At the Edge of Waking

AT THE EDGE OF WAKING

HOLLY PHILLIPS

Copyright © 2012 by Holly Phillips.

Cover art by Aurélien Police.

Cover design by Telegraphy Harness.

Ebook design by Neil Clarke.

ISBN: 978-1-60701-373-0 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-60701-356-3 (trade paperback)

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This one’s for my dad, man of conscience, with love.

Introduction

Holly Phillips is spooky good.

Holly Phillips is possibly
too
good.

I don’t think I’ve ever said that about another writer, and I’m not entirely certain of what I mean by it, but bear with me. I’d never read any of her work before—my loss, she’s published a
lot
—and I only knew the name in a vague, glancing way. I’m having enough trouble keeping up with a new generation of brilliant young women writers suddenly showing up, seemingly all at once, like new spring butterflies. But even among those, Holly Phillips is quite simply Something Else.

I can’t even be quite sure whether to call her a fantasy writer, though her web site makes a point of it. Yes, many of the stories in
At the Edge of Waking
flirt around the edges and elements of classic fantasy, but so have other writers done who aren’t generally considered fantasists: E.M. Forster, Robert Nathan and, currently, Michael Gruber all come to mind. And as for vampires, zombies, sword-and-sorcery, apocalypses headed off at the last minute . . . well, she does suggest an apocalypse or two, but they occur almost incidentally, diffidently, without the usual drama and fanfare. Like Val Lewton, my favorite old film producer, creating quiet horror on a $1.98 budget, she knows what to do with shadows.

Her great gift, it seems to me, is for creating utterly believable worlds; indeed, in this respect I can’t think of anyone to compare her to except Ursula K. LeGuin. World building is a good deal harder to pull off in a short story, as opposed to a novel or novella, where the writer has time to build up tension, character and atmosphere. But Ms. Phillips comes blasting out of the starting gate—rather like a guitar solo by Carlos Santana or the late Jerry Reed—habitually dropping you into what feels like the middle of the story, and leaving you to find your way in this strange but hauntingly real country and culture. Whether the tale is taking place in what
might
be an Antarctic scientific expedition (and, my God, can she do cold!), in a locale that
resembles
an 18th or 19th-century Spanish colonial possession, only not
quite;
or a city that could
almost
be modern-day London in an apparent England, held from magical chaos by the will of a—possibly—dead man . . . however you look at it, we are just not in Middle-earth, Oz or Camelot anymore. One way or another, Holly Phillips’ worlds are all scary, even when nothing exactly scary is happening. Just like Val Lewton’s movies.

Her other strength is the truly astonishing density and precision of her language. I’m not talking about the kind of Dreiserian clotted prose that simply beats you into surrender with its depth of detail, nor Thomas Mann’s determination to leave absolutely nothing out of a scene or a setting, just in case. I have admired both of these writers since my youth; but I don’t think either of them could have produced a passage like the following, from a story entitled “Cold Water Survival,” describing the universe beneath an Antarctic iceberg from a videographer narrator’s point of view.

[Bubbles rise past the camera’s lens. The mic catches the gurgle of the respirator, the groaning of the iceberg, the science-fiction sound effects of Weddell seals.]

The camera moves beneath a cathedral ceiling of ice. Great blue vaults and glassy pillars hang above the cold black deeps, sanctuary for the alien life forms of this bitter sea. Fringed jellies and jellies like winged cucumbers, huge red shrimp and tiny white ones, skates and spiders and boney fish with plated jaws. Algae paints the ice with living glyphs in murky green and brown, like lichen graffiti scrawled on a ruin’s walls. Air, the alien element, puddles on the ceiling, trapped.

The water seems clear, filled with the haunting light that filters through the ice, but out in the farther reaches of the cathedral the light turns opaquely blue, the color of a winter dusk, and below there is no light at all. Bubbles spiral upward, beads of mercury that pool in the hollows of the cathedral ceiling, forming a fluid air-body that glides along the water-smoothed ice. It moves with all the determination of a living thing, seeking the highest point. [The camera follows; bubbles rise; the air-creature grows.] The ceiling vault soars upwards, smeared with algae [zoom in; does it shape pictures, words?] and full of strange swimming life [are there shadows coiling a the farthest edges of the frame?] and it narrows as it rises to a rough chimney. Water has smoothed this icy passage, sculpted it into a flute, a flower stem . . . a birth canal. The air-body takes on speed, rising unencumbered into brighter and brighter light. The upward passage branches into tunnels and more air-bodies appear, as shapeless and fluid as the first. Walls of clear ice are like windows into another frozen sea where other creatures hang suspended, clearer than jellyfish and more strange. And then the camera [lens streaked and running with droplets] rises from the water [how], ascending a rough crevice in the ice. The air-bodies, skimmed in water—or have they been water all along?—are still rising too, sliding with fluid grace through the ice-choked cracks in the widening passage. {The videographer sliding through too; how?} The host seeks out the highest places and at last comes up into the open air – ice still rising in towering walls, but with nothing but the sky above. Gray sky, blue-white ice, a splash of red. What is this? Fluid, many-limbed, curious, the water-beings flow weightlessly toward the splash of scarlet [blood]. They taste [blood], absorb [blood], until each glassy creature is tinted with the merest thread of red . . .

