Saffron and Brimstone: Strange Stories

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Saffron and Brimstone
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“This collection consists of both the type of fine stories expected from Elizabeth Hand and stories showing a fascinating new direction. A ‘typical’ Hand story is
novella length, written in rich language, and full of human details of daily life that allow an intimate knowledge of characters. These damaged beings are often overtaken by darkness, but that doesn’t mean death, loss, and loneliness ultimately
triumph. The fantastic provides the possibility that darkness can be illumined and reality realigned by magic . . . [‘The Lost Domain’] quartet is shorter, more sparsely written, less fantastic, than ‘old’ Hand; the stories also seem more personally
relevant. The entire collection further confirms Hand as an author of extraordinary vision who is unafraid to dream in new directions.”—
Fantasy
magazine

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“Enthusiasts for Hand’s sensuously descriptive brand of literary fantasy are in
for a treat with her latest collection of short fiction. Aptly subtitled ‘strange
stories,’ the eight superbly crafted tales share Hand’s predilection for probing the translucent borderline between magic and realit
y
. .
.
In a separate section entitled ‘The Lost Domain,’ Hand offers four contemplative tales about transient relationships [linked by] poignant, recurring themes: the fragility of intimacy
,
the insidious unraveling of civilization following 9/11, the influence of Greek myth on modern love. Her beautifully nuanced, often disquieting style should inspire poets as well as lay down the gauntlet to colleagues also reaching for expressive heights in
contemporary fantasy.”—
Booklist

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“ ‘Cleopatra Brimstone’ . . . seems on its way to becoming a kind of classic of the sort of seriously literary horror which has emerged increasingly in the last few years. Concerning a young student entomologist who is brutally raped and flees to London . . . the story elegantly balances a kind of supernatural revenge fantasy with an acute awareness of the real horrors of women’s lives. [And] representing an adventurous new direction in Hand’s writing, [the stories in ‘The Lost Domain’] range freely from fantasy to SF to postmodern narrative fragmentation . . .
Remarkable . . . in Hand’s beautifully orchestrated tales, a world whose gorgeous
fragility, like the pistils of those tulips that are gathered for saffron, positively glows.”—
Locus

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Bibliomancy

“Hand is among the most painterly of writers, and her prose is filled with precise descriptions of arcane processes . .
.
and with luminous evocations of the physical world.
Bibliomancy
offers the heartening sight of a gifted writer really hitting her stride. Elizabeth Hand has always been an ambitious, intelligent writer, but she seems to be working at a higher level than ever before.”—
Locus

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Mortal Love

“A literary page turner . .
.
deeply pleasurable . . .
.
Inhabits a world between reason and insanity—it’s a delightful waking dream.—
People
(four stars)

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“One of the most sheerly impressive . .
.
overwhelmingly beautiful books I have read in a long time . . . . [Elizabeth Hand] has written the best book of her generation.”—Peter Straub

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“Succeeds as both a thriller and a meditation on the mysterious nature of inspiration.”—
Village Voice

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“An original work of considerable sensuous force . .
.
great fun, in an impressive synthesis of bygone times and forgotten lore.”—
Kirkus Reviews
(starred review)

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Black Light

“Something of a latter-day Aubrey Beardsley in prose, Hand has a talent for portraying forbidding millennial settings brimming with perverse antiheroes, suffering innocents, and sadistic demigods. This book . .
.
should strongly appeal to aficionados of sophisticated horror.”—
Publishers Weekly

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Glimmering

“If Stephen King set out to rewrite ‘The Waste Land’ as a novel, the result might resemble
Glimmering
.”—
The Washington Post

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“Hand’s bleak ecological disaster novel, which straddles SF and fantasy, belongs in most collections.”—
Library Journal

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“Beautifully styled, literary rather than literate, this is the kind of SF novel that wins mainstream prizes. A Booker-contender that is SF almost by accident . . . A perfect Henry James for the next century.”—
SFX
magazine

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Waking the Moon

“Ms. Hand is a superior stylist.”—
The New York Times Book Review

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“The unstoppable narrative just might make
Waking the Moon
a cult classic. Literally.”—
Spin

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“Elegantly written . .
.
lush and decadent . .
.
a marvelous fantasy thriller.” —
The Denver Post

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“[A] full-blooded gothic fantasy . . . Hand has created a violently sensual fable.” —
Publishers Weekly

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“A potent socio-erotic ghost story for our looming Millennium, rooted in ancient nightlands of myth and next week’s politics of gender. Hand’s high-resolution narrative never falters.”—William Gibson

