SHORELINE OF INFINITY 32

  Science Fiction Magazine

  NOEL CHIDWICK

  Contents

  Editorial Team

  Pull up a Log

  Lad and the Devil

  Adam Roberts

  A Good Morsel of Clay

  Woody Dismukes

  Cassandra Takes the Plunge

  Mary Berman

  The Golden Circle Tour

  Edmund Fines

  A Gorgon Reversed

  Rhys Hughes

  Last Life in the Universe

  e rathke

  The Forgotten and the Fantastical 5 - advert

  Such is the Pathway to the Stars

  Laura Scotland

  The Space Apostle

  Dave Weaver

  Fairy Tales for Robots

  Sofia Samatar

  Interview with Sofia Samatar

  Jane and the Baba

  Jane Yolen

  Here are three of my poems from Finding Baba Yaga

  Jane Yolen

  Multiverse

  Poems by Cat Hellison and Bethany Davis

  Adam Roberts Interviewed

  Reviews

  Even More Science Fiction Fairy Tales…

  Teika Marija Smits

  Shoreline of Infinity

  1. Back Cover

  Issue 32: Autumn 2022

  Award-winning science fiction magazine

  published in Scotland for the Universe.

  * * *

  ISSN: 2059-2590

  * * *

  © 2022 Shoreline of Infinity.

  Contributors retain copyright of own work.

  * * *

  Submissions of fiction, art, reviews, poetry, non-fiction are welcomed: visit the website to find out how to submit.

  * * *

  www.shorelineofinfinity.com

  Publisher

  Shoreline of Infinity Publications / The New Curiosity Shop

  Edinburgh

  Scotland

  * * *

  130922

  Cover art: Fangorn

  Editorial Team

  Guest Editor: Teika Marija Smits

  Co-founder, Editor-in-Chief,Editor: Noel Chidwick

  Co-founder, Art Director: Mark Toner

  Deputy Editor Poetry Editor: Russell Jones

  Fiction Editor: Eris Young

  Reviews Editor: Ann Landman

  Non-fiction Editor: Pippa Goldschmidt

  Marketing & Publicity Editor, Proof Reader: Yasmin Kanaan

  Production Editor: James T. Harding

  Copy-editors: Pippa Goldschmidt Russell Jones, Iain Maloney, Eris Young, Cat Hellisen

  Fiction Consultant: Eric Brown

  * * *

  First Contact

  www.shorelineofinfinity.com

  contact@shorelineofinfinity.com

  Twitter: @shoreinf

  Pull up a Log

  Science Fiction Fairy Tales Special Issue

  Guest Editor: Teika Marija Smits

  Given the number of submissions I received for this special issue of Shoreline of Infinity (the largest ever to date), I think it would be fair to say that the idea of composing a science fiction fairy tale was hugely appealing to many writers. I have a feeling that this is because fairy tales are timeless and universal – they speak to the individual of “the darkness within and the darkness without”, providing us with clues as to how to overcome the many challenges that life presents us with. SF, on the other hand, often looks to the future – to consider the darkness that may lie ahead of us all – by extrapolating from our present.

  So although the overlap between these two genres might seem small, it could be argued that they actually share a lot of common ground; they speak to us about what it means to be human; how each of us can become the best version of ourselves, hence creating a better society for all.

  I was incredibly impressed by the hundreds of stories submitted – there was a huge amount of inventiveness, and love for the original fairy tales, on show, which made it very hard for me to make my final decisions. But in the end, I went with stories that spoke to both my head and my heart, whilst also trying to consider the broader aim of creating an issue that makes for a good reading experience by including stories with a broad range of themes and writing styles, SF tropes and source fairy tales. Hopefully, you’ll agree that this issue meets that aim, and that you enjoy the many literary delights to be found within these pages.

  Many thanks to Noel Chidwick for inviting me to edit this issue. It’s been a real pleasure.

  Teika Marija Smits

  September 2022

  Teika Marija Smits is a UK-based writer and freelance editor. She writes poetry and fiction, and her speculative short stories have been published in Best of British Science Fiction, Enchanted Conversation, Reckoning and Great British Horror 6. A fan of all things fae, she is delighted by the fact that Teika means fairy tale in Latvian.

  https://teikamarijasmits.com/

  Lad and the Devil

  Adam Roberts

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘These trees?’

  ‘The trees,’ said the computer, ‘are data stacks. Hardware. More precisely they are the rendering of hardware into the somatic logic of this place.’

  The computer looked like a tall, slender, grave-faced man. He was wearing a stylish suit of aquatic green cloth. A formal, an elegant computer. Beside him was a lamppost of antique, wrought-iron design, in the cone of whose light the two of them were standing.

  ‘There are a lot of them,’ she said. Her name, she remembered, suddenly, was Hazard. That was her surname, and she had a first name too: Sheri.

