Magic Dirt: The Best of Sean Williams (25 page)

The card said:
Treasurer, Royal Society for the Semantically Impaired.

“My condolences,” Le Hunte offered with his hat held to his chest. “May I talk with you for a moment?

“I—yes, of course. Come in.” Lee retreated to the bed, concerned that a sudden pins-and-needles sensation in his extremities heralded a new neuronal assault.

“I want you to know, first and foremost, that you are not alone.” Le Hunte stood at the end of the bed, his hat now at his side. “Neither is the injury you have suffered completely unknown to science, even if it is often misdia—ah, that is, often overlooked in the normal rounds of medical treatment.”

He understood then that Le Hunte’s word-choice was carefully considerate, so Lee could understand every word. The rest came naturally.

“Which letter have you lost?” he asked.

“Alas, I cannot tell you. I can only refer to it as the 17th letter.”

A quick count revealed that to be Q.

“We are fortunate, you and I,” said Le Hunte. “With a more inconvenient overlap, we could barely converse. That’s why I am often chosen to introduce the Society to new recruits. I am pleased to be about that service today.” He executed a small bow.

A joke occurred to Lee then, but he could not put it in words. In his mind’s eye he saw an assembly of the Semantically Impaired, all with different letters lost and forever stuck in the attempt of conversation. It could be impossible for them to communicate except by Morse code or numbers or even semaphore. But he could not find the words to describe such an assembly. He had attended many such as chair of the Board of his company, but could not name them now because those words were lost.

Words lost like those of the man before him and who knew how many others? Words that had never returned.

For the first time he wept, not just for himself, but for his wife whose name would remain forever unspoken by his lips—and for people without the letter L who could not speak of love, those denied M and the word “mother”, and others whose incapacities he could barely conceive of. Even Le Hunte would never toast the Queen, which had never before seemed an important part of life. To be denied any aspect of speech and perception was unbearable. Inhumane.

Le Hunte made no move to physically reassure him, but he did speak.

“It’s perfect alri—I mean to say, you shouldn’t feel ashamed. We’ve all felt this way at some point. It is not easy to be as we are, alike and yet profoundly unlike. It’s not amnesia; it’s not aphasia. It’s entirely too difficult to explain to those without our particular lack. And to lose your name ... “ Le Hunte’s expression became mordantly sympathetic. “I would have you know that you’re not alone in that circumstance, either. There are others on our books in the same straits.”

“Is that supposed to cheer me up?”

“Perhaps not. But there is a chance of recovery, if that is what you need. Science has made terrific advances in recent years. Doctors cannot yet repair the lesions that cost us our letters, but there is talk of prostheses—artificial letters, if you like, rather than ones that have been reversed or distorted as offered to us in the past. I was born with this condition and remember all too well the awkward spectacles and lenses forced upon me. Now, there is none of that. Society has learned of our condition, however slowly, and makes adjustments. For instance, there exist translations of classic novels that permit even the most unfortunately impaired to read as others do. There is hope, you see, Mr Jameson. There is always hope.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And—well, I don’t wish to be harsh, but people survive far worse disabilities. We are fortunate, you and I. There is much we can still say—and limitations, some believe, only make us more creative. For every common word denied, an old one is revived. Shakespeare and Chaucer would be pleased, I think, with some of our more inventive members.”

Lee reached into a pocket for a handkerchief and blew his nose rather messily. “Has anyone else lost my letter?”

“The seventh? Not anyone I have met.”

“I’m unique, then.”

“You are what?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m one of a kind.”

“I see. Yes. That’s certainly true. Is that a comfort to you?”

He wanted to say, no, not really, but that wasn’t entirely true. He did feel somewhat better for the joint awareness that someone else had his condition too and that he wasn’t just another in the herd.

“Well,” said Le Hunte, hat atop his head once more, “you have my card. Call me any time. We meet weekly. Please join us. You are most welcome.”

Lee stood to shake Le Hunte’s hand. “Thank you. I really am terribly ...” He floundered, at a momentary loss for the correct word.

“Appreciative?”

“Yes.”

For the first time, Le Hunte smiled. “I believed you would be. Farewell, Mr Jameson,” he said with a wave.
“Au revoir.
See you anon. Until next time!”

When the sound of his visitor’s footsteps in the corridor outside had faded to silence, Lee took off his street clothes and returned to bed. Prostrate in the darkness, with his hands behind his head, he considered all that Le Hunte had said. How peculiar that his condition could be so common that a Royal Society existed to assist its sufferers—and odder still that all across the world were dotted people whose alphabets deviated from everyone else’s! Did such exist in China, Russia, Israel? He supposed they must. He hoped they had the equivalent of a Royal Society to cater to their needs too, to help them find a new path in their oddly contracted but expanded worlds.

No more did he feel the need to run away. There could be no escape from his condition, even if it was one that he would find difficult to explain to people. He had no visible symptoms. He could, with a little practise, function. Yet he had lost his name, which in every society had a symbolic and undeniable effect on his sense of self. He was Lee Jameson now, and who that was remained to be seen. His old self certainly wouldn’t have resolved to tell his wife that “pumpkin” would be fine, provided he could call her that in return. And he wouldn’t have spoken to the duty nurse to put in a recommendation for Sam the intern. He had been too busy with the Board and his other responsibilities.

Lee Jameson had new responsibilities, new demands. His relationship with the world had been turned upside down by a purloined letter. Never before had he suspected how complicated words could be. They were for much more than mere description. What one can’t find the words for, he decided, cannot exist in one’s experience—and what is the world, after all, other than the sum of one’s experience?

