The Apex Book of World SF Part 1

The Apex Book of World SF.

Lavie Tidhar.

Introduction.

By Lavie Tidhar.

Lingua franca come and go. They are universal in that they allow people with different mother tongues to communicate with each other. In the time of the Roman Empire and far later, Latin was such a language, though it is now a dead tongue--read (rarely, and by scholars), but not spoken. French was once a major international language (we still use par avion for airmail, a remnant of that time). The rise of British power in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries led to English becoming the new language of communication. British colonists had established themselves in North America (Canada and the U.S.), Australia, and South Africa, all now part of what is known as the English-speaking world. The language had permeated much further, however, particularly in former British colonies such as India and Malaysia and large parts of East Africa, often leading to a different, distinct form of English being used. English evolved differently in different parts of the world, borrowing from local languages, even creating different pidgin or Creole languages (as in the South Pacific islands of Melanesia) that borrowed the vocabulary of English to form new distinct languages.

Languages come and go.

But stories stay.

Many of the writers in this volume write in English. For many of them, English is a second or even third language. The prevalence of English today means that more and more writers from outside the English-speaking world are nevertheless choosing to speak in that language. Amongst the young generation of such writers I've included Jetse de Vries (the Netherlands), Aliette de Bodard (France), and Dean Francis Alfar (the Philippines), who have all published in the English-language magazines whilst speaking another language at home. Some writers included write in their native tongues, and were either able to translate their own work or find a translator to help them access the English world. Han Song and Yang Ping from China are in the former category; Zoran Zivkovic and Melanie Fazi in the latter. Some writers are best known in their home countries. Tunku Halim's several story collections and novels enjoy popularity in Malaysia--he writes and publishes in English--whilst Guy Ha.s.son's work, though written in English, appeared predominantly in Hebrew translations in Israel.

This is the first volume of what I hope will be a larger work. It is, of course, incomplete. There are no writers here from South America or Africa, for instance--a glaring omission. Speculative fiction stories from the Arab world (where they are enjoying a new popularity) are missing. So are many European and Asian writers. In editing such an anthology, I was guided by what had been published in English-language publications in the past several years, and by my own, if obviously limited, knowledge of, and contact with, other writers from around the world. I am hopeful that a second volume will allow me to redress some of this imbalance.

The stories in this book include science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Many utilise their authors' background to create, or rather reveal, worlds distinctly different from the templates that dominate these fields. Thai writer S.P. Somtow won the World Fantasy Award for his remarkable story "The Bird Catcher," a vivid tale set in both past and present Thailand, which opens this volume. Another World Fantasy Award winner, Zoran Zivkovic, closes the book with "Compartments," an instant cla.s.sic of European surrealism. In between, and in addition to the names mentioned above, we also have Croatian science fiction courtesy of Aleksandar Ziljak, a Fiji-set story from Australian writer (and Fiji resident) Kaaron Warren, homicidal cartoon characters from Israeli writer Nir Yaniv, revolutionary ghouls from Kristin Mandigma of the Philippines, and quiet horror from Palestinian writer Jamil Nasir; an entire world--or, rather, entire worlds--conjured up from the minds of people who may speak different languages, live in different countries, yet share a common love. I hope you enjoy their stories as much as I did.

Lavie Tidhar.

Vientiane, 2009.

Publisher's Note:.

Zoran Zivkovic's "Compartments" not included in this edition of the book.

To Wu Yan, for his help and enthusiasm.

"The Bird Catcher"

S.P. Somtow.

S.P. Somtow is the pen name of Thai writer and composer Somtow Sucharitkul. His numerous awards include the 1981 John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer and the World Fantasy Award for "The Bird Catcher," and he is the author of over forty books, including the cla.s.sic Vampire Junction and Jasmine Nights. He is currently the artistic director of the Bangkok Opera.

There was this other boy in the internment camp. His name was Jim. After the war, he made something of a name for himself. He wrote books, even a memoir of the camp that got turned into a Spielberg movie. It didn't turn out that gloriously for me.

My grandson will never know what it's like to be consumed by hunger, hunger that is heartache: hunger that can propel you past insanity. But I know. I've been there. So has that boy Jim; that's why I really don't envy him his Spielberg movie.

