The Apex Book of World SF 2 Page 9

  Another blue-white electric arc flashed through; the collections in the dome-shaped containers glittered: the twists and turns of the gyrus, the creamy sleek texture, and the deep fissure running through the centre.

  All human brains, like plump, translucent fruits.

  The damaged brains with their individual symptoms are the ommatidia. The dark science of the Society of Compound Eyes enabled those with the ‘dark burrow' filter to wear these ommatidia, even though they were still seeing only a distorted world. But just as one can piece together a complete dollar bill from many bills damaged in different ways, when the number of ommatidia reached the threshold for a full compound eye, the "dark-burrow" sufferers would see the light again. So, in all the rumours, they were called…

  "Ho-ho! I am the so-called Filter Collector." Chen howled with laughter, grabbed the two tentacles on the machine and stabbed forwards violently. Brilliant sparks burst at the end of the tentacles, lighting up Chen's face. On his face, where the eyes should have been, there were two deep, dark holes, all the more ferocious on his twisted face.

  The air smelt of ozone. Chen grabbed in front of himself with his hands. Nothing but air.

  "Stop!" He rushed out, running in the deep tunnels, stumbling. The scenes in front of him started to flutter and blink as though he were wearing the filters of his tenants again. The escaping human form suddenly became himself, then a stranger, and then swiftly faded away like a ghost. The cave walls started to flow, forming a shimmering picture.ran with all his strength in front of the picture but could not advance a step. His shivering legs finally dragged him to the ground, where his body, devoid of all strength, collapsed, just like the dying Mrs Shi, Wei, Mr Wang…those tenants who had gone missing one after another, with just their naked brains remaining in this world. Only the useless Wei died intact.

  He kept on chasing.

  On the bluish ground, the waving shadows and the hurried steps chased each other, fighting, intertwining, and finally tangling into a shapeless mess.

  Chen fell down with a thump, two bottomless eye sockets staring at the counter and beyond.

  "I just wanted to try your filter! I just wanted—" he sobbed. "—to see, see the real world. I can see nothing but this…"

  His sobbing bounced back and forth in the cave, pounding on the doors of the empty rooms. It seemed as if no-one had ever come, and no-one had ever left. A tomb of his own.

  The voice died out far away. That's the entrance, but not the exit.

  Author's Notes:

  [1] Tathagata: see The Diamond Sutra, Section V, understanding the ultimate principle of reality.

  [2] Cult of Satan: Satanism first emerged in the 12th century. The main ceremony is called the Black Mass.

  [3] Blink reflex: an involuntary defensive neural reflex to protect the eyes.

  [4]The Burrow: from Franz Kafka, Der Bau (The Burrow).

  [5] Anton's Blindness: Also known as Anton's syndrome or Anton-Babinski syndrome, discovered by Gabriel Anton in 1899. Patients who suffer from it are completely blind but deny that fact, and often experience hallucinations.

  [6] Anton Szandor Lavey: founded the Church of Satan in San Francisco on April 30, 1966, one of the most important branches of Satanism.

  The Sound of Breaking Glass

  Joyce Chng

  Singaporean writer Joyce Chng is the author of online serials Oysters, Pearls and Magic and The Basics Of Flight. Her novel A Wolf at the Door, featuring werewolves in Singapore, is published by Lyrical Press.

  Now

  Well, this is it.

  I see. It looks old. Sure it's the right place?

  I double-checked. Unit 1-10.

  Wonder if he's in or not.

  Nobody's answering the door.

  Is he seriously crazy? A bit siao. I mean, all the junk outside. Some of it is positively ancient. A fire hazard, definitely. All the newspapers are yellow!

  He's just a little eccentric, that's all. I mean, he's harmless.

  The neighbours say that they keep hearing the sound of breaking glass at night. That's why they called us, right? They don't want people to get hurt. He's obviously a hoarder. Not sure if he's violent—

  The neighbours also say that he likes hanging wind chimes made of glass bits on the black wattle trees outside the apartment block. Colourful glass bits, mind you, made of broken glass bottles and fishing string.

