never been of
this village.” Shaykh Hajjar scowls. “For decades now—since I was a
boy—he has lived up on the hilltop rather than among us. More of a hermit
than a villager. And not of Assad blood,” he says again.

I stand up. I can take no more of the man’s
unctuous voice and, praise God, I don’t have to.

“Of course, O Shaykh, of course. I
understand. Now, if you will excuse me?”

Shaykh Hajjar blinks. He wishes to say
more but doesn’t dare. For I have come from the Caliph’s court.

“Yes, Professor. Peace be upon you.” His
voice is like a snuffed candle.

“And upon you, peace.” I head for the door
as I speak.

The villagers would be less deferential if
they knew of my current position at court—or rather, lack of one. The
Caliph has sent me to Beit Zujaaj as an insult. I am here as a reminder that
the well-read young physicker with the clever wit and impressive skill, whose
company the Commander of the Faithful’s own bookish son enjoys, is worth less than
the droppings of the Caliph’s favorite falcon. At least when gold and a Persian
noble’s beautiful daughter are involved.

For God’s viceroy the Caliph has seen fit
to promise my Shireen to another, despite her love for me. Her husband-to-be is
older than her father—too ill, the last I heard, to even sign the
marriage contract. But as soon as his palsied, liver-spotted hand is hale
enough to raise a pen…
 
Things would
have gone differently were I a wealthy man. Shireen’s father would have heard my
proposal happily enough if I’d been able to provide the grand dowry he sought.
The Caliph’s son, fond of his brilliant physicker, even asked that Shireen be
wedded to me. But the boy’s fondness could only get me so far. The Commander of
the Faithful saw no reason to impose a raggedy scholar of a son-in-law on the
Persian when a rich old vulture would please the man more. I am, in the Caliph’s
eyes, an amusing companion to his son, but one whom the boy will lose like a
doll once he grows to love killing and gold-getting more than learning. Certainly
I am nothing worth upsetting Shireen’s coin-crazed courtier father over.

For a man is not merely who he is, but
what he has. Had I land or caravans I would be a different man—the sort
who could compete for Shireen’s hand. But I have only books and instruments and
a tiny inheritance, and thus that is all that I am. A man made of books and
pittances would be a fool to protest when the Commander of the Faithful told
him that his love would soon wed another.

I
 am a fool.

My outburst in court did not quite cost me
my head, but I was sent to Beit Zujaaj “for a time, only, to minister to the
villagers as a representative of Our beneficent concern for Our subjects.” And
my fiery, tree-climbing Shireen was locked away to await her half-dead suitor’s
recovery.

“O Professor! Looks like you might get a
chance to see Abdel Jameela for yourself!” Just outside the café, the gravelly
voice of Umm Hikma the café-keeper pierces the cool morning air and pulls me
out of my reverie. I like old Umm Hikma, with her qat-chewer’s irascibility and
her blacksmithish arms. Beside her is a broad-shouldered man I don’t know. He
scuffs the dusty ground with his sandal and speaks to me in a worried stutter.

“P-peace be upon you, O learned Professor.
We haven’t yet met. I’m Yousef, the porter.”

“And upon you, peace, O Yousef. A pleasure
to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s mine, O Professor. But I
am here on behalf of another. To bring you a message. From Abdel Jameela.”

For the first time since arriving in Beit
Zujaaj, I am surprised. “A message? For me?”

“Yes, Professor. I am just returned from
the old hermit’s hovel, a half-day’s walk from here, on the hilltop. Five, six
times a year I bring things to Abdel Jameela, you see. In exchange he gives a
few coins, praise God.”

“And where does he get these coins, up
there on the hill?” Shaykh Hajjar’s voice spits out the words from the café
doorway behind me. I glare and he falls silent.

I turn back to the porter. “What message
do you bear, O Yousef? And how does this graybeard know of me?”

Broad-shouldered Yousef looks terrified.
The power of the court. “Forgive me, O learned Professor! Abdel Jameela asked
what news from the village and I… I told him that a court physicker was in Beit
Zujaaj. He grew excited and told me to beg upon his behalf for your aid. He
said his wife was horribly ill. He fears she will lose her legs, and perhaps
her life.”

“His wife?” I’ve never heard of a married
hermit.

Umm Hikma raises her charcoaled eyebrows,
chews her qat, and says nothing.

Shaykh Hajjar is more vocal. “No one save
God knows where she came from, or how many years she’s been up there. The
people have had glimpses only. She doesn’t wear the head scarf that our women
wear. She is wrapped all in black cloth from head to toe and mesh-masked like a
foreigner. She has spoken to no one. Do you know, O Professor, what the old
rascal said to me years ago when I asked why his wife never comes down to the
village? He said, ‘She is very religious’! The old dog! Where is it written
that a woman can’t speak to other women? Other women who are good Muslims? The
old son of a whore! What should his wife fear here? The truth of the matter
is—”

“The truth, O Shaykh, is that in this
village only 
your 
poor wife need live in fear!” Umm Hikma lets
out a rockslide chuckle and gives me a conspiratorial wink. Before the shaykh
can sputter out his offended reply, I turn to Yousef again.

“On this visit, did you see Abdel Jameela’s
wife?” If he can describe the sick woman, I may be able to make some guesses
about her condition. But the porter frowns.

“He does not ask me into his home, O
Professor. No one has been asked into his home for thirty years.”