After the war, my mother and I were stranded in China for a few more years. She was penniless, a lady journalist in a time when lady journalists only covered church bazaars, a single mother at a time when "b.a.s.t.a.r.d" was more than a bad word.

You might think that at least we had each other, but my mother and I never intersected. Not as mother and son, not even as Americans awash in great events and oceans of Asian faces. We were both loners. We were both vulnerable.

That's how I became the boogieman's friend.

He's long dead now, but they keep him, you know, in the Museum of Horrors. Once in a generation, I visit him. Yesterday, I took my grandson, Corey, just as I took his father before him.

The destination stays the same, but the road changes with every generation. The first time I had gone by boat, along the quiet back ca.n.a.ls of the old city. Now there was an expressway. The toll was forty baht--a dollar--a month's salary that would have been, back in the '50s, in old Siam.

My son's in love with Bangkok: the insane skyline, the high tech blending with the low tech, the skysc.r.a.per shaped like a giant robot, the palatial shopping malls, the kinky s.e.x bars, the bootleg software arcades, the whole tossed salad. And he doesn't mind the heat. He's a big-time entrepreneur here, owns a taco chain.

I live in Manhattan. It's quieter.

I can be anonymous. I can be alone. I can nurse my hunger in secret.

Christmases, though, I go to Bangkok; this Christmas, my grandson's eleventh birthday, I told my son it was time. He nodded and told me to take the chauffeur for the day.

So, to get to the place, you zigzag through the world's raunchiest traffic, then you fly along this madcap figure-of-eight expressway, cross the river where stone demons stand guard on the parapets of the Temple of Dawn, and then you're suddenly in this sleazy alley. Vendors hawk bowls of soup and pickled guavas. The directions are on a handwritten placard attached to a street sign with duct tape.

It's the Police Museum, upstairs from the local morgue. One wall is covered with photographs of corpses. That's not part of the museum; it's a public service display for people with missing family members to check if any of them have turned up dead. Corey didn't pay attention to the photographs; he was busy with Pokemon.

Upstairs, the feeling changed. The stairs creaked. The upstairs room was garishly lit. Gla.s.s cases along the walls were filled with medical oddities, two-headed babies and the like, each one in a jar of formaldehyde, each one meticulously labelled in Thai and English. The labels weren't printed, mind you. Handwritten. There was definitely a middle school show-and-tell feel about the exhibits. No air-conditioning. And no more breeze from the river like in the old days; skysc.r.a.pers had stifled the city's breath.

There was a uniform, sick-yellow tinge to all the displays...the neutral cream paint was edged with yellow, the deformed livers, misshapen brains, tumorous embryos all floating in a dull yellow fluid, the heaps of dry bones an orange-yellow, the rows of skulls yellowing in the cracks...and then there were the young novices, shaven-headed little boys in yellow robes, staring in a heat-induced stupor as their mentor droned on about the transience of all existence, the quintessence of Buddhist philosophy.

And then there was Si Ui.

He had his own gla.s.s cabinet, like a phone booth, in the middle of the room. Naked. Desiccated. A mummy. Skinny. Mud-coloured, from the embalming process, I think. A sign (handwritten, of course) explained who he was. See Ui. Devourer of children's livers in the 1950s. My grandson reads Thai more fluently than I do. He sounded out the name right away.

Si Sui Sae Ung.

"It's the boogieman, isn't it?" Corey said. But he showed little more than a pa.s.sing interest. It was the year Pokemon Gold and Silver came out. So many new monsters to catch, so many names to learn.

"He hated cages," I said.

"Got him!" Corey squealed. Then, not looking up at the dead man, "I know who he was. They did a doc.u.mentary on him. Can we go now?"

"Didn't your maid tell you stories at night? To frighten you? 'Be a good boy, or Si Ui will eat your liver?'"

