Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (612 page)

“Wait here,” Uncle Joshua said, and entered the room. A moment later he reappeared carrying Leezie Johnson in his arms. Her eyes were closed and she was trembling.

“Run,” he said.

“But the groogleman is dead,” said Dan.

“Run!”

A distant voice began to chant, echoing through the corridor, speaking words Dan couldn’t understand. He ran, and Uncle Joshua ran with him, moving lightly in spite of Leezie’s extra weight. Together they headed back the way they had come, through passages and rooms, while a keening sound echoed about them, as of inhuman things mourning, and the chanting voice never stopped.

Another groogleman appeared, coming around a corner and shambling toward them. Uncle Joshua did not slow, but instead swung Leezie to the floor and in the same movement unslung his rifle and slammed the butt of the weapon into the side of the groogleman’s head. The groogleman fell.

“They can’t see much of anything to either side,” Uncle Joshua muttered to Dan, but he didn’t explain how he knew. “You take Leezie on ahead—a hundred paces, no more. Wait for me there.”

“What will you do?”

Uncle Joshua had his knife out. “A hunter wears the skin of his prey to get closer to the herd. Now go.”

He put the knife to the groogleman’s throat and pushed it up until the red blood came.

“Go!”

Dan helped Leezie to her feet and supported her as they walked on, while the voices in the air mourned and chanted, and wet sounds came from behind them where Uncle Joshua worked.

Before they had gone the hundred paces, Uncle Joshua joined them again. As he had promised, he was dressed in the skin of the groogleman—with nothing to show he wasn’t real except his face poking out of the wrinkled white neck, and a dribble of blood running along the loathsome hide. He carried the skin of the groogleman’s head, still dripping, in his hand.

“Now we go,” Uncle Joshua said. They walked on. Later he brought them to a halt again and said “Don’t look.”

He moved out of sight behind them, and in a moment his breath began to hiss and bubble. Dan could guess what he had done: he’d pulled on the skin of the groogleman’s head like a mask, enduring the blood and the foulness for the sake of the disguise. Dan and Leezie walked on, with Uncle Joshua shuffling clumsily behind them inside his stolen skin, until they came to the castle door.

Yet a third groogleman stood there, and the door was closed. Uncle Joshua called aloud, speaking a strange language in a harsh and hissing voice, and the groogleman turned away.

The door opened when Uncle Joshua touched it. Together, he and Dan and Leezie walked out of the grooglemen’s castle into the night.

The three of them never went back to the Henchard farm. They buried the skin of the dead groogleman under a rock at the edge of the dead lands, and journeyed onward to the south, where there were towns and fishing villages all along the coast.

Aunt Min had been right about one thing, at least: when Leezie grew a few years older she married Uncle Joshua, and the two of them started their own clan.

Dan lived with them, and in time he brought home a wife from among the fisher folk. Later, when he was very old, he would sometimes tell children about his adventures in the castle of the grooglemen, and how Uncle Joshua won back Leezie Johnson after she had been stolen out of the living lands.

But one thing he never did tell, that he’d learned by looking back over his shoulder when he should have been helping Leezie walk away: when you take the skin off a groogleman, what you see isn’t blood and meat and pale blue bone.

What you see looks as human as you or me.

* * * *

5. (TS) Implementation. Biologic Sampling and Sterilization Command [BSSC] is hereby established under direction of SECEC. Existence of this command shall be close-hold to avoid alarming of civilian population. Full biologic safety is a priority. Assigned personnel shall wear full anti-contamination suits, to include boots, gloves, gas masks and self-contained breathing apparatus at all times when in contact with non-approved environments.

—Annex K to ORDGEN 4B, TOP SECRET NOFORN WINTEL, distribution list Alfa only.

* * * *

Copyright © 1993 by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald

(1950– )

Karen Joy Fowler has been published to critical acclaim in and out of the genre since the start of her career in 1985. Born in Bloomington, Indiana , she attended college at UC Berkley, graduating with a BA in political science in 1972. After graduation, Fowler quickly married Hugh Sterling Fowler II and moved to Davis, California, where she later received an MA at UC Davis in 1974. It was at Davis that Fowler discovered her knack for writing after taking both dance and creative writing classes, and finding herself drawn more toward one than the other.

After spending seven years raising her children, Fowler came out with her first story, “Praxis,” in 1985, one of several works which appeared that year. Fowler was published in the second
Writers of the Future
anthology a year later, and subsequently published the highly regarded short story collection
Artificial Things
. Soon afterward she was nominated for the Campbell Award for best new writer.