  Okay, the door is slightly open. Want to go in? We are volunteers, right?

  Ladies first.

  It's so dark and musty. And what's that? Wait. Glass bottles. Look, Cedric, just look at all these glass bottles. Different colours. Green, blue, red, transparent. He must have collected them from the coffee shops and the dumpsters. So many bottles.

  Ouch! There are glass shards all over the floor! Oh, wow. He really polishes them, doesn't he? All the sharp edges gone. So smooth, like pebbles.

  He must have been a glass smith or something when he was a young man. Just look at these wind chimes. They glow in the light. Peridot-green, sea-blue, ruby-red. And the music they make. Magical.

  One of the neighbours told me he hangs them out to entertain the fairies. Or spirits. Either way. Really weird stuff.

  They are just wind chimes, Cedric. Very charming. I mean, he's obviously talented. Why doesn't he sell them or something? Why does he want to remain a karang guni man?

  Maybe he just wants to remain a rag-and-bone man to collect weird things and entertain fairies as a hobby?

  Cedric, you are so— Wait, I see something. Oh, God, Cedric, come over here. You have to see this.

  Shit. I think he must have been dead for at least a day. I'm going to call the police.

  I think he tripped, Cedric, and couldn't get up. There is dried blood on the floor. Head injury. Oh, God, this is so—

  Calm down, Ling. I called the police. They should be here in about five minutes. They're bringing the ambulance, too.

  It's already too late, Cedric. Too late.

  Outside the unit, the wind chimes stir in the breeze, twinkling in the twilight, inviting the fairies and other spirits to sing with them.

  The music the chimes make is not the sound of breaking glass, but a gentle tinkle, almost like laughter born of a light heart freed from sorrow and bleeding hands.

  Then

  He found the fairy entangled up in wire netting designed to trap birds.

  It was a quiet afternoon, warm because it was the hot dry season, and quiet because he lived in an apartment block filled mostly with men and women of the same old age as him. The sunlight was an uncomfortably-bright orange, coating the brick walls with a golden glaze. The trees rustled—fruit trees: starfruit, belimbing and jambu. He knew it was warm, because even the mynahs that feasted on both ripe and unripe bounty were conspicuously absent.

  He was coming back from the neighbourhood coffee shop, carrying his load of used aluminium cans and glass bottles. He had not been working for a long time now, preferring instead to collect newspapers, cans and bottles, all the disposable detritus of modern-day living in Singapore, in order to supplement his meagre income. He received about fifty dollars per month from all the collected objects, enough to buy himself simple daily essentials. The volunteers from the Moral Home Society would bring him food in the form of Khong Quan biscuits, Milo and instant noodles. Sometimes, the good-hearted Malay lady who fed the stray cats would bring him vegetables and fruit.

  Lugging his full bag of cans and bottles, he made his way to his unit. It was a small abode, filled with stacks of newspapers and used appliances, not yet exchanged with the companies who made money taking in recyclables. He had decided to live here, ever since his wife had passed away and he chose not to live in an old folks' home. He did not want to waste away in such a place. He no longer cared about his grown sons who had conveniently forgotten about him, except for in the Lunar New Year when they made a big show lavishing him with mostly useless gifts.

  At first, he thought it was a bird—a mynah or a sparr
ow—caught in the thin wire nets strung up by the town council to deter any pests. They often did so, after receiving complaints from irate and tidy-minded people. He sighed, dropped his bag and walked towards the nets. He loved birds.

  The winged creature was struggling itself into a spin, thin leg caught in the net. Birds often died that way and he buried them under the trees. It made no noise though, just a determined flap-flap-flap of wings.

  He reached out to hold the bird…only to find that the bird was actually a little girl. Or that it looked like a little girl, clad in a peach-pink gossamer—like spider silk, he thought, amazed—dress. She had brown sparrow-like wings.