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“An ambitious, eroticall
y
charged thriller.”
—
Clive Barker

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Icarus Descending

“A writer of considerable talent and power . .
.
Hand may well become one of the major science fiction writers of her time.”—
Washington Post Book World

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Last Summer at Mars Hill

“Poignant and terrifying by turns, this collection . .
.
will satisfy readers who long for rich prose and deep, dark dreams.”—
Publishers Weekly

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“There are those who would kill to have such an abundance of talent.”—
Locus

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“If you haven’t sampled her longer works, now’s your chance to find out what all the fuss it about . . . .”
—
SF Site

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Winterlong

“A remarkably accomplished first novel.”—William Gibson

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“Sensuous and evocative, this first novel combines dreamlike images with powerful characters to produce a visionary masterpiece. Highly recommended.” —
Library Journal

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Winterlong

Aestival Tide

Icarus Descending

Waking the Moon

Glimmering

Black Light

Mortal Love

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STORY COLLECTIONS

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Last Summer at Mars Hill

Bibliomancy

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Cleopatra Brimstone

Pavan
e
fo
r
a
Princ
e
o
f
th
e
Air

The Least Trumps

Wonderwall

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THE LOST DOMAIN:

FOUR STORY VARIATIONS

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Kronia

Calypso in Berlin

Echo

The Saffron Gatherers

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A
f
t
er
w
o
r
d

FOR JOHN CLUTE

True North

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Her earliest memory was of wings. Luminous red and blue, yellow and green and orange; a black so rich it appeared liquid, edible. They moved above her and the sunlight made them glow
as though they were themselves made of light, fragments of another,
brighter world falling to earth about her crib. Her tiny hands
stretched upwards to grasp them but could not: they were too elusive, too radiant, too much of the air.

Could they ever have been real?

For years she thought she must have dreamed them. But one afternoon when she was ten she went into the attic, searching for old clothes to wear to a Halloween party. In a corner beneath a cobwebbed window she found a box of her baby things. Yellow-stained bibs and tiny fuzzy jumpers blued from bleaching, a much-nibbled stuffed dog that she had no memory of whatsoever.

And at the very bottom of the carton, something else. Wings flattened and twisted out of shape, wires bent and strings frayed: a mobile. Six plastic butterflies, colors faded and their wings giving off a musty smell, no longer eidolons of Eden but crude representations of monarch, zebra swallowtail, red admiral, sulphur, an unnaturally elongated hairskipper and
Agrias narcissus
. Except for the
narcissus
, all were common New World species that any child might see in a suburban garden. They hung limply from their wires, antennae long since broken off; when she touched one wing it felt cold and stiff as metal.

The afternoon had been overcast, tending to rain. But as she held the mobile to the window, a shaft of sun broke through the darkness to ignite the plastic wings, blood-red, ivy-green, the pure burning yellow of an August field. In that instant it was as though her entire being was burned away, skin hair lips fingers all ash; and nothing remained but the butterflies and her awareness of them, orange and black fluid filling her mouth, the edges of her eyes scored by wings.

—

As a girl she had always worn glasses. A mild childhood astigmatism worsened when she was thirteen: she started bumping into things, and found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the entomological textbooks and journals that she read voraciously. Growing pains, her mother thought; but after two months, Jane’s clumsiness and concomitant headaches became so severe that her mother admitted that this was perhaps something more serious, and took her to the family physician.

“Jane’s fine,” Dr. Gordon announced after peering into her ears and eyes. “She needs to see the ophthalmologist, that’s all. Sometimes our eyes change when we hit puberty.” He gave her mother the name of an eye doctor nearby.

Her mother was relieved, and so was Jane—she had overhead her parents talking the night before her appointment, and the words
CAT scan
and
brain tumor
figured in their hushed conversation. Actually, Jane had been more concerned about another odd physical manifestation, one which no one but herself seemed to have noticed. She had started menstruating several months earlier: nothing unusual
in that. Everything she had read about it mentioned the usual things—
mood swings, growth spurts, acne, pubic hair.

But nothing was said about eyebrows. Jane first noticed something strange about hers when she got her period for the second time. She had retreated to the bathtub, where she spent a good half-hour reading an article in
Nature
about Oriental Ladybug swarms. When she finished the article, she got out of the tub, dressed and brushed her teeth, then spent a minute frowning at the mirror.