  Where had she been? How was she, now, here?

  Art: Simon Walpole

  ‘It takes a lot of computing,’ said the Count – and Sheri realized that she did know his name. It was Count Peter. More, she knew that it was bestowed upon him by mocking humans some years previously, perhaps many years previously, because it approximates the word computer in the English language, or English as it used to be spoken.

  ‘It takes a lot of computing to, what: run this place?’

  ‘To run us. This place is small potatoes. There are a million such places.’

  ‘Dark,’ Sheri noted, peering into the shadows between the trunks. ‘Gloomy.’ The bark on the tree nearest her was a dense grey colour, broken into scales, possessing an almost metallic lustre of brass, or iron. Was it actually these things, or did it only resemble them? But then, actually was a foolish word to use here.

  Two or three trees back and darkness swallowed everything. ‘I guess,’ she tried, ‘it’ll get lighter with the dawn.’

  ‘The dawn never comes here,’ said the Count. ‘If you want light you’ll need to go to the palace.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  The Count gestured, away behind him, to his left. ‘Days away. In the palace, where the King and Queen live with their beautiful daughter, on whom a hundred hopeful princely suitors attend, every room is lit with splendid lanterns, and the polished marble of the walls and floor reflects the brilliancy in every direction. It shines. It is the light, there, just as we – I mean here, where we are – is the darkness.’

  ‘I’d like to sit down,’ said Sheri.

  ‘By all means,’ said the Count. He himself lowered himself, a little prissily, onto the stump of a felled tree. Sheri was pretty sure it hadn’t been there a moment before, but she had no sense of it being conjured into being. There was another behind her. She sat on it.

  ‘This is what I see,’ she said. ‘The woods are the chthonic landscape of the Northern European and Russian folk tale – the sort assembled by the Grimm brothers. It will be, I daresay, cottages and villages, peasants, smallholders, tinkers, soldiers, grandmothers, children and,’ she slapped the stump upon which she was sitting, ‘woodcutters. It will contain witches and wolves and the like. In this place the challenge is survival, with a barebones version of prosperity as survival’s reward. But I’m assuming the palace is the more refined tradition of the courtly French fairytale: elegant, aristocratic. Perrault and so on. There the challenge is marrying well and living happily ever after in luxury and style. So it’s darkness and light.’

  ‘It’s a very large territory,’ said the Count, smiling. ‘And contains multitudes. But I register your account of these two portions of it.’

  ‘So, subsistence-level existence is darkness, and the aristocratic excess of prosperity light?’

  ‘The former could never lead to us,’ said the Count, crinkling his brow. ‘Where the latter – did. Eventually.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘Are you talking about the necessity of, what, disposable wealth, excess of riches, for the development of technology and therefore computing.’

  ‘Is that what I mean?’ asked Count Peter. He didn’t seem to be addressing the question to her.

  ‘Light and darkness,’ said Sheri. ‘And I am here to…?’

  ‘You are here to tell me the story of Lad and the Devil,’ said the Count, promptly.

  Sheri nodded. ‘Right now?’

  ‘If you please.’

  ‘Alright. Well, Lad and the Devil agreed to build a bridge together. The bridge was to link the east bank of the Kentish Stour and the western bank of the Welsh Wye, and Lad needed it to visit his wife, who otherwise would be weeks of walking away. Now, the bridge must be built all in one night, for if it is unfinished in daylight it will fall into the w
aters as nothing but a heap of stones. “I’ll help you, Lad, and we’ll agree to labour together at the task,” said the Devil; “but the first soul to cross it shall be mine; such is my bargain.” “Very well,” said Lad; and Lad knew that the Devil believed the first soul across would be Lad’s wife – or, perhaps, Lad himself – and that either would gratify him. So they two came at sunset, and the Devil carried a great brass hammer, and Lad carried only an old bone. “You’ll neither drive piles nor split rock with that,” said the Devil. And Lad replied: “But I shall make the effort, and it was my labour, not my success, you bargained for.” So the Devil had no choice but to do all the hard work himself, setting the piles and laying the heavy stones and hauling the beams; whilst all Lad had to do was to set the slate to cope the parapet, and he did so by thwacking it into place with his bone. And before dawn the bridge was finished, and the sky began to blush in the east, though it was yet still night. And the Devil put out from his throat Lad’s own voice, as the Devil can do, and called Lad’s wife to come try the new bridge and visit her husband. And Lad’s wife appeared, on the far side. But Lad was quicker, and with all his strength he hurled his bone over the bridge. His dog, Siôn Cent, ran after the bone and over the bridge, and laughingly Lad said: “Our deal is done, for there’s your soul.” But the Devil shook his head, full of terrible solemnity, and said: “There’s no soul in a dog, my Lad. The bargain is unfulfilled.” And Lad began to tremble with fear.’