  For a moment, he gaped, then backed away. Jing. Evil spirits. He was brought up with stories like that. Fairies and spirits were not often benevolent and kind-hearted in the myths and stories. They were chaotic little beings, mischievous at best, but more often capricious.

  But he did not like seeing living creatures—jing or animal—suffering. Indecision warred with compassion. Compassion won—and he gently removed the thin wire netting from around the fairy's ankle. The fairy rubbed her ankle, soothing the abraded skin, a pained expression on her thin face.

  "Wait here," he heard himself saying. "I will get some Tiger Balm for you." And so in he went into his little dim housing unit, grabbed the half-used container from the broken shelf and hurried out, thankful that the fairy was still waiting for him. She leant wearily against the lamppost next to the bird trap. Her eyes were closed.

  He dipped his little pinkie into the pungent minty ointment, scooped up a fingernail-sized amount and applied it, ever so gently, to the reddened skin. Even fairies get hurt, he thought, as the fairy evidently relaxed and gave a soft wince of relief. She exercised her sparrow wings and cocked her head to regard him. Like a bird. She looked vaguely Chinese.

  "Thank you," she said in a sweet piping voice, speaking fluent Cantonese. He blinked, surprised to hear his native tongue issuing forth from a little…fairy.

  Before he could speak, uncertain of what to say, the fairy had already darted away, disappearing into the distance, a flash in the sunlight.

  He certainly could not sleep that night, his mind filled with Cantonese-speaking fairies who looked like sparrows. Pulling himself out of bed, he began to sort through the bottles. He had a plan.

  He had been a glass smith once, way back in the forties and fifties, when he was a young man, fresh from Guangzhou. He had apprenticed himself to a glass smith working in Zhujiang, then a rural area, now a thriving industrial town known for metal and steel work. He liked the look of glass, how it melted under extreme heat and how it would form into various shapes. How it shone under the sun.

  He did not have the tools of the glass smith now, only a rusty hammer he had found discarded at the foot of the stairwell near his unit. With it, he began to break the glass bottles. He hoped the fairy and her friends liked the colours red, blue and green. He had rejected the Guinness Stout bottles because the colour of the glass was too dark, not bright enough.

  Without the proper tools, his hands grew raw, cut by the sharp shards. He had to use sandpaper (salvaged from a carpentry shop) to smooth the vicious edges and even then, his fingers bled.

  Then he used fishing string (again, from the same carpentry shop—the boss liked to do a fair bit of fishing) and threaded the glass pieces with it, looping and tying them so that they stayed secure. It was delicate work. The fishing string was thin, like the bird trap wires. He rued his clumsy fingers, no longer nimble for such fine and delicate crafting.

  In the morning he hung the first wind-chime up on the jambu tree, where he spotted yet another bird trap. The wind-chime tinkled in the morning breeze, glittering red-blue-green-transparent on the low-hanging branch.

  "Uncle." A boy stopped in his tracks, his bicycle squealing to a halt. "What are you doing?"

  "Entertaining the fairies," he answered, watching the wind chime sparkle in the sun.

  For every bird trap he discovered, no matter how discreet and well hidden the officers of the town council had meant them to be, he made a glass bottle wind chime.

  One evening, when he was about to make some broth out of instant noodle soup mix (the Malay lady had not visited him in some time, as she was busy with her family) the fairy appeared with another fairy. They carried, with some difficulty, a plastic bag filled with fried chicken wings. He stared as they placed it almost reverently in front of him before they flew off, laughing gaily. He cautiously peeled open the bag and the delicious aroma of freshly fried chicken plumed forth, bathing his face in oily fragrant steam.