"Gimme a break, Grandpa. I'm too old for that s.h.i.+t." He paused. Still wouldn't look up at him. There were other gla.s.s booths in the room, other mummified criminals: a serial rapist down the way. But Si Ui was the star of the show. "Okay," Corey said, "she did try to scare me once. Well, I was like five, okay? Si Ui. You watch out, he'll eat your liver, be a good boy now. Sure, I heard that before. Well, he's not gonna eat my liver now, is he? I mean, that's probably not even him; it's probably like wax or something."

He smiled at me. The dead man did not.

"I knew him," I said. "He was my friend."

"I get it!" Corey said, back to his Gameboy. "You're like me in this Pokemon game. You caught a monster once. And tamed him. You caught the most famous monster in Thailand."

"And tamed him?" I shook my head. "No, not tamed."

"Can we go to McDonald's now?"

"You're hungry."

"I could eat the world!"

"After I tell you the whole story."

"You're gonna talk about the Chinese camp again, Grandpa? And that kid Jim, and the Spielberg movie?"

"No, Corey, this is something I've never told you about before. But I'm telling you so when I'm gone, you'll know to tell your son. And your grandson."

"Okay, Grandpa."

And finally, tearing himself away from the video game, he willed himself to look.

The dead man had no eyes; he could not stare back.

He hated cages. But his whole life was a long imprisonment...without a cage, he did not even exist.

Listen, Corey. I'll tell you how I met the boogieman.

Imagine I'm eleven years old, same as you are now, running wild on a leaky s.h.i.+p crammed with coolies. They're packed into the lower deck. We can't afford the upper deck, but when they saw we were white, they waved us on up without checking our tickets. It looks more interesting down there. And the food's got to be better. I can smell a Chinese breakfast. That oily fried bread, so crunchy on the outside, dripping with pig fat...yeah.

It's hot. It's boring. Mom's on the prowl for a job or a husband, whichever comes first. Everyone's fleeing the communists. We're some of the last white people to get out of China.

Someone's got a portable charcoal stove on the lower deck, and there's a toothless old woman cooking congee, fanning the stove. A whiff of opium in the air blends with the rich gingery broth. Everyone down there's cl.u.s.tered around the food. Except this one man. Harmless-looking. Before the j.a.ps came, we had a gardener who looked like that. s.h.i.+rtless, thin, by the railing. Stiller than a statue. And a bird on the railing. Also unmoving. The other coolies are ridiculing him, making fun of his Hakka accent, calling him simpleton.

I watch him.

"Look at the idiot," the toothless woman says. "Hasn't said a word since we left Swatow."

The man has his arms stretched out, his hands cupped. Frozen. Concentrated. I suddenly realise I've snuck down the steps myself, pushed my way through all the Chinese around the cooking pot, and I'm halfway there. Mesmerised. The man is stalking the bird, the boy stalking the man. I try not to breathe as I creep up.

He pounces. Wrings the bird's neck; one swift liquid movement, a twist of the wrist, and he's already plucking the feathers with the other hand, ignoring the death spasMs And I'm real close now. I can smell him. Mud and sweat. Behind him, the open sea. On the deck, the feathers, a b.l.o.o.d.y snowfall.

He bites off the head and I hear the skull crunch.

I scream. He whirls. I try to cover it up with a childish giggle.

He speaks in a monotone. Slowly. Sounding out each syllable, but he seems to have picked up a little pidgin. "Little white boy. You go upstairs. No belong here."

"I go where I want. They don't care."

He offers me a raw wing.

"Boy hungry?"

"Man hungry?"

I fish in my pocket, find half a liverwurst sandwich. I hold it out to him. He shakes his head. We both laugh a little. We've both known this hunger that consumes you; the agony of China is in our bones.

I say, "Me and Mom are going to Siam. On account of my dad getting killed by the j.a.ps and we can't live in Shanghai anymore. We were in a camp and everything." He stares blankly so I bark in j.a.panese, like the guards used to. And he goes crazy.

He mutters to himself in Hakka, which I don't understand that well, but it's something like "Don't look 'em in the eye. They chop off your head. You stare at the ground, they leave you alone." He is chewing away at raw bird flesh the whole time. He adds in English, "Si Ui no like j.a.pan man."

"Makes two of us," I say.