Except for the gifted young physicker from
the Caliph’s court. Well, it may prove more interesting than what I’ve seen of
Beit Zujaaj thus far. I do have a fondness for hermits. Or, rather, for
the 
idea 
of hermits. I can’t say that I have ever met one. But
as a student, I always fantasized that I would one day 
be 
a
hermit, alone with God and my many books in the barren hills.

That was before I met Shireen.

“There is one thing more,” Yousef says,
his broad face looking even more nervous. “He asked that you come alone.”

My heartbeat quickens, though there is no
good reason for fear. Surely this is just an old hater-of-men’s surly whim. A
physicker deals with such temperamental oddities as often as maladies of the
liver or lungs. Still… “Why does he ask this?”

“He says that his wife is very modest and
that in her state the frightening presence of men might worsen her illness.”

Shaykh Hajjar erupts at this. “Bah!
Illness! More likely they’ve done something shameful they don’t want the
village to know of. Almighty God forbid, maybe they—”

Whatever malicious thing the shaykh is
going to say, I silence it with another glare borrowed from the Commander of
the Faithful. “If the woman is ill, it is my duty as a Muslim and a physicker
to help her, whatever her husband’s oddities.”

Shaykh Hajjar’s scowl is soul-deep. “Forgive
me, O Professor, but this is not a matter of oddities. You could be in danger.
We know why Abdel Jameela’s wife hides away, though some here fear to speak of
such things.”

Umm Hikma spits her qat into the road,
folds her powerful arms and frowns. “In the name of God! Don’t you believe,
Professor, that Abdel Jameela, who couldn’t kill an ant, means you any harm.”
She jerks her chin at Shaykh Hajjar. “And you, O Shaykh, by God, please don’t
start telling your old lady stories again!”

The shaykh wags a finger at her. “Yes,
I 
will 
tell him, woman! And may Almighty God forgive you for
mocking your shaykh!” Shaykh Hajjar turns to me with a grim look. “O learned
Professor, I will say it plainly: Abdel Jameela’s wife is a witch.”

“A witch?” The last drops of my patience
with Beit Zujaaj have dripped through the water clock. It is time to be away from
these people. “Why would you say such a thing, O Shaykh?”

The shaykh shrugs. “Only God knows for
certain,” he says. His tone belies his words.

“May God protect us all from slanderous
ill-wishers,” I say.

He scowls. But I have come from the Caliph’s
court, so his tone is venomously polite. “It is no slander, O Professor. Abdel
Jameela’s wife consorts with ghouls. Travelers have heard strange noises coming
from the hilltop. And hoofprints have been seen on the hill-path. Cloven
hoofprints, O Professor, where there are neither sheep nor goats.”

“No! Not cloven hoofprints!” I say.

But the shaykh pretends not to notice my
sarcasm. He just nods. “There is no strength and no safety but with God.”

“God is great,” I say in vague, obligatory
acknowledgment. I have heard enough rumor and nonsense. And a sick woman needs
my help. “I will leave as soon as I gather my things. This Abdel Jameela lives
up the road, yes? On a hill? If I walk, how long will it take me?”

“If you do not stop to rest, you will see
the hill in the distance by noontime prayer,” says Umm Hikma, who has a new bit
of qat going in her cheek.

“I will bring you some food for your trip,
Professor, and the stream runs alongside the road much of the way, so you’ll
have no need of water.” Yousef seems relieved that I’m not angry with him,
though I don’t quite know why I would be. I thank him then speak to the group.

“Peace be upon you all.”

“And upon you, peace,” they say in
near-unison.

In my room, I gather scalpel, saw, and
drugs into my pack—the kid-leather pack that my beloved gifted to me. I
say more farewells to the villagers, firmly discourage their company, and set
off alone on the road. As I walk rumors of witches and wife-beaters are crowded
out of my thoughts by the sweet remembered sweat-and-ambergris scent of my
Shireen.

After an hour on the rock-strewn road, the
late-morning air warms. The sound of the stream beside the road almost calms
me.

Time passes and the sun climbs high in the
sky. I take off my turban and caftan, make ablution by the stream and say my
noon prayers. Not long after I begin walking again, I can make out what must be
Beit Zujaaj hill off in the distance. In another hour or so I am at its foot.

It is not much of a hill, actually. There
are buildings in Baghdad that are taller. A relief, as I am not much of a
hill-climber. The rocky path is not too steep, and green sprays of grass and
thyme dot it—a pleasant enough walk, really. The sun sinks a bit in the
sky and I break halfway up the hill for afternoon prayers and a bit of bread
and green apple. I try to keep my soul from sinking as I recall Shireen, her
skirts tied up scandalously, knocking apples down to me from the high branches
of the Caliph’s orchard-trees.

The rest of the path proves steeper and I
am sweating through my galabeya when I finally reach the hilltop. As I stand
there huffing and puffing, my eyes land on a small structure thirty yards away.

If Beit Zujaaj hill is not much of a hill,
at least the hermit’s hovel can be called nothing but a hovel. Stones piled on stones
until they have taken the vague shape of a dwelling. Two sickly chickens
scratching in the dirt. As soon as I have caught my breath, a man comes walking
out to meet me. Abdel Jameela.

He is shriveled with a long gray beard and
a ragged kaffiyeh, and I can tell he will smell unpleasant even before he
reaches me. How does he already know I’m here? I don’t have much time to
wonder, as the old man moves quickly despite clearly gouty legs.

“You are the physicker, yes? From the
Caliph's court?”

No ‘peace be upon you,’ no ‘how is your
health,’ no ‘pleased to meet you.’ Life on a hilltop apparently wears away one’s
manners. As if reading my thoughts, the old man bows his head in supplication.