Reassured that he had found a level of comprehension sufficient to survive the days and weeks ahead, he let his eyes drift shut and sleep take him away.

And his dreams, like those of the blind who dream in colour, were full of mergers, board meetings and gun-fighting guinea pigs riding stagecoaches of pure gold.

<>

~ * ~

INTRODUCTION TO:

........................................................................EVERMORE

Writers are thieves. We steal from each other, and we steal from ourselves. Most of the time it’s fine, unless the theft goes so far as to tip over into the hazy, grey realm of plagiarism. Indeed, without wearing our influences on our sleeves, paying homage to those who inspired us, or following in surer footsteps, most writers would find it hard to get started at all (and I’m not just talking about fanfic—although surely I’m not the only pro who wrote a
Doctor Who
story at the age of thirteen, and now thanks his lucky stars that the internet didn’t exist then).

This story contains the seed idea that led to the Orphans trilogy. Not incomprehensible aliens or the destruction of Earth, although that was fun too, but flawed copies of human beings trying to maintain their emotional survival in the certain knowledge that their originals who are far away, dead, or utterly disinterested. I lifted this idea wholesale, and while I know it was mine in the first place, I still feel vaguely guilty about not coming up with an entirely new one for the series. Ideas are the easiest part of writing. Isn’t that what we hard-nose hacks tell those who approach us with the offer to work on their Sure-Fire Big Idea (all we have to do is write the book)?

Some ideas grow to exceed the container into which they were put. “Evermore” could have stayed exactly where it was, and I could have been happy for the rest of my life—had I not started to wonder what happened to the other missions out there, the ones that might have reached their goals and gone on to do whatever it was they were sent out to do. The
what-ifs
became
I-really-need-to-knows,
and that’s when I accepted that the idea wasn’t going to stay where it was at all, and I just had to get on with writing it.

That was the first time I stole from myself. Since then, I’ve made quite a habit of it. There’s something addictive about stealing and getting away with it.

Writers are thieves, and we’re good liars, too.

There’s a time and a place for everything.

~ * ~

EVERMORE

When I was a child, my father used to beat me with the buckle end of his belt, once so severely that I was unable to walk for a week. I recall this clearly and, on some levels at least, it feels real. From old photographs, I know what my father looked like and the sort of belts he wore; I know how such a beating would probably have been administered. Reconstructing the experience and calling it “memory” is no more difficult than daydreaming about Earth; it even causes me some discomfort to do so.

I tell myself that just because I can’t
actually
remember the beatings doesn’t mean they never occurred. There’s no reason why I would lie to myself. The awareness that they had a profound effect on my adult life should be enough.

Yet the fact remains: I am not the person I once was. I cannot speak for him, just as he could not speak for me. We are separated by a gulf that is widening every day, a gulf that will never close. There is no way, now, that I can ask him what went through his mind when he was submitting the data that would one day become the engram called Peter Owen Leutenk. All I can do is mourn the life I have lost.

~ * ~

I am walking, as is my routine, along an empty beach at sunset. Every now and then, with the stick in my left hand, I scratch words into the sand; sometimes a whole sentence. I am in no great hurry.

Without warning, I sense that someone is trying to talk to me. I stop and look around, but see no one. The sky is awash with colour; I sometimes feel as though I could dissolve in that sunset—drift upwards, catch fire and sparkle like the evening star, heralding a distant dawn. But not now.

The call fades for a moment, then becomes twice as strong. I see someone walking across the dunes towards me. When I recognize who it is, I feel a shock like electricity pass through my entire body.

“Emmett?”

He smiles, and the twinkle in his eye is still there. “Hello, Peter.”

I want to embrace him, but I refrain. “It’s been a long time.”

“You’ve no idea how long.”

“Twenty, thirty years?”

“In slow-mo, yes, for you. I’ve been slogging it out in real-time. We just hit the millennium.”

“Congratulations,” I say, but the pronoun is more significant to me than the years that have passed. “Who are ‘we’?”

“Jurgen drifts in and out when he feels like it. Apart from him and the probe, there’s only me.”

“Don’t you get lonely?”

“Of course.” He shrugs. “But someone has to do it.”

I turn away to avoid his stare. My stick makes
skritch-skritch
noises as it scribbles in the sand.

“Still writing, Peter?”

“Yes. And you? Still waiting?”

“Yes.” I can tell by the tone in his voice that his smile has faded. “I want to call a general assembly.”

I look up in surprise. “Why?”

“I’ve found something we all need to talk about.”

“Where? A colony? Another ship?”

“No, no.” He raises a hand to quell my speculation. “Nothing like that. It is important, though.”

His face is orange in the sunset: a perfect rendition, just like the silver suit he preferred on Earth that now looks so out of place on the beach. His hair is the same sandy hue as it was when I first met him. He certainly doesn’t look a thousand years old, and I can still tell when he means business. “Well, call the assembly. I’ll come.”

“This deserves more than just you, Peter, and you’re all I’ll get if I do it myself. The others still won’t talk to me; they ignore me on principle. I gave up trying long ago.”

“You want me to do it for you?”

“Yes.” His frankness hints at a change in him. Once he would’ve used guile to get what he wanted. That was why he was on the probe in the first place: to keep things running smoothly, without confrontation if not without friction.
The engrams are the cogs in the program,
he used to say,
and I am the oil.
It’s ironic, in this light, how things have turned out.