The Edge of the Map
JAX GOSS
Copyright 2011 Jax Goss
All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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ISBN: 1461072018
ISBN-13: 978-1461072010
*****
DEDICATION
For Alec.
*****
CONTENTS
*****
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There is a reality-TV style contest on Livejournal called LJ Idol. I have entered it for the last two years. The vast majority of these pieces (though not all) are a direct result of that competition, and available online on my blog. Without LJ Idol, this book would not exist. So thanks to Gary, LJI’s creator and ongoing dictator, despite his professed evilness.
Thanks also to Adam and Ian for inspiring Ransom and Numbers respectively (by giving me the prompts).
Also to Raph, who was responsible for the strange direction that Cauldrons and Haute Cuisine took.
The very last story in this collection, Stealing Roses, has never been published anywhere before now. It exists because Tash Joseph gave me the first paragraph. Thanks, Lupe.
And a last very special thanks to Wayne, for suggesting I put these stories in a book in the first place, and to Gene, for hassling me so much about publishing something.
And to you, obviously, for reading it.
*****
HERE THERE BE DRAGONS
Dragons get a bad rap. Seriously. All that stuff about eating princesses and flying over villages rampaging and burning things? We only do that if we're seriously pissed off. Or, you know. Hungry.
Princesses don't taste that good anyway. They tend to be kinda stringy, and a bit like candy-floss. They don't fill you up, and after a few you just have a sugar headache and an uncharacteristic desire for salad. And the screaming and the fainting gets wearying after a while.
But seriously. We're actually quite decent reasonable creatures if you get to know us. We like books. Well, most of us do. I do have a cousin who likes books mostly cause they burn pretty colours, but hey. There's one in every family, right? I bet you have a few cousins like that too. We like stories. In fact, if you find yourself in a dragon's lair, and you don't want to end up being lunch, the best possible thing you can do is have a few stories up your sleeve. If you can keep talking long enough, we might decide we like you. And mostly, we try not to eat people we like. I use the word 'people' loosely of course.
Okay, to some extent the treasure thing is spot on. We do have a tendency to like shiny things. But c'mon. So do magpies, and no one sends knights off to slay THEM. And my treasure trove is very neat and organised. Arranged alphabetically. Books on separate shelves to DVDs, which are on separate shelves to CDs. All nicely arranged so that I can find what I want, when I want. Occasionally someone adds something to it, normally as a gesture of friendship. I almost never eat someone who's added to my trove.
And we're loyal. They always leave that out of the stories. Once we decide we like you, it's pretty unusual for us to recant that. And once you're in our good books, we'll defend you to the end. Sometimes that means turning your enemies to charcoal. This does occasionally get awkward when people don't realise that's not a metaphor.
If you are lucky enough to win the heart of a dragon, she will love you always. Even if it turns to custard, part of her will always care. Always. That's how a dragon heart works.
In the stories, we're always either villains or some sort of mysterious sage dispensing cryptic wisdom. Or a 'noble steed'. In reality though we're just like you. Some of us are nicer than others. Sometimes we're in good moods, sometimes we're not. Sometimes, if you show up with a book for the trove or a bag of cookies, we'll invite you for tea, sometimes we'll barbeque you and eat you, just cause we're testy.
Me? I'm a pretty average dragon. I have my trove, I have the people for whom I'd happily charcoal other people. I have my moods. But my affection can always be bought with books or cookies. I do love stories. I am fiercely loyal. I am even friends with some magpies.
And I hardly ever EVER eat anyone any more.
*****
THE BETTER HALF
The boy's eyes stare at the plate on the table. He is standing on tippy toes, but his eyes are still only just above the table's surface. On the plate is a single cupcake. But what a cupcake! Chocolate swirls of icing, sprinkles. He knows that the cake beneath the icing is dark, chocolatey heaven. There is a single candle, unlit, waiting. He glances over his shoulder to where his mother is standing in the kitchen, stirring something in a bowl.
It is not the boy's birthday. It is not the boy's cupcake. The boy has a sister, a year and a half older than him. The cupcake, in all its delicious chocolatey glory, belongs to his sister, who will be home from school soon. The family will sit around the table, and sing, and then she will eat it, and he will watch.
