Black Gate

The lead story for the July/August issue of Interzone (the cover of which has nothing to do with its contents, serving instead as a panel for a complete artwork comprising all the issues in 2010) is “Mannikin” by Paul Evanby.  The story opens in July 1776, the date  of American declared independence from British colonial rule (sidenote:  the writer is Dutch and the magazine is published in the U.K.).  But this isn’t about Ben Franklin or Thomas Jefferson, and doesn’t even take place in the colonies, but rather signifies the irony of a revolution that resulted in freedom for  white Protestant male landowners who relied on the exploitation of  African-American slaves to maintain economic autonomy.

The title refers to artificial creatures  fashioned using 18th century pseudo-scientific notions of “animalcula” blowing about in the atmosphere that contain the essence of life; the male reproductive system somehow absorbs these animalcula (beware windy days!) to power sperm production.  Consequently, the “man”-nikins are entirely male, produced like fermented spirits out of barrels.

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While rumors of its demise appear to be greatly exaggerated, I thought I should perhaps not wait too long to review Realms of Fantasy for this month. Just in case.

The proverbial “worth the price of the issue” story is “The Hearts of  Men” by T.L. Morganfield, who seems to specialize in a subgenre of her own devising, Aztec mythology.  I reviewed a previous story of hers, “The Place that Makes You Happiest,” that appeared in the final issue of Paradox, which postulates that colonizing Spain had not destroyed the Aztec culture and comes to predominate modern society in the Americas.  This time around, Morganfield transposes Aztec notions of the role of the gods and blood sacrifice (which Joseph Campbell devotees will note shares common themes with the central conceit of Christianity)  into the wild, wild West to ask the equally archetypical question of “Who are you, and why are you here?”

“You’re really him, aren’t you?” the boy asked, shuffling a bit closer.

“Who?” I asked

“Huitzilopochtli”

I considered a moment before answering. “Maybe.” I really didn’t know who I was; I wore six-shooters at my hips and my battered felt hat smelled of sweat and rot, but when I checked it for a name, I didn’t find one.”

p.43

Morganfield suggests that, unlike the Greek conception of inevitable and immutable  destiny, things can sometimes change for the better, even for the gods, who sometimes are as clueless as the rest of us. You just have to have heart (a joke you won’t get unless you read the story, which I recommend).

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[Hell] doesn’t exist, no more so than the entities that are called Satan and the Devil.  They’re all…storybook constructs…Know this: there is no such thing as a ‘cosmic evil.’ Evil is a human matter, fashioned by ignorance, brutality, addiction, emotional trauma—the list is endless. The cosmos doesn’t feel anything, it is just a space, it doesn’t care about either good or evil, it is simply, like Heaven, indifferent.

“For My Next Trick I’ll Need a Volunteer” by Gary A. Braunbeck

p. 275, 285

That pretty much sums up my personal view of a universe indifferent to ongoing human folly.  That said, I’m fascinated by the notion of faith and its ethical implications, so a short story collection entitled Dark Faith co-edited by Maurice Broaddus and Jerry Gordon naturally got my attention. People rely on faith to provide an orderly framework to their lives, to infuse meaning to their existence. What these  stories (as well as several poems) share is a consideration of what happens when the assumptions that underpin faith unravel. For the most part, the results are not good

The opening story, “Ghosts of New York” by Jennifer Pelland, considers the afterlife of those who made the horrific choice to jump from the Twin Towers rather than remain in a burning buidling about to collapse. The whole subgenre of 9/11 fiction is tricky, given  our collective memory of something so frighteningly incomprehensible that’s been trivialized over time with the endlessly surreal replaying loop of the imploding skyscrapers, but Pelland’s take here is vividly disturbing in suggesting that memorializing the dead can make matters worse.

Poets and sages like to say that there is clarity in certain death. That a calm resignation settles over the nearly deceased, and they embrace the inevitability of the end of life with dignity and grace.

But there was no clarity for her, no calmness, no life flashing before her eyes in a montage of joy and regrets.  There was just pure animal terror, screams torn from her throat as she plummeted toward the ground in the longest ten seconds of her life.

And then there was an explosion of pain.

p.2

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