Wonders of the Invisible World Read online

  Praise for Wonders of the Invisible World

  “A casket full of wonders. I think each story is my favorite, until I read the next. McKillip has the true mythopoeic imagination. Here lies the border between our world and that of Faerie.”

  —P. C. Hodgell,

  author of the Kencyrath series

  “One of the true wise women of fantasy literature, Patricia McKillip is a writer to treasure. This brilliant new collection puts on display the audacity, the warmth, the intelligence and depth of her huge and magnificent talent.”

  —Peter Straub,

  author of Ghost Story

  and A Dark Matter

  Praise for Patricia A. McKillip

  “I read—and re-read—McKillip eagerly. She reminds me that fantasy is worth writing.”

  —Stephen R. Donaldson,

  author of The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant/span>

  “McKillip skillfully knits disparate threads into a rewardingly rich and satisfying story.”

  —Amazon.com

  “McKillip’s name is the first that comes to mind when I’m asked whom I read myself, whom I’d recommend that others read, and who still makes me shake my grizzled head and say, ‘Damn, I wish I’d done that!’”

  —Peter S. Beagle,

  author of The Last Unicorn

  “Cool elegance.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “Dreamlike...colorful...evocative...”

  —Locus

  “Lush imagery and wry humor.... McKillip’s rich language conveys real strangeness and power.”

  —Starlog

  “World Fantasy Award-winner McKillip can take the most common fantasy elements—dragons and bards, sorcerers and shape-shifters—and reshape them in surprising and resonant ways.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “McKillip’s luminous prose and compelling characters combine to produce a masterwork of style and substance.”

  —Library Journal

  “Patricia McKillip is the real thing, and always has been. She shows the rest of us that magic can be made with words and air; that is it worth doing, and worth doing well.”

  —Ellen Kushner,

  author of Swordspoint

  and Thomas the Rhymer

  Wonders of the Invisible World

  Copyright © 2012 by Patricia A. McKillip

  This is a collected work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the publisher.

  Introduction copyright © 2012 by Charles de Lint

  Cover art copyright © 1998 by Thomas Canty

  Tachyon Publications

  1459 18th Street #139

  San Francisco, CA 94107

  www.tachyonpublications.com

  Series Editor: Jacob Weisman

  Project Editor: Jill Roberts

  Book ISBN 13: 978-1-61696-087-2

  Book ISBN 10: 1-61696-087-6

  Printed in the United States by Worzalla

  First Edition: 2012

  All stories copyright © by Patricia A. McKillip

  “Wonders of the Invisible World” copyright © 1995. First published in Full Spectrum 5, edited by Jennifer Hershey, Tom Dupree, and Janna Silverstein (Bantam Spectra: New York).

  “Out of the Woods” copyright © 2004. First published in Flights: Extreme Visions of Fantasy, edited by Al Sarrantonio (Roc: New York).

  “The Kelpie” copyright © 2005. First published in The Fair Folk, edited by Marvin Kaye (Science Fiction Book Club: Garden City, New York).

  “Hunter’s Moon” copyright © 2002. First published in The Green Man: Tales from the Mythic Forest, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling (Viking: New York).

  “Oak Hill” copyright © 1998. First published in The Essential Bordertown, edited by Terri Windling and Delia Sherman (Tor Books: New York).

  “The Fortune-Teller” copyright © 2007. First published in The Coyote Road: Trickster Tales, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling (Viking: New York).

  “Jack O’Lantern” copyright © 2006. First published in Firebirds Rising, edited by Sharyn November (Firebird: New York).

  “Knight of the Well” copyright © 2012. First published in A Book of Wizards, edited by Marvin Kaye (Science Fiction Book Club: Garden City, New York).

  “Naming Day” copyright © 2007. First published in Wizards: Magical Tales,edited by Jack Dann and Gardner Dozois (Berkley: New York).

  “Byndley” copyright © 2003. First published in Firebirds, edited by Sharyn November (Firebird: New York).

  “The Twelve Dancing Princesses” copyright © 2000. First published in A Wolf at the Door and Other Retold Fairy Tales, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling (Simon & Schuster: New York).

  “Undine” copyright © 2004. First published in The Faery Reel, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling (Viking: New York).

  “Xmas Cruise” copyright © 1993. First published in Christmas Forever, edited by David G. Hartwell (Tor Books: New York).

  “A Gift To Be Simple” copyright © 1999. First published in Not of Woman Born, edited by Constance Ash (Roc Books: New York).

  “The Old Woman and the Storm” copyright © 1985. First published in Imaginary Lands, edited by Robin McKinley (Ace Books: New York).

  “The Doorkeeper of Khaat” copyright © 1990. First published in Full Spectrum 2, edited by Lou Aronica, Shawna McCarthy, Amy Stout, and Patrick LoBrutto (Bantam Spectra: New York).

  “What Inspires Me: Guest of Honor Speech at WisCon 28, 2004” copyright © 2004. Previously unpublished.

  For Dave, to whom most of these old tales will be new

  Contents

  Introduction by Charles de Lint

  Wonders of the Invisible World

  Out of the Woods

  The Kelpie

  Hunter’s Moon

  Oak Hill

  The Fortune-Teller

  Jack O’Lantern

  Knight of the Well

  Naming Day

  Byndley

  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

  Introduction

  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

  Wonders of the

  Invisible World

  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.

  “There are troubled children,” I said, “who have seen me.”

  “They speak of you in their misery,” he said gratefully. “You give them strength against evil.”

  “Their afflictions are terrible.”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “You have observed their torments.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have taken them into your home, borne witness to their complaints, tried to help them cast out their tormentors.”

  “I have tried.”

  “You have wrestled with the invisible world.”

  “Yes.”

  We weren’t getting very far. He still knelt on the hard floor, as he had done for hours, perhaps days; he could see me more clearly than he had seen anything in the dark in his life. He had forgotten the fire. I tried to be patient. Good angels were beyond temperament, even while at war with angels who had disgraced themselves by exhibiting human characteristics. But the floorboards were getting very cold.