He knows that on his birthday, he too will have a cupcake, but the boy is very young, and birthdays seem to have eons between them. He knows that his mother has also made a bigger cake with a full complement of seven candles, and that they will all get some of it, but the birthday cupcake is something mystical. He is convinced that it will be more delicious than anything he has ever experienced before. He can taste it already, the melting icing, the delicate moist cake. He knows how easy it would be to climb on a chair, reach out and take just the smallest tiniest bite out of it. Again he glances over his shoulder. His mother has moved away, so that he can no longer see her through the doorway to the kitchen. She wouldn't see. But she would know.
It is only half an hour later when the boy's sister comes home. He hears their mother greet her, singing "Happy Birthday". His mother calls to him. He runs to the dining room, where the cupcake sits on the plate, still untouched. His sister is already there, sitting in front of it, grinning. They sing, and then his sister picks up a knife, and cuts the big cake, making a wish.
His mother begins to serve out the big cake, but the boy cannot take his eyes off the delicious swirling chocolate icing of the birthday cupcake. His sister sees him looking, picks up a knife, and cuts it in half. Then she extends the plate to him, to let him choose a half. His mother has gone silent, the knife in her hand still, a strange look on her face. The boy looks carefully at the two pieces.
He picks the smaller half, and smiles.
*****
TOWERS AND GINGERBREAD HOUSES
She was sixteen, and her head was full of fairytales.
In the stories, they were always princesses, long flaxen locks, and blue eyes. Kept in towers, or guarded by dragons. Waiting. That's what they did best. They waited. And sooner or later (but never too much later), if they were beautiful enough, or sang well enough, or had kind enough hearts, they'd be rescued by a handsome prince on a charger.
In some of the stories, they were warriors. They used swords, and they had fiery red hair, and green eyes that flashed. But there was always a prince there too. Or a thief. Or a rogue. Someone with whom they could clash and fight and love and kiss.
The traps were witches, or evil viziers. The traps were dark men with exotic features, or women wizened with age and bitterness, or sorceresses, jealous of their beauty. Mirrors and apples and herbs. All things not to be trusted. All things from which to be rescued.
She was seventeen, and her heart was broken by a boy who looked like a fairytale prince. A boy who was supposed to have looked into her eyes and seen the princess hidden there behind the frumpy mouse brown hair, and the glasses. A boy who was supposed to save her from the witches and viziers. A boy who was supposed to vanquish the dragon, tear down the tower, and gallop her away to a happy ever after. Instead he laughed. And turned away.
That was the beginning. That was where she started to learn. Sometimes wizened old women offer not poisoned apples, but wisdom. Sometimes the dark exotic man is more trustworthy than the golden haired prince. Sometimes the rogue is just a rogue and carries no heart of gold in his chest.
Sometimes princesses wear glasses and do not have green eyes or long flaxen locks.
Sometimes you can do better than wait.
That was when she began to see that it wasn't the apples and mirrors, it wasn't the towers and gingerbread houses.
Sometimes, the real trap is the story.
*****
SPARKLE
It's her diamond earrings, shining cold and icy, cutting.
It's the shimmer of her vaguely metallic looking dress, blinding the audience.
It's the ring on her finger, glittering in the spotlight, shimmering in their eyes.
She had a voice once, she is sure. She has a memory of sitting somewhere warm and soft and singing. There may have been grass, the hair of a lover tickling her legs as he lay in her lap. There may have been sunshine, and birdsong. There may have been water.
Now there is light, and shimmer and glitter. Diamonds and metal and a wash of faces alike in their... is it adoration?
She remembers love. She thinks she remembers love. It did not feel like this, though when she leaves this space everyone uses that word. "They loved you." "Everybody loves you."
They play with buttons, add sounds until it's not her voice she hears anymore. She might be singing. She can't be sure. It doesn't sound the same. It doesn't feel the same.
And at the end he returns, puts the chain around her ankle. Congratulates her on a good show. Presents her with jewels. Smiles his cold smile, and leaves her alone.
They can't see what he's doing. It's all sparkle.
*****
CAULDRONS AND HAUTE CUISINE
---
Can’t write. Am newt. Hard to type.