In 1990 Fowler started writing essays in addition to fiction, and has since collaborated on editing several anthologies. Another notable collaboration by Fowler was the creation of the James Tiptree Jr. Award in 1991 with Pat Murphy, to honor works of genre fiction that do the most to advance understanding of gender.

Fowler’s first novel,
Sarah Canary
(1991) was published to critical acclaim. She followed up with The Sweetheart Season (1996) and a second short story collection, Black Glass (1998), which received wide critical acclaim.

One of Fowler’s most popular novels is
The Jane Austen Book Club
(2004), which while not exactly science fictional, does contain genre elements which play an integral role in the novel’s plot. The novel was made into a movie by the same name in 2007. Her latest works are the novel
Wit’s End
(2008), and two shorter works of fiction, “Halfway People” and “Booth’s Ghost,” both published in 2010.

Fowler has won two Nebulas and two World Fantasy awards, but my favorite story is this subtle piece, which explores the other side of time travel tourism.

First published in
Asimov’s Science Fiction
, August 1997

On Good Friday 1865, Washington, DC, was crowded with tourists and revelers. Even Willard’s, which claimed to be the largest hotel in the country, with room for 1200 guests, had been booked to capacity. Its lobbies and sitting rooms were hot with bodies. Gaslight hissed from golden chandeliers, spilled over the doormen’s uniforms of black and maroon. Many of the revelers were women. In 1865, women were admired for their stoutness and went anywhere they could fit their hoop skirts. The women at Willard’s wore garishly colored dresses with enormous skirts and resembled great inverted tulips. The men were in swallowtail coats.

Outside it was almost spring. The forsythia bloomed, dusting the city with yellow. Weeds leapt up in the public parks; the roads melted to mud. Pigs roamed like dogs about the city, and dead cats by the dozens floated in the sewers and perfumed the rooms of the White House itself.

The Metropolitan Hotel contained an especially rowdy group of celebrants from Baltimore, who passed the night of April 13 toasting everything under the sun. They resurrected on the morning of the 14th, pale and spent, surrounded by broken glass and sporting bruises they couldn’t remember getting.

It was the last day of Lent. The war was officially over, except for Joseph Johnston’s Confederate army and some action out west. The citizens of Washington, DC, still began each morning reading the daily death list. If anything, this task had taken on an added urgency. To lose someone you loved now, with the rest of the city madly, if grimly, celebrating, would be unendurable.

The guests in Mary Surratt’s boarding house began the day with a breakfast of steak, eggs and ham, oysters, grits and whiskey. Mary’s seventeen-year old daughter, Anna, was in love with John Wilkes Booth. She had a picture of him hidden in the sitting room, behind a lithograph entitled “Morning, Noon, and Night.” She helped her mother clear the table and she noticed with a sharp and unreasonable disapproval that one of the two new boarders, one of the men who only last night had been given a room, was staring at her mother.

Mary Surratt was neither a pretty women, nor a clever one, nor was she young. Anna was too much of a romantic, too star- and stage-struck, to approve. It was one thing to lie awake at night in her attic bedroom, thinking of JW. It was another to imagine her mother playing any part in such feelings.

Anna’s brother John once told her that five years ago a woman named Henrietta Irving had tried to stab Booth with a knife. Failing, she’d thrust the blade into her own chest instead. He seemed to be under the impression that this story would bring Anna to her senses. It had, as anyone could have predicted, the opposite effect. Anna had also heard rumors that Booth kept a woman in a house of prostitution near the White House. And once she had seen a piece of paper on which Booth had been composing a poem. You could make out the final version:

Now in this hour that we part,

I will ask to be forgotten never

But, in thy pure and guileless heart,

Consider me thy friend dear Eva.

Anna would sit in the parlor while her mother dozed and pretend she was the first of these women, and if she tired of that, she would sometimes dare to pretend she was the second, but most often she liked to imagine herself the third.

Flirtations were common and serious, and the women in Washington worked hard at them. A war in the distance always provides a rich context of desperation, while at the same time granting women a bit of extra freedom. They might quite enjoy it, if the price they paid were anything but their sons.

The new men had hardly touched their food, cutting away the fatty parts of the meat and leaving them in a glistening greasy wasteful pile. They’d finished the whiskey, but made faces while they drank. Anna had resented the compliment of their eyes and, paradoxically, now resented the insult of their plates. Her mother set a good table.