Something was different about her face. She turned sideways,
squinting. Had her chin broken out? No; but something had changed.
Her hair color? Her teeth? She leaned over the sink until she was almost nose-to-nose with her reflection.

That was when she saw that her eyebrows had undergone a growth spurt of their own. At the inner edge of each eyebrow, above the bridge of her nose, three hairs had grown remarkably long. They furled back towards her temple, entwined in a sort of loose braid. She had not noticed them sooner because she seldom looked in a mirror, and also because the odd hairs did not arch above the eyebrows, but instead blended in with them, the way a bittersweet vine twines around a branch. Still, they seemed bizarre enough that she wanted no one, not even her parents, to notice. She found her mother’s eyebrow tweezers, neatly plucked the six hairs and flushed them down the toilet. They did not grow back.

At the optometrist’s, Jane opted for heavy tortoiseshell frames rather than contacts. The optometrist, and her mother, thought she was crazy, but it was a very deliberate choice. Jane was not one of those homely B movie adolescent girls, driven to Science as a last resort. She had always been a tomboy, skinny as a rail, with long slanted violet-blue eyes; a small rosy mouth; long, straight black hair that ran like oil between her fingers; skin so pale it had the periwinkle shimmer of skim milk.

When she hit puberty, all of these conspired to beauty. And Jane hated it. Hated the attention, hated being looked at, hated that other girls hated her. She was quiet, not shy but impatient to focus on her schoolwork, and this was mistaken for arrogance by her peers. All through high school she had few friends. She learned early the perils of befriending boys, even earnest boys who professed an interest in genetic mutations and intricate computer simulations of hive activity. Jane could trust them not to touch her, but she couldn’t trust them not to fall in love. As a result of having none of the usual distractions of high school—sex, social life, mindless employ
ment—she received an Intel/Westinghouse Science Scholarship for a
computer-generated schematic of possible mutations in a small
population of viceroy butterflies exposed to genetically engineered crops. She graduated in her junior year, took her scholarship money, and ran.

She had been accepted at Stanford and MIT, but chose to attend a
small, highly prestigious women’s college in a big city several hundred
miles away. Her parents were apprehensive about her being on her own at the tender age of seventeen, but the college, with its elegant, cloister-like buildings and lushly wooded grounds, put them at ease.
That and the dean’s assurances that the neighborhood was completely
safe, as long as students were sensible about not walking alone at night.
Thus mollified, and at Jane’s urging—she was desperate to move away from home—her father signed a very large check for the first semester’s tuition. That September she started school.

She studied entomology, spending her first year examining the genitalia of male and female Scarce Wormwood Shark Moths, a species found on the Siberian steppes. Her hours in the zoology lab were rapturous, hunched over a microscope with a pair of tweezers so minute they were themselves like some delicate portion of her specimen’s physiognomy. She would remove the butterflies’ genitalia, tiny and geometrically precise as diatoms, and dip them first into glycerine, which acted as a preservative, and next into a mixture of water and alcohol. Then she observed them under the microscope.
Her glasses interfered with this work—they bumped into the
microscope’s viewing lens—and so she switched to wearing contact lenses. In retrospect, she thought that this was probably a mistake.

At Argus College she still had no close friends, but neither was she the solitary creature she had been at home. She respected her fellow students, and grew to appreciate the company of women. She could go for days at a time seeing no men besides her professors or the commuters driving past the school’s wrought-iron gates.

And she was not the school’s only beauty. Argus College specialized in young women like Jane: elegant, diffident girls who studied the burial customs of Mongol women or the mating habits of rare antipodean birds; girls who composed concertos for violin and gamelan orchestra, or wrote computer programs that charted the progress of potentially dangerous celestial objects through the Oort Cloud. Within this educational greenhouse, Jane was not so much orchid as sturdy milkweed blossom. She thrived.

Her first three years at Argus passed in a bright-winged blur with her butterflies. Summers were given to museum internships, where she spent months cleaning and mounting specimens in solitary delight. In her senior year Jane received permission to design her own thesis project, involving her beloved Shark Moths. She was given a corner in a dusty anteroom off the Zoology Lab, and there she set up her microscope and laptop. There was no window in her corner, indeed there was no window in the anteroom at all, though the adjoining lab was pleasantly old-fashioned, with high arched windows set between Victorian cabinetry displaying lepidoptera, neon-carapaced beetles, unusual tree fungi and (she found these slightly tragic) numerous exotic finches, their brilliant plumage dimmed to dusty hues. Since she often worked late into the night, she requested and received her own set of keys. Most evenings she could be found beneath the glare of the small halogen lamp, entering data into her computer, scanning images of genetic mutations involving female Shark Moths exposed to dioxin, corresponding with other researchers in Melbourne and Kyoto, Siberia and London.

