The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection
- Автор: Датлоу Эллен, Виндлинг Терри
- Год: 1992
- Язык: английский
- Год: St.Martin’s Press
- Жанр: Ужасы
Электронная книга - «The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection». Краткое содержание книги:
“I’m a representative for a group of people who are interested in new ideas,” she said. “They have great faith in the power of ideas to make the future better for everyone.”
“Who are they?”
She turned to meet his gaze directly. Her brown eyes were serious. “They prefer to remain anonymous.”
“Are they Communists then?” he asked. “I met a Communist once who talked like that, sort of.”
She laughed lightly. “I don’t think they belong to any recognizable political group. ... To tell the truth, I don’t know all that much about them. They just pay me to deliver messages to people they think are important to their way of looking at things.”
“And I’m important to them?”
“Oh yes,” she said, and there was no mistaking the sincerity of her reply. “Extremely important. They're very pleased to discover you. That’s why they sent me to trace you down.”
“How did you find out where I live?”
“It wasn’t hard. You are a publishing author, after all.” She laughed again, and the light sound reminded Arthur of a child’s laughter.
He found himself smiling. “Only a few people know about that.”
“But it’s not how many,” she said. “It’s who they are.”
“And these are important people?”
“I don’t know anything about them,” she said, “but they seem to have decided that they’re important. ”
“So now you know who I am, but I don’t know who you are.”
“I’m not supposed to tell my real name. I was supposed to choose any name that I took a fancy to. Do I look like a Francesca?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never seen any Francescas.”
“So this must be exciting for you.” She offered her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Arthur.”
He held it for a moment. “I’m pleased to meet you, too. May I ask about the way you’re dressed? Or is that against the rules?”
“Oh, this,” she said. “Of course. I came from a dinner party that went on till too late, so then I came straight here.”
“Straight here to this bridge?”
“Yes.”
Confused, he could not formulate the question he wanted to ask. “How did you get here?”
“My driver dropped me off,” she said, and hurried on to add, “and the car will be returning for me very soon. So I’d better go ahead and deliver my message.” “From these unknown people?”
“Yes.” She laughed again and now there was something teasing in the sound— teasing but not mocking. “Yes, my message that I don’t understand from a group of people I don’t know. . . . This doesn’t really make sense, does it?”
“No,” he said. “But I don’t much care. A lot of things don’t make sense to me.” “I’ll bet you like it better that way.”
“I do.” His tone changed. “I sure do wish you lived around here. Are you married?”
She reached gently to touch his face with two fingers. “You’re sweet. Truly. It’s very sweet of you to say that. But I live far away and our time is short. I’d better tell you what I came to say.”
“All right.” He grinned. “Fire when ready.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. “Two doors will be brought to you. Don’t be afraid. These doors open to other worlds, worlds different from our own. Behind the blue door is a world that has no people in it. The violet door is the entrance to a world of great cities. You can live in either world very pleasantly, but once you choose either door, you can never return. You will be gone from this planet forever. ”
“Wait. I don’t understand.”
“It’s no good asking me,” she said. “I don’t understand, either. I can only tell you what I was told.”
“Did they send a letter?” he asked. “I’d like to read it.”
“It was a telephone message and the voice sounded like it came from a long way off. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman speaking. ”
“Is that all then? Two doors?”
She closed her eyes once more, appearing to recollect, then went on: “The two doors will be brought to you at some future date. It may be soon, or it may be quite some time from now. And things may happen so that you think the doors never will arrive. But they will.”
“Where will I find them?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“All right. What else?”
“Nothing else.”
“That’s all?”
“As far as I can think, that’s the end of the message. I hope I haven’t forgotten anything. . . . Oh, don’t look so alarmed. I’m sure I haven’t.”
“I honestly don’t know what to make of all this.”
“Neither do I,” she replied, smiling her fine smile once more. “I’m just glad I don’t have to make sense of it.—Wait. Now I remember. There was one other thing. You must keep writing your wonderful stories. That is the most important thing. You must keep on imagining the kinds of things that only you can imagine.” “All right. I wish I could sell more of them, though. I could use the money.” “I’m sorry. The person I talked to didn’t say anything about that. But I’m sure you’ll do well.—Oh, here comes my ride.” She raised her right arm and waved.
He turned, to see that the car was at the end of the bridge, by the stand of birches there, rolling very slowly toward them, almost silent on the gravel. That was strange, and the car was strange, too, with its darkened windows and its smooth, almost featureless sedan shape and its deep oxblood color. There was something dreamlike about its appearance as it came on slowly.
When it drew abreast of them, it stopped and the passenger door opened— seemingly of its own accord—and the girl got in easily, showing neat ankles and pulling her skirt over her knees. He leaned down, trying to see the driver, but the car was in shadow on that side.
“Goodbye, Arthur,” she said. Her tone was grave now and she didn’t smile.
“I suppose I won’t see you again.”
“No,” she said. “Never again.”
“I hate it,” he said. “I wish—”
“No. Say goodbye.”
“All right. . . . Goodbye.” He sighed.
And she closed the door and the strange smooth car pulled away, the sound of its motor no more than a warm hum and soon lost in the normal sounds of an autumn morning by the water: birdcalls and squirrels frolicking and the wash and gurgle of the river. He watched the car till it floated out of sight around the tall bank of the road all yellow and red with locust and sassafras bushes.
Two years passed and Arthur Strakl waited patiently. He had a serene confidence that the two doors, the doors that opened upon different Somewheres, would be brought to him. He did not know why he was so secure in his faith; he was not introspective in that particular way. The fancies that his mind produced entranced him, but the workings of his mind held no interest.
Not much changed. His employer, Farley Redmon, had undertaken to make his hut a little more comfortable, paying to have it plumbed and rewired. But he explained that he could not increase Arthur’s wages and Arthur accepted the statement, his needs few. His heaviest expenses outside basic necessities were his pulp magazines and typewriter ribbons and now and again some small fees for the repair of the ancient Underwood. He was healthy and lucky.
For he kept on writing his stories, just as he had promised, and he was beginning to have a brighter success with them. He was still no great favorite with readers, but their letters now spoke of his work with intrigued bemusement rather than with irritated incomprehension. He appeared more regularly in the magazines and now and then his name would be featured on the cover, tucked away in the corner of the pictured insane laboratory where the flimsily clothed girl stared in horror at some loathsome transformation.