In fact, Anna did not like them and hoped they would not be staying. She had often seen men outside the Surratt boarding house lately, men who busied themselves in unpersuasive activities when she passed them. She connected these new men to those, and she was perspicacious enough to blame their boarder Louis Wiechman for the lot of them, without ever knowing the extent to which she was right. She had lived for the past year in a Confederate household in the heart of Washington. Everyone around her had secrets. She had grown quite used to this.

Wiechman was a permanent guest at the Surratt boarding house. He was a fat, friendly man who worked in the office of the Commissary General of Prisons and shared John Surratt’s bedroom. Secrets were what Wiechman traded in. He provided John, who was a courier for the Confederacy, with substance for his covert messages south. But then Wiechman had also, on a whim, sometime in March, told the clerks in the office that a Secesh plot was being hatched against the president in the very house where he roomed.

It created more interest than he had anticipated. He was called into the office of Captain McDavitt and interviewed at length. As a result, the Surratt boarding house was under surveillance from March through April, although it is an odd fact that no records of the surveillance or the interview could be found later.

Anna would surely have enjoyed knowing this. She liked attention as much as most young girls. And this was the backdrop of a romance. Instead, all she could see was that something was up and that her pious, simple mother was part of it.

The new guest, the one who talked the most, spoke with a strange lisp and Anna didn’t like this either. She stepped smoothly between the men to pick up their plates. She used the excuse of a letter from her brother to go out directly after breakfast. “Mama,” she said. “I’ll just take John’s letter to poor Miss Ward.”

Just as her brother enjoyed discouraging her own romantic inclinations, she made it her business to discourage the affections of Miss Ward with regard to him. Calling on Miss Ward with the letter would look like a kindness, but it would make the point that Miss Ward had not gotten a letter herself.

Besides, Booth was in town. If Anna was outside, she might see him again.

The thirteenth had been beautiful, but the weather on the fourteenth was equal parts mud and wind. The wind blew bits of Anna’s hair loose and tangled them up with the fringe of her shawl. Around the Treasury Building she stopped to watch a carriage sunk in the mud all the way up to the axle. The horses, a matched pair of blacks, were rescued first. Then planks were laid across the top of the mud for the occupants. They debarked, a man and a woman, the woman unfashionably thin and laughing giddily as with every unsteady step her hoop swung and unbalanced her, first this way and then that. She clutched the man’s arm and screamed when a pig burrowed past her, then laughed again at even higher pitch. The man stumbled into the mire when she grabbed him, and this made her laugh, too. The man’s clothing was very fine, although now quite speckled with mud. A crowd gathered to watch the woman— the attention made her helpless with laughter.

The war had ended, Anna thought, and everyone had gone simultaneously mad. She was not the only one to think so. It was the subject of newspaper editorials, of barroom speeches. “The city is disorderly with men who are celebrating too hilariously,” the president’s day guard, William Crook, had written just yesterday. The sun came out, but only in a perfunctory, pale fashion.

Her visit to Miss Ward was spoiled by the fact that John had sent a letter there as well. Miss Ward obviously enjoyed telling Anna so. She was very near-sighted and she held the letter right up to her eyes to read it. John had recently fled to Canada. With the war over, there was every reason to expect he would come home, even if neither letter said so.

There was more news, and Miss Ward preened while she delivered it. “Bessie Hale is being taken to Spain. Much against her will,” Miss Ward said. Bessie was the daughter of ex-senator John P. Hale. Her father hoped that a change of scenery would help pretty Miss Bessie conquer her infatuation for John Wilkes Booth. Miss Ward, whom no one including Anna’s brother thought was pretty, was laughing at her. “Mr. Hale does not want an actor in the family,” Miss Ward said, and Anna regretted the generous impulse that had sent her all the way across town on such a gloomy day.

“Wilkes Booth is back in Washington,” Miss Ward finished, and Anna was at least able to say that she knew this, he had called on them only yesterday. She left the Wards with the barest of good-byes.

Louis Wiechman passed her on the street, stopping for a courteous greeting, although they had just seen each other at breakfast. It was now about ten A.M. Wiechman was on his way to church. Among the many secrets he knew was Anna’s. “I saw John Wilkes Booth in the barbershop this morning,” he told her. “With a crowd watching his every move.”

Anna raised her head. “Mr. Booth is a famous thespian. Naturally people admire him.”

