Songs of the Dying Earth

Afterword:

When I was fourteen, my family rented a lakefront cottage in Maine. This was 1971, the summer before high school. Most of my days and nights were spent swimming, or playing endless games of Monopoly on screened porches with my younger brothers and sisters and other kids vacationing nearby.

But for years — decades — I was haunted by the memory of a rainy Saturday when I was alone in the house for much of the day. (This in itself was a miracle.) Very early that morning, I’d accompanied my father to the local general store for breakfast provisions, eggs and bacon, a bag of freshly-made doughnuts. The doughnuts were the real thing, molasses-heavy and fried in lard.

Now, alone at the cottage, I was scrounging around for something to read.

Back in Pound Ridge, my mother had bought a carton of books at the library book sale. I’d gone through most of them already, but near the bottom of the box I found a paperback with its cover stripped. I sank into an ancient camp chair by the window, rain beating down outside and the bag of doughnuts in my lap. I opened the book and began to read.

It was the single most intense reading experience of my life. A few years earlier, The Lord of the Rings had captivated me, but that was over weeks. This was more like a drug (not that I knew that yet) — disorienting, enthralling, disturbing, and slightly sickening. The sickening part was enhanced by the doughnuts. I couldn’t stop eating them, any more than I could stop turning pages. For years afterward, I associated the overwhelming, sensual, slightly nauseating sensation of reading that book with the taste of those doughnuts, along with the flickering green reflection of rain on the lake and the sound of wind in the trees. It was my madeleine.

The one thing I couldn’t remember was its title, or author. For years, all I could recall was the taste of that book. I couldn’t even look for it in used bookstores — the cover had been stripped. Still, somewhere along the road to becoming a writer myself, I heard of Jack Vance, and a classic novel he’d written called The Dying Earth. One day — this would have been around 1985—I was in Wayward Books, a used bookstore near where I lived on Capitol Hill. There was a tiny shelf upstairs for science fiction, and as I glanced at the titles, I spied The Dying Earth. I pulled it out, started to read; and tasted molasses and scorched sugar.

It was that book.

I took it home and read it straight through. No doughnuts this time. Until then, I hadn’t realized what a huge impact The Dying Earth had on my own writing, but I do now. My first three novels, bits and pieces of much that came after — none of them would have happened without that book. And I’m writing this now, in a rainswept cottage on a lake in Maine, with The Dying Earth in front of me. So maybe I wouldn’t have happened, either.

— Elizabeth Hand

Byron Tetrick THE COLLEGEUM OF MAUGE

Here a young boy sets out in search of the infamous father he’s never known, and finds a lot more than he bargained for…

Byron Tetrick lives with his wife, Carol, in Fishers Indiana. He is a graduate of the Clarion West Science Fiction and Fantasy Writer’s Workshop. His short fiction, including a Sherlock Holmes adventure, has appeared in various themed anthologies, as well as In the Shadow of the Wall, a collection of fictional Vietnam War stories which he co-edited with Martin H. Greenberg. A retired Air Force fighter pilot and retired International airline Captain, he has also written a non-fiction book on careers in aviation. He is currently working on a homage set in Jack Vance’s “Alastor Cluster” universe, and a non-fiction book on book collecting. Byron is honored to be able to call Jack Vance a dear friend of many years.

Dringo crested the last tired hills of The Mombac Ambit just as the evening flickered into night with a pulse of dim purple light. Below him, teasingly close, the meager glow of a small village cast umber shadows upward through silhouetted branches. So near, yet so far. The shrieks and moans of night creatures seemed to approach him with alarming speed. A sudden amplified roar followed by a piercing howl shredded the last vestige of his nerves. They’re fighting over me, thought Dringo as he quickened his pace, knowing now he had little chance to reach safety. He drew his small dagger. At an angle between him and the village ahead, a nightjar’s mournful oooeeahh promised further menace.

“I suppose it would be best to increase our stride, don’t you think?” spoke a voice at his side, its suddenness elevating Dringo’s banging heart beyond what he thought possible.

A young man, elaborately dressed as though he planned meeting other distinguished nabobs, joined Dringo’s trotting gait without further introduction. Voluminous robes of opalescent fabric trailed the stranger like pennants fluttering in a strong gale. An elaborate spiked hat jostled atop his head despite the stranger gripping silver-corded tassels with one hand. “I cast a Spell of Convenient Disregard earlier,” he puffed in staccato, “but it seems to be losing potency.”

Dringo could make little more of the man who strode beside him in the gloom of the rapidly darkening night other than he appeared about his own age and similar height. He put his mistrust of magicians momentarily aside; better an unknown ally than a known death in the jaws of a visp or deodand. “Do you know any additional magic that could aid us?” asked Dringo, with similar breathlessness.

“None that I can conjure in our present predicament, other than an admonition that whoever of us lags, most likely will suffice as dinner for our pursuers, allowing the other to reach safety.” With that he laughed and surged forward, his pearl-colored garment becoming ghost-like as his distance lengthened.

Though the village lights appeared closer, they were yet some distance away when suddenly the young magician halted and bent over, hands resting on his knees. Still gasping, he spoke: “We’re safe now within the boundaries of a protective spell surrounding the village.”

Dringo slowed but did not stop. “How can you be certain?”

“I see it,” the stranger huffed. “Like a kalychrome it shimmers just beyond the visible spectrum. I doubt you see it.”

Not satisfied with such a vague — and invisible to him — assurance, Dringo kept his pace and soon passed him. He struggles for breath as if he might collapse; perhaps he sees the flashing lights one experiences just prior to passing out, thought Dringo. Better to leave him to occupy the hunger of the night creatures.

“Wait! Slow! A moment only and then we can continue,” pleaded the man. He laughed again as he stood upright and started walking. “I’ll buy the first gill. Slow, and keep me company.”

“Hardly incentive enough to risk my life,” replied Dringo

“True, but I promise we are safe within the magical barrier that protects the town.” He spoke a few unintelligible words and waved a hand. “Perhaps you can now see the faint aura of that which shields us?”

Dringo looked about. There did seem to be a faint, noctilucent shimmer to the air that quickly faded from his vision. “Well, it’s gone now.”

“No. No. I just don’t have powers enough to hold it within your sight any longer. But you did see it, yes? So slow, and we will build our thirst at a more leisurely pace.”

With misgivings, Dringo stopped and waited.

“I’ve traveled far this day with only the scrape of my soles as comfort, and caws and screeches to distress me.” He held out a hand. “Gasterlo. We’ve outdistanced death and surely we are meant to be friends.”

Dringo reciprocated. “Dringo, a lonely traveler myself. I’m curious that you are so versed in magic and yet so