Wonders of the Invisible World (2 page)

The Twelve Dancing Princesses

Undine

Xmas Cruise

A Gift To Be Simple

The Old Woman and the Storm

The Doorkeeper of Khaat

What Inspires Me:

Guest of Honor Speech at WisCon 28, 2004

I
ntroduction

Charles de Lint

If you want to know who Patricia McKillip is, just read her stories. Really, all we need to know about the creative individuals who fill our lives with their poetry, prose, music and art is waiting for us right there in the work itself.

But we’re always curious, aren’t we? When something moves us we want—almost
need
—to know more about the individual who was able to wake such a reaction in us.

It can be a double-edged sword, of course. Sometimes the person is everything we hoped they would be, with a heart beating in their chest as big and generous as we imagined. Their eyes are so clear and wise that it seems utterly appropriate that they give us a more profound experience of the world’s mysteries.

Other times, the person is so
wrong
in terms of how we imagined them that we can no longer engage in their art in the same way that once we did.

It’s a curious thing, but even when we know that it might turn out badly, we still walk into the riddle that is the artist whose work we admire so much, hoping for the best.

The truth is, more often than not, despite their spark of genius, these artists are not unlike you or me—a mix of good and bad, patient and intolerant, welcoming and private—all in varying degrees. And of course we’re all different, depending on the day and situation in which we find ourselves.

So I can’t tell you who the
real
Patricia McKillip is. All I can tell you is who she is to me.

Like most of you, I first met her in the pages of one of her books. For me, it was
The Forgotten Beasts of Eld
. I remember it was the Avon paperback edition that came out in the mid-seventies, which means I’ve been reading her for around thirty-five years.

I adored that book. Then
The Riddle-Master of Hed
came out a year or so later and I became completely smitten. When I went looking for more by her, I was surprised to discover that her novels came out first in hardcover as young adult books, then were reprinted as adult paperbacks. I tracked them all down and, to this day, I always pick up her new books.

If you’re reading this, you know why: they’re just so damned good. She’s one of the few writers I’ve read who hasn’t written a bad book. I don’t think she has it in her.

For all that I love the secondary world novels for which she is best known, my favourite book of hers is probably
Stepping from the Shadows
, a standalone contemporary book that contains the
idea
of fantasy more than the actual trappings. (Note to self: it’s time to reread that book.)

The first time I actually met Pat was at one of the New England World Fantasy Conventions where I asked her to sign my advance reading copy of that self-same
Stepping from the Shadows
. I remember her being soft-spoken and charming—and a little aghast that I’d bought an expensive ARC in the dealer’s room, when I already owned a copy of the book. But I didn’t have the hardcover with me, and I really wanted a personalized book to bring home and treasure.

And ever since, I continue to see her at World Fantasy Conventions whenever we both happen to attend. Through the years these cons have become the only place where I can spend time with people I don’t normally get to see. Writers, artists, editors and readers from different parts of the continent (and the world!) gather in a hotel in some major city to...well, mostly sit around in the hotel bar and schmooze with each other.

One particular afternoon in one of those hotel bars remains a fond memory for me: sitting around a large round table with Pat, Terri Windling and Midori Snyder as we went through a big stack of Brian Froud’s art, choosing the pieces that would appear in the books we would write for a series called “Brian Froud’s Faerielands.” Sadly, only two of the books came out in their planned illustrated form: my
The Wild Wood
and Pat’s lovely
Something Rich and Strange
.

I’m not sure why the series was cancelled. Terri’s
The Wood Wife
and Midori’s
Hannah’s Garden
were published—how could two such fine books not be published?—but it would have been so much nicer to have the illustrated quartet all be available as originally intended, resplendent with Brian’s art. In another world, I’m sure that happened. We’re simply not privy to it.

What I remember most of that afternoon as we were choosing the art was how there were no arguments, gentle or otherwise. We each just kept picking the illustrations we wanted and there was no overlap. We delighted in each other’s choices, but were completely satisfied with what we got for our own books.

And that’s how I know Pat outside of her stories. Every time I’ve seen her at a World Fantasy Convention she remains soft-spoken and charming, gracious and articulate. And a little shy, too. Or is that me, still smitten with one of my literary heroes after all these years?