---
They said she had ideas in bottles on a shelf in her kitchen. They said she'd sell them for the usual things - a voice, a first born child. They said they were the sort of ideas that were worth the price. That they burned through you like fire, and set you alight. That they would make you famous, and wealthy beyond your dreams. They said she was responsible for Post-Its, and McDonald’s, and flat-screen TVs. Possibly Apple as well.
So, of course, when I desperately needed an idea for a writing competition in which I was engaged, I went to see her. I wasn't looking for a top shelf idea. No sparkly vampires or wizarding schools for me. Just a basic muse-hit, something to get me through the week until I got my feet under me again. It had been a tough couple of weeks. My muse was run a little ragged.
She wanted my cooking instinct.
I'm an excellent cook, you see, and I cook by instinct, mostly. I have that natural flair for getting ingredients to combine just right. People who ate dinners at my house would comment on how I could have been a pro. I enjoyed cooking, but not enough to pursue it as a career. And I didn't want the rules, just the creativity. It's a zen thing, pottering around the kitchen, making something like magic and something like chemistry that fuses together and becomes decadence and joy. Food is spiritual.
I still have my byes, I thought. Did I really want to give this up for the sake of another week? The hours of pleasure cooking and feeding people give? No. No, I really didn't.
I turned her down, politely, said the price was too high, and thank you for her time, and maybe we could do business again sometime.
She wouldn't let me go. She said she needed something at least for the time I'd taken up. I offered her some of my best recipes. She smiled a dark and dangerous smile. Accepted. Said she wouldn't take it all, just a bit.
A bit.
Big bloody bit.
Most of my physical size, and my opposable thumbs.
But it's ok. Because I've heard about this wizard who can turn me back. He's a way away, but I am confident I will be myself again by next week. See you then.
*****
NUMBERS
I shivered as I climbed into the car and started the engine, setting the fans to high and turning on the rear defroster. "This could take a while" I thought. Looking in the mirror, I noticed something on the rear window. A phone number, carefully written so it appeared the right way round in my mirror. The numbers started to fade as the frost began to melt.
Without thinking, I grappled for a pen and a bit of paper, and managed to catch six of the seven numbers. The seventh had disappeared. That’s ok, I thought to myself. I’ll only have to phone ten people at the most. Then I stopped to think about why there was a phone number on my rear window. And who had put it there. And what they might want.
------1
The first person I phoned was an old lady. She asked if I was calling about the kittens. I said no, and explained what had happened and asked if she knew anything about it, though I was already fairly sure this wasn’t the right person. She said she didn’t know anything, but did I know of anyone who might want some kittens.
“Only, you see, dear, I already have twelve cats, and I am not going to live forever, you know. I really can’t take in another five.”
I said I’d take the kittens and find them homes. She gave me her address. I resolved to bake my famous chocolate cake to take over to her when I went.
------2
The second person I phoned assumed I was from his son’s school, phoning because his son was in trouble again.
“I just don’t know what to do with him. Nothing I say seems to get through. He’s not a bad kid, he just doesn’t seem to be able to focus.”
I interrupted to say I did not work at a school, and did not know his son, and was he the one who had left his number for me to find.
He said no.
I knew someone who worked with kids, helping them to focus and change their behaviour. I gave him her phone number, wished him luck, and hung up.
------3
The third person picked up the phone but didn’t speak.
“Um… hello?” I said.
“Whatdjowan?”
“I… er… someone left their number on my rear window, and I was wondering if it was you?”
“No.”
“Er.. Are you ok? Only you sound… well.. not ok.”
“Mfine. Jus’ maybe shouldn’ave takn all those pills…”
I hung up and called emergency services. Gave them the number so they could trace the address. Told them to hurry.
------4
The fourth person sounded like she’d been crying.
I asked gently if she had left her number on the back of a car. She snuffled that she hadn’t. I asked if she was ok, and did she want to talk about it?
“He just left. I don’t understand what I did…”
She spoke for forty-five minutes, about her boyfriend just walking out. I listened. I told her it wasn’t her fault, sometimes these things happen.
At the end of the conversation, she said, “You know, nothing has changed. But I feel better having spoken about it.”
She thanked me.
------5
The fifth person was obviously in a great hurry.
I asked politely whether it had been him. He said no. Then, just as I was about to thank him and hang up he said, “That’s weird.”
“What?”
“Someone just left their number on your car? And you’re going to try to find out why?”