The rape occurred around ten o’clock one Friday night in early March. She had locked the door to her office, leaving her laptop behind, and started to walk to the subway station a few blocks away. It was a cold clear night, the yellow glow of the crime lights giving dead grass and leafless trees an eerie autumn shimmer. She hurried across the campus, seeing no one, then hesitated at Seventh Street. It was a longer walk, but safer, if she went down Seventh Street and then over to Michigan Avenue. The shortcut was much quicker, but Argus authorities and the local police discouraged students from taking it after dark. Jane stood for a moment, looking across the road to where the desolate park lay; then, staring resolutely straight ahead and walking briskly, she crossed Seventh and took the shortcut.

A crumbling sidewalk passed through a weedy expanse of vacant lot, strewn with broken bottles and the spindly forms of half a dozen dusty-limbed oak trees. Where the grass ended, a narrow road skirted a block of abandoned row houses, intermittently lit by crime lights. Most of the lights had been vandalized, and one had been knocked down in a car accident—the car’s fender was still there, twisted around the lamppost. Jane picked her way carefully among shards of shattered glass, reached the sidewalk in front of the boarded-up houses and began to walk more quickly, towards the brightly lit Michigan Avenue intersection where the subway waited.

She never saw him. He was
there
, she knew that; knew he had a face, and clothing; but afterwards she could recall none of it. Not the feel of him, not his smell; only the knife he held—awkwardly, she realized later, she probably could have wrested it from him—and the few words he spoke to her. He said nothing at first, just grabbed her and pulled her into an alley between the row houses, his fingers covering her mouth, the heel of his hand pressing against her wind
pipe so that she gagged. He pushed her onto the dead leaves and wads
of matted windblown newspaper, yanked her pants down, ripped open her jacket and then tore her shirt open. She heard one of the buttons strike brick and roll away. She thought desperately of
what she had read once, in a Rape Awareness brochure: not to struggle
, not to fight, not to do anything that might cause her attacker to kill her.

Jane did not fight. Instead, she divided into three parts. One part knelt nearby and prayed the way she had done as a child, not intently but automatically, trying to get through the strings of words as quickly as possible. The second part submitted blindly and silently
to the man in the alley. And the third hovered above the other two, her
hands wafting slowly up and down to keep her aloft as she watched.

“Try to get away,” the man whispered. She could not see him or feel him though his hands were there. “Try to get away.”

She remembered that she ought not to struggle, but from the noise she made and the way he tugged at her, she realized that was what aroused him. She did not want to anger him; she made a small sound deep in her throat and tried to push him from her chest. Almost immediately he groaned, and seconds later rolled off her. Only his hand lingered for a moment upon her cheek. Then he stumbled to his feet—she could hear him fumbling with his zipper—and fled.

The praying girl and the girl in the air also disappeared then. Only Jane was left, yanking her ruined clothes around her as she lurched from the alley and began to run, screaming and staggering back and forth across the road, towards the subway.

—

The police came, an ambulance. She was taken first to the police station and then to the City General Hospital, a hellish place, starkly lit, with endless underground corridors that led into darkened rooms where solitary figures lay on narrow beds like gurneys. Her pubic hair was combed and stray hairs placed into sterile envelopes; semen samples were taken, and she was advised to be tested for HIV and other diseases. She spent the entire night in the hospital, waiting and undergoing various examinations. She refused to give the police or hospital staff her parents’ phone number, or anyone else’s. Just before dawn they finally released her, with an envelope full of brochures from the local rape crisis center, New Hop
e
for Women, Planned Parenthood, and a business card from the police detective who was overseeing her case. The detective drove her to her apartment in his squad car; when he stopped in front of her building, she was suddenly terrified that he would know where she lived, that he would come back, that he had been her assailant.

But, of course, he had not been. He walked her to the door and waited for her to go inside. “Call your parents,” he said right before he left.

“I will.”

She pulled aside the bamboo window shade, watching until the squad car pulled away. Then she threw out the brochures she’d received, flung off her clothes, and stuffed them into the trash. She showered and changed, packed a bag full of clothes and another of books. Then she called a cab. When it arrived, she directed it to the Argus campus, where she retrieved her laptop and her research on Tiger Moths, then had the cab bring her to Union Station.