I've seen too much. Before the internment camp, there was Nanking. Mom was gonna do an article about the atrocities. I saw them. You think a two-year-old doesn't see anything? She carried me on her back the whole time, papoose-style.

When you've seen a river clogged with corpses, when you've looked at piles of human heads, human livers roasting on spits, and women raped and set on fire, well, Santa and the Tooth Fairy just don't cut it. I pretended about the Tooth Fairy, though, for a long time. Because, in the camp, the ladies would pool their resources to bribe Mr Tooth Fairy Sakamoto for a little piece of fish.

"I'm Nicholas," I say.

"Si Ui." I don't know if it's his name or something in Hakka.

I hear my mother calling from the upper deck. I turn from the strange man, the raw bird's blood trailing from his lips. "Gotta go." I turn to him, pointing at my chest, and I say, "Nicholas."

Even the upper deck is cramped. It's hotter than Shanghai, hotter even than the internment camp. We share a cabin with two Catholic priests who let us hide out there after suspecting we didn't have tickets.

Night doesn't get any cooler, and the priests snore. I'm down to a pair of shorts and I still can't sleep. So I slip away. It's easy. n.o.body cares. Millions of people have been dying and I'm just some skinny kid on the wrong side of the ocean. Me and my mom have been adrift for as long as I can remember.

The s.h.i.+p groans and clanks. I take the steep metal stairwell down to the coolies' level. I'm wondering about the bird catcher. Down below, the smells are a lot more comforting. The smell of sweat and soy-stained clothing masks the odour of the sea. The charcoal stove is still burning. The old woman is simmering some stew. Maybe something magical--a bit of snake's blood to revive someone's limp d.i.c.k, crushed tiger bones or powdered rhinoceros horn to heal pretty much anything. People are starving, but you can still get those kinds of ingredients. I'm eleven, and I already know too much.

They are sleeping every which way, but it's easy for me to step over them, even in the dark. The camp was even more crowded than this, and a misstep could get you hurt. There's a little bit of light from the little clay stove.

I don't know what I'm looking for. Just to be alone, I guess. I can be more alone in a crowd of Chinese than up there. Mom says things will be better in Siam. I don't know.

I've threaded my way past all of them. And I'm leaning against the railing. There isn't much moonlight. It's probably past midnight but the metal is still hot. There's a warm wind, though, and it dries my sweat. China's too far away to see, and I can't even imagine Boston anymore.

He pounces.

Leather hands rasp my shoulders. Strong hands. Not big, but I can't squirm out of their grip. The hands twirl me around and I'm looking into Si Ui's eyes. The moonlight is in them. I'm scared. I don't know why, really, all I have to do is scream and they'll pull him off me. But I can't get the scream out.

I look into his eyes and I see fire. A burning village. Maybe it's just the opium haze that clings to this deck, making me feel all weird inside, seeing things. And the sounds. I think it must be the whispering of the sea, but it's not, it's voices. Hungry, you little c.h.i.n.k? And those leering, bucktoothed faces. Like comic book j.a.ps. Barking. The fire blazes. And then, abruptly, it dissolves. And there's a kid standing in the smoky ruins. Me. And I'm holding out a liverwurst sandwich. Am I really than skinny, that pathetic? But the vision fades. And Si Ui's eyes become empty. Soulless.

"Si Ui catch anything," he says. "See, catch bird, catch boy. All same." And smiles, a curiously captivating smile.

"As long as you don't eat me," I say.

"Si Ui never eat Nicholas," he says. "Nicholas friend."

Friend? In the burning wasteland of China, an angel holding out a liverwurst sandwich? It makes me smile. And angry. The anger hits me so suddenly that I don't even have time to figure out what it is. It's the war, the maggots in the millet, the commandant kicking me across the yard, but more than that; it's my mom, clinging to her journalist fantasies whilst I dug for earthworms, letting my dad walk out to his death. I'm crying and the birdcatcher is stroking my cheek, saying "You no cry now. Soon go back America. No-one cry there." And it's the first time someone has touched me with some kind of tenderness in, in, in, I dunno--since before the invasion. Because mom doesn't hug, she kind of encircles, and her arms are like the bars of a cage.