She flattered herself that she knew JW a little better than these idolaters did. The last time her brother had brought Booth home, he’d followed Anna out to the kitchen. She’d had her back to the door, washing the plates. Suddenly she could feel that he was there. How could she have known that? The back of her neck grew hot, and when she turned, sure enough, there he was, leaning against the doorjamb, studying his nails.

“Do you believe our fates are already written?” Booth asked her. He stepped into the kitchen. “I had my palm read once by a gypsy. She said I would come to a bad end. She said it was the worst palm she had ever seen.” He held his hand out for her to take. “She said she wished she hadn’t even seen it,” he whispered, and then he drew back quickly as her mother entered, before she could bend over the hand herself, reassure him with a different reading, before she could even touch him.

“JW isn’t satisfied with acting,” her brother had told her once. “He yearns for greatness on the stage of history,” and if her mother hadn’t interrupted, if Anna had had two seconds to herself with him, this is the reading she would have done. She would have promised him greatness.

“Mr. Booth was on his way to Ford’s Theatre to pick up his mail,” Wiechman said with a wink. It was an ambiguous wink. It might have meant only that Wiechman remembered what a first love was like. It might have suggested he knew the use she would make of such information.

Two regiments were returning to Washington from Virginia. They were out of step and out of breath, covered with dust. Anna drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and waved it at them. Other women were doing the same. A crowd gathered. A vendor came through the crowd, selling oysters. A man in a tight-fitting coat stopped him. He had a disreputable look—a bad haircut with long sideburns. He pulled a handful of coins from one pocket and stared at them stupidly. He was drunk. The vendor had to reach into his hand and pick out what he was owed.

“Filthy place!” the man next to the drunk man said. “I really can’t bear the smell. I can’t eat. Don’t expect me to sleep in that flea-infested hotel another night.” He left abruptly, colliding with Anna’s arm, forcing her to take a step or two. “Excuse me,” he said without stopping, and there was nothing penitent or apologetic in his tone. He didn’t even seem to see her.

Since he had forced her to start, Anna continued to walk. She didn’t even know she was going to Ford’s Theatre until she turned onto Eleventh Street. It was a bad idea, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She began to walk faster.

“No tickets, Miss,” James R. Ford told her, before she could open her mouth. She was not the only one there. A small crowd of people stood at the theater door. “Absolutely sold out. It’s because the President and General Grant will be attending.”

James Ford held an American flag in his arms. He raised it. “I’m just decorating the President’s box.” It was the last night of a lackluster run. He would never have guessed they would sell every seat. He thought Anna’s face showed disappointment. He was happy, himself, and it made him kind. “They’re rehearsing inside,” he told her. “For General Grant! You just go on in for a peek.”

He opened the doors and she entered. Three women and a man came with her. Anna had never seen any of the others before, but supposed they were friends of Mr. Ford’s. They forced themselves through the doors beside her and then sat next to her in the straight-backed cane chairs just back from the stage.

Laura Keene herself stood in the wings awaiting her entrance. The curtain was pulled back, so that Anna could see her. Her cheeks were round with rouge.

The stage was not deep. Mrs. Mountchessington stood on it with her daughter, Augusta, and Asa Trenchard.

“All I crave is affection,” Augusta was saying. She shimmered with insincerity.

Anna repeated the lines to herself. She imagined herself as an actress, married to JW, courted by him daily before an audience of a thousand, in a hundred different towns. They would play the love scenes over and over again, each one as true as the last. She would hardly know where her real and imaginary lives diverged. She didn’t suppose there was much money to be made, but even to pretend to be rich seemed like happiness to her.

Augusta was willing to be poor, if she was loved. “Now I’ve no fortune,” Asa said to her in response, “but I’m biling over with affections, which I’m ready to pour out all over you, like apple sass, over roast pork.”

The women exited. He was alone on the stage. Anna could see Laura Keene mouthing his line, just as he spoke it. The woman stated next to her surprised her by whispering it aloud as well.

“Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal, you sockdologizing old man-trap,” the three of them said. Anna turned to her seatmate who stared back. Her accent, Anna thought, had been English. “Don’t you love theater?” she asked Anna in a whisper. Then her face changed. She was looking at something above Anna’s head.

Anna looked, too. Now she understood the woman’s expression. John Wilkes Booth was standing in the presidential box, staring down on the actor. Anna rose. Her seatmate caught her arm. She was considerably older than Anna, but not enough so that Anna could entirely dismiss her possible impact on Booth.