Fantasy Magazine, Issue 6 by Fantasy Magazine

Author:Fantasy Magazine [Fantasy Magazine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Short Stories
Publisher: John Joseph Adams
Published: 2006-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Marly Youmans is the author of six books, including three novels, a collection of poetry, and two fantasies: The Curse of the Raven Mocker (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2003) and Ingledove (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2005), both forthcoming in paperback from Firebird in the fall. Her stories are forthcoming in Argosy, Salon Fantastique, Year’s Best in Fantasy & Horror 19, and elsewhere.

The Impossibility of Crows

Catherine M. Morrison

A train track runs by the edge of town, separating Here from There. Mama forbade Amelia from visiting it—she always said anything could happen over There. But Mama, she went back There every day.

She woke early to prepare herself. She wrapped her hair demurely in a scarf of red and gold, and a matching sari covered all her skin down to her beaten copper anklets. She stepped carefully, making her anklets ring and scattering her chickens as she walked towards the road, towards There.

At night Mama walked home no less proudly, but her steps were slow, and pride was only carried in her eyes. Work was hard over There. When she took off her overshirt, welts covered Mama’s arms. Red angry bumps on her skin, some turning blue to black. Amelia could almost hear the lash Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! falling on Mama’s arms. The first time Amelia saw the marks, she cried. Now, she longed to peek and see if Mama’s back, her belly, her breasts were covered too.

“Mama, why that train run through town if she no have a station?”

“Hush, child. Trains are only for people who go from There to There. They ain’t nothing for people like we. Now you go run along and play, and you stay away from those train tracks. They won’t do you no good.”

Amelia nodded her head and sucked her thumb. She knew it was okay to tell a lie if you were sucking your thumb.

Mama rubbed her hands together, again and again—what was she trying to wash from them? Her palms were tinged red, the red of the earth, the red of death, and every day a little darker.

Mama gave Amelia a little scoot pat on her rear. Amelia ran up the walk, banged the door open, and hopped inside. Mama changed into everyday home brown and started making shahjehani murg masala. Her hair hung in long falls of feuille-morte while terra cotta skin reflected the color of her clothes. These were home sights. Not like that sanguine-red of There.

Amelia hovered at Mama’s side, hands almost reaching out to touch one welt on her right elbow, over and over, wanting to know the texture of the bump, was it warm, was it soft, did it hurt? Mama’s eyes were half-shut, heavy with tiredness. Finally, Mama sighed and shooed Amelia back outside until dinner.

Amelia hopped down the front stairs. The sun was still high in the early summer evening and her white dress was almost as clean as morning. Just one little smudge of dirt near her knees—lucky Mama didn’t notice. Amelia chased the chickens until she was sure Mama wasn’t watching, then she snuck out the gate and ran down the road.

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