If you need to know more, turn to the reprint of her 2004 WisCon Guest of Honor speech at the end of this collection, which will give you a taste of her life outside of her books.

Though really, as I said earlier, you’re best off to dive right into the stories collected here. They might surprise you because she doesn’t always write the gentle fantasies with which she’s usually associated. Her contemporary settings (which can have a little bit of a darker edge) are a perfect contrast to her gentler fantasies; she does both so very well.

—Charles de Lint

Ottawa, Canada

Spring 2012

W
onders of the
I
nvisible
W
orld

I am the angel sent to Cotton Mather. It took me some time to get his attention. He lay on the floor with his eyes closed; he prayed fervently, sometimes murmuring, sometimes shouting. Apparently the household was used to it. I heard footsteps pass his study door; a woman—his wife Abigail?—called to someone: “If your throat is no better tomorrow, we’ll have Phillip pee in a cup for you to gargle.” From the way the house smelled, Phillip didn’t bother much with cups. Cotton Mather smelled of smoke and sweat and wet wool. Winter had come early. The sky was black, the ground was white, the wind pinched like a witch and whined like a starving dog. There was no color in the landscape and no mercy. Cotton Mather prayed to see the invisible world.

He wanted an angel.

“O Lord,” he said, in desperate, hoarse, weary cadences, like a sick child talking itself to sleep. “Thou hast given angelic visions to Thy innocent children to defend them from their demons. Remember Thy humble servant, who prostrates himself in the dust, vile worm that I am, forsaking food and comfort and sleep, in humble hope that Thou might bestow upon Thy humble servant the blessing and hope at this harsh and evil time: a glimpse of Thy shadow, a flicker of light in Thine eye, a single word from Thy mouth. Show me Thy messengers of good who fly between the visible and invisible worlds. Grant me, O God, a vision.”

I cleared my throat a little. He didn’t open his eyes. The fire was dying down. I wondered who replenished it, and if the sight of Mather’s bright, winged creature would surprise anyone, with all the witches, devils and demented goldfinches perched on rafters all over New England. The firelight spilling across the wide planks glowed just beyond his outstretched hand. He lay in dim lights and fluttering shadows, in the long, long night of history, when no one could ever see clearly after sunset, and witches and angels and living dreams trembled just beyond the fire.

“Grant me, O God, a vision.”

I was standing in front of his nose. He was lost in days of fasting and desire, trying to conjure an angel out of his head. According to his writings, what he expected to see was the generic white male with wings growing out of his shoulders, fair-haired, permanently beardless, wearing a long white nightgown and a gold dinner plate on his head. This was what intrigued Durham, and why he had hired me: he couldn’t believe that both good and evil in the Puritan imagination could be so banal.

But I was what Mather wanted: something as colorless and pure as the snow that lay like the hand of God over the earth, harsh, exacting, unambiguous. Fire, their salvation against the cold, was red and belonged to Hell.

“O Lord.”

It was the faintest of whispers. He was staring at my feet.

They were bare and shining and getting chilled. The ring of diamonds in my halo contained controls for light, for holograms like my wings, a map disc, a local-history disc in case I got totally bewildered by events, and a recorder disc that had caught the sudden stammer in Mather’s last word. He had asked for an angel; he got an angel. I wished he would quit staring at my feet and throw another log on the fire.

He straightened slowly, pushing himself off the floor while his eyes traveled upward. He was scarcely thirty at the time of the trials; he resembled his father at that age more than the familiar Pelham portrait of Mather in his sixties, soberly dressed, with a wig like a cream puff on his head, and a firm, resigned mouth. The young Mather had long dark hair, a spare, handsome, clean-shaven face, searching, credulous eyes. His eyes reached my face finally, cringing a little, as if he half expected a demon’s red, leering face attached to the angel’s body. But he found what he expected. He began to cry.

He cried silently, so I could speak. His writings are mute about much of the angel’s conversation. Mostly it predicted Mather’s success as a writer, great reviews and spectacular sales in America and Europe. I greeted him, gave him the message from God, quoted Ezekiel, and then got down to business. By then he had stopped crying, wiped his face with his dusty sleeve and cheered up at the prospect of fame.