Dreamlike, but absolutely concrete at the same time; matching, as it happens, the descriptions of a friend of mine who spends part of every year doing exactly that sort of photography under Antarctic ice. All the stories in
At the Edge of Waking
are like that—deeply accurate, and yet more than accurate, as the word “surreal” was originally supposed to mean. Barry Lopez writes like that; so do Maxine Hong Kingston and the Indian writer Padma Hejmadi. Not too many others.

I don’t always know at first glance what she’s doing, but it doesn’t matter. She does, and knows it so precisely that the reader comes quickly to trust her surefootedness, which is the big test any artist has to pass. And while I still can’t say exactly what I mean by saying that Holly Phillips is “too good”—beyond, perhaps, the quiet inner rumbling that all writers feel when they encounter someone else’s words and find themselves thinking
damn, I wish I’d done that
—what I can tell you is that she’s an astonishing who-the-hell-is-this kind of discovery for anyone previously ignorant of her work. Until recently I was one such, which lamentable situation I am going to remedy by immediately reading every bit of her writing I can get my hands on. A new planet, to quote Keats, has definitely swum into my ken.

—Peter S. Beagle

Three Days of Rain

They came down out of the buildings’ shade into the glare of the lakeside afternoon. Seen through the sting of sun-tears the bridge between Asuada and Maldino Islands wavered in the heat, white cement floating over white dust, its shadow a black sword-cut against the ground. Santiago groped in the breast of his doublet for his sunglasses and the world regained its edges: the background of red-roofed tenements stacked up Maldino’s hill, the foreground of the esplanade’s railings marking the hour with abbreviated shadows, the bridge, the empty air, lying in between. The not-so-empty air. Even through dark lenses Santiago could see the mirage rippling above the lakebed, fluid as water, tempting as a lie, as the heat raised its ghosts above the plain. Beyond stood the dark hills that were the shore once, in the days when the city was islanded in a living lake; hills that were the shore still, the desert’s shore. They looked like the shards of a broken pot, like paper torn and pasted against the sun-bleached sky. The esplanade was deserted and the siesta silence was intense.

“There’s Bernal,” Luz murmured in Santiago’s ear. “Thirsty for blood.”

She sounded, Santiago thought, more sardonic than a lady should in her circumstance. He had been too shy to look at her as she walked beside him down from Asuada Island’s crown, but he glanced at her now from behind his sunglasses. She had rare pale eyes that were, in the glare, narrow and edged in incipient creases. A dimple showed by her mouth: she knew he was looking. He glanced away and saw Bernal and his seconds waiting in the shadow of the bridge. Ahead, Sandoval and Orlando and Ruy burst out laughing, as if the sight of Bernal were hilarious, but their tension rang like a cracked bell in the quiet. Santiago wished he was sophisticated enough to share Luz’s ironic mood, but he was too excited. He had the notion that he would do this hour an injustice if he pretended a disinterest he did not feel.

Sandoval vaulted over the low gate at the end of the esplanade, dropping down to the steps that led to the bridge’s foot. Orlando followed more clumsily, the hilt of his rapier ringing off the gate’s ironwork, and Ruy climbed sedately over, waiting for Luz and Santiago to catch up. Luz hitched up the skirt of her lace coat to show athletic legs in grimy hose, but allowed Ruy and Santiago to help her over the gate. The gate’s sun-worn sign still bore a memory of its old warning—deep water, drowning, death—but it could not be deciphered beneath the pale motley of handbills. One had to know it was there, and to know, one had to care.

An intangible breeze stirred the ghost lake into gentle waves.

Bernal and Sandoval bowed. Their seconds bowed. To Santiago the observer, who still trailed behind with Luz, they looked like players rehearsing on an empty stage, the strong colors of their doublets false against the pallor of the dust. Bernal drew his rapier with a flourish and presented it to Ruy to inspect. The bridge’s shade gave no relief from the heat; sweat tickled the skin of Santiago’s throat. Sandoval also drew, with a prosaic gesture that seemed more honest, and therefore more threatening, than Bernal’s theatricality, and Santiago felt a burst of excitement, thinking that Sandoval would surely win. Wouldn’t he? He glanced at Luz and was glad to see that the sardonic smile had given way to an intent look. Belatedly he took off his sunglasses and her profile leapt out in sharp relief against the blazing lakebed beyond the shade.

The blades were inspected and returned to their owners. The seconds marked out their corners. The duelists saluted each other, or the duel, and their blades met in the first tentative kiss. Steel touching steel made a cold sound that hissed back down at them from the bridge’s underside. The men’s feet in their soft boots scuffed and patted and stirred up dust that stank like dry bones.

Santiago was there to watch and he did, but his excitement fragmented his attention, as if several Santiagos were crowded behind a single pair of eyes, watching everything. The fighters’ feet like dancers’, making a music of their own. The men’s faces, intent, unselfconscious, reflecting the give and take of the duel. The haze of dust, the sharp edge of shade, the watery mirage. The rapiers hissed and shrieked and sang, and in the bridge’s echoes Santiago heard water birds, children on a beach, rain falling into the lake. For an instant his attention broke quite asunder, and he felt blowing through that divide a cool breeze, a wind rich with impossible smells, water and weeds and rust. The duelists fell apart and Santiago heard himself blurt out, “Blood! First blood!” for scarlet drops spattered from the tip of Sandoval’s sword to lay the dust. Bernal grimaced and put his hand to his breast above his heart.