  The fairies continued to bring food every week. They carried in pok choi, string beans, chye sim and assorted root vegetables like muang kuang and sweet potatoes (his personal favourite—steamed or boiled). He did not know how they managed to collect all these vegetables. Perhaps they salvaged them from the wet market that sold fresh vegetables and produce. He was grateful for their kindness, for their generosity. In return, he made more of the glass-bottle wind chimes. His hands bled but he did not care. He woke one day to find that the fairy had left him a small tube of cream for cuts and bruises

  The wind chimes seemed to capture the attention of the apartment dwellers. Children often stopped and watched the glass bits stirring in the breeze. Sometimes they stole the wind chimes, and yet he did not get angry. Instead, he made more wind chimes, breaking the glass bottles at night and tying the glass shards with fishing string.

  Some parents became concerned and they wrote to the town council about the weird and violent old man who broke glass at night. Please send down police, they requested urgently. Or people from the IMH. We are afraid he might hurt our children with his broken glass.

  Trying to placate the residents and wanting to be seen to be doing its job, the town council sent officers to knock on the old man's door and slip warning notices through the gap, hoping he would read them. But he simply threw them away and went on making the wind chimes. The IMH—the Institute of Mental Health—sent in volunteers, too, but they were ignored by the old man.

  It was two days before the Hungry Ghosts' Festival when the smooth glass pebbles started appearing in little plastic bags. He had noticed his unfinished glass shards disappearing a couple of weeks ago and was concerned because he had to make the wind chimes for the fairies. The glass pebbles intrigued him. Someone had smoothed the edges, made the glass pleasant to the touch. He made wind chimes out of these glass pebbles and hung them on the trees. The music they made was different from the sharp-edged glass shards. Softer, sweeter, lighter.

  Like fairy laughter.

  At night, he would sometimes catch glimpses of the wind chimes and the way they drew groups of stray cats who would just sit and watch the glass bits twinkle intermittently under the light of the streetlamps. Or there would be small little moths fluttering close to the wind chimes, drifting like white petals in the breeze.

  More letters came from the town council. He shredded them and threw them into the gunnysack designated for recycling. All this happened during the weeks within the Hungry Ghosts Month. He could hear the funeral wakes during the day and, at night, Buddhist chants wafting in the quiet-estate air. Oddly enough, he felt strangely protected and did not worry about hungry spirits haunting his abode. The food and pebbles still appeared as if on schedule and he was grateful for these little gifts.

  Cedric. The police are here. We need to go.

  Cedric?

  Listen…

  Can't you hear them?

  The wind chimes are still there, singing in the breeze: still serenading the fairies, still warning of secret dangers.

  A Single Year

  Csilla Kleinheincz

  Csilla Kleinheincz is a Hungarian-Vietnamese writer living in Kistarcsa, Hungary. Besides translating classics of fantasy she works as an editor of Delta Vision, a major Hungarian fantasy publisher. She is the author of two novels and a short story collection. The following story appears in English for t
he first time in this anthology.

  I had learnt love with and for others, so when I met Iván, I almost knew what it was. I was confident enough to make the decision to leave the hospital and move to the country of curry and red plains. I visited my father for the first time in two years to tell him: I am moving to India with someone I met only three months ago, but I wish to spend all the following months to get to know him better.

  I didn't expect his blessing; we never had that kind of father-daughter relationship. Rather, my visit was the work of defiance: I wanted to look into his eyes to prove to myself that I dared. He usually disapproved of my decisions, although he never explicitly forbade anything. He left me to discover the consequences. This time he never even waited for me to finish before he announced that I may not go with Iván. He spoke forcefully, almost like a normal dad would.

  "Why not?" I asked and didn't look away because I had promised myself I would be brave and bear anything he might say.

  He didn't answer at once, but the pity in his eyes jarred my teeth.

  "Why not?"

  "Because he will die in one year."

  I watched my father, his face covered in grey stubble, his eyes that, even in my childhood, seemed tired—tired and as resigned as the planets that circle on the same route forever and know everything that can be known.

  "Are you sure?" I asked. "Do you feel it? Even so, I don't care what you know."

  "What should I tell you, Judit?" His gaze stole my breath from me. Cassandra must have had the same look as she faced the Troyans.

  "Even so," I said, rising. "Even so."