Year's Best Fantasy by David G. Hartwell

Author:David G. Hartwell [Hartwell, David G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780739419397
Publisher: EOS
Published: 2000-12-31T23:00:00+00:00

The old man’s face was a mask of rigid control, his lips pressed firmly together, his black fists balled, his eyes hard. Around him was a sea of grief, with people weeping openly. One old woman had collapsed onto the coffin, her mouth open in a wail. But the old man was detached from them.

The next photograph, however, showed his face contorted in an effort to keep back tears that had sneaked past his control. His eyes were shut, their defiance quelled, and his fingers were clutching at the shoulder of the woman on the coffin.

Campbell watched as Worrell casually dropped the photograph and looked at the next one, his face mirroring the disinterest evident in his posture. Worrell glanced at the next photo before flipping it onto the growing pile of discarded pictures.

“You might remember the story,” Campbell continued. “A young Aboriginal girl came from the Flinders Ranges to do her Year 12 in Adelaide? She was abducted on the way from school? Murder-rape?”

“Oh yes,” Worrell replied, with no effort to put any interest in his voice. Campbell hadn’t really expected him to remember, or even to try. What happened in the world outside his immediate sphere was of no consequence to Worrell. His only interests lay in the field of art and artists; all else belonged in someone else’s world.

“Her body was returned to her people,” Campbell went on, “and it was picked up by them in Hawker. The paper sent me up there to get some pictures, try to inject some human interest.”

“Oh yes,” Worrell repeated, casually flipping over another photo. He paused.

Campbell smiled, knowing which picture had stopped Worrell. It was the old man again. The girl’s uncle…at least that was all the information he’d been able to get out of the locals. (Although, to be exact, the locals had described him as the uncle for everyone in the tribe.) In this picture, he had changed: his face was determined, as if he’d reached a decision that he’d wanted to avoid. There was an aura of dignity that shone out of the photo. Campbell was proud of the shot.

“Yes, Quentin,” Campbell said, “that face of his…it got my attention. I decided to follow him, see what he did. I had the feeling there was another story here.”

Worrell moved on to the next photo, then slipped back into his bored routine. This next batch consisted mostly of landscapes, shot while he’d driven his rented car after the old man. They’d left Hawker and headed into the Flinders Ranges, Campbell keeping well back. When the old man left his car, Campbell had followed on foot, along the trickling waterways, deeper into the ancient hills. Followed him to an isolated gorge, where the old man had sat down next to a stream and started drawing in the sand.

Campbell watched Worrell carefully, and saw him freeze at the photo. His eyes raced over the surface. “Wayne,” he said, “what’s this?”

Campbell felt a smile tug at his lips. “The old man drew it in the sand.

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