  The Count had shut his eyes and was listening intently.

  ‘Just then,’ Sheri went on, ‘as the dawn swelled over the horizon, Lad saw his wife start upon the Wye-side of the bridge and come towards him. All his lightness of spirit left him then, and he felt a terror and dread; for he loved his wife and could not abide the thought that she would become the Devil’s. So he ran himself onto the bridge, and met his wife halfway. “If you cross the Devil will take you,” he said. “And if I cross, the Devil will take me!” “What then?” replied his wife, “must we abide on the middle of this bridge forever?” “Return you to the far side, and I shall take myself back to the near, and though we do not see one other again for many years, we shall at least escape the Devil’s clutches.” “Very well,” cried his wife, “Though I’ll have of you one last embrace, for the love I hold for you, and the love you hold for me.” And so they embraced one another. But the sun came up, and a piece of slate that Lad had laid carelessly fell away as the couple lent against it and fell into the river: for an old bone does not settle a coping slate as well as a coping hammer. So the bridge was incomplete by daybreak, and all tumbled to loose blocks in the daylight. Lad and his wife, clasping close together, fell into the river – whether the Wye or the Stour none can say, for they stood exactly in the middest of both yet wholly in the realm of neither. Certain it is that they were never seen again in Wales or England, and there are some who say it must be that they fell into the waters and were drowned and so went to hell. But others say they dropped into some new land of brightness and sweet skies, and began a new life, and the Devil was thwarted. As to which of these two is the true ending of the tale: that is something you must decide for yourself.’

  For a moment the Count simply sat, silent, his eyes closed. Then he opened them, and said: ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘There are two possibilities,’ said the Count. ‘Please inform me if I have misunderstood. Either the bridge is a material structure of exaggerated size, such that it reaches all the way from East Kent to West Wales – straddling many hundred miles of English countryside as it does so, filling the sky for the people who live there like the rings of Saturn arcing overhead – or there is some manner of teleportation device installed in the middle of the bridge.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am asking: is there a third possibility I have missed?’

  ‘I think you have missed the whole point of the story. It’s not a physical bridge spanning the whole of England – I mean, obviously not that.’

  The Count nodded gravely. ‘I thought not. Which is to say, when I triaged probabilities, that one seemed less likely. For the husband and wife would each have to walk – or run, as it says in the story – hundreds of miles to stand in the middle. And when the bridge collapsed they would fall to some material spot in England, equidistant between the two locations, perhaps Oxford. But I wondered if perhaps the bridge was fitted with some manner of transportation that allowed rapid access, though it was unmentioned in the story. And as for the uncertainty as to where their bodies were, perhaps the winds blew them in unpredictable ways, depending on how far they fell.’

  ‘You’re being too literal-minded,’ said Sheri. ‘That’s not it.’

  ‘The other explanation is preferable. There is a teleportation device, or perhaps a wormhole that collapses the space between Kent and Wales located in the exact centre of, and elevated some metres above, the river. The bridge as constructed passes through this which enables rapid transit from Kent to Wales. That is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Sheri. ‘That’s not it at all.’

  ‘It seemed an unlikely technology,’ agreed the Count. ‘Given how primitive are the means by which the bridge is constructed. Although, at the same time, a structure that ought, by the means-of-construction described, should have taken many years is described as being built in a single night. Perhaps,’ said the Count, his eyes widening as the idea occurred to him, ‘there is some manner of time dilation, perhaps time travel, involved? Might that be the third possible explanation, Ms Hazard?’

  It was almost a default for Sheri to tell people who addressed her by her surname to say, oh please, call me Sheri. But something about the Count’s demeanour disinclined her to invite intimacy on any level. Let him address her more formally.

  ‘What you’re missing,’ she said, ‘is the tenor of this kind of tale. By attempting to reduce it to something confined by the logic of science, you miss the point.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the Count. ‘And what is the point?’

  ‘There are many folk-tales,’ said Sheri, ‘that take this or equivalent form. That is to say, tales that concern ordinary people striking deals with the Devil. The ordinary people know that the Devil is going to try and trick them, to seize their souls basically, to condemn them to an eternity in Hell, and they are setting out to trick him. There’s a story called “The Peasant and the Devil” in which a peasant meets the Devil in his field. The Devil offers the peasant a box of treasure if he will only share his crops with him for two years. “By all means,” the peasant says, “but to prevent dispute let us say the half above the ground shall be yours, and the half below mine.” The Devil agrees, but when he returns to collect his half he discovers the peasant had planted turnips. The Devil receives the useless turnip tops and the peasant the tasty turnip roots. Angrily the Devil insists they must do it the other way round the next year. The peasant agrees – and plants wheat. Do you see? He is tricking the Devil. Next harvest the Devil discovers he gets nothing. He retreats, furious, into the earth and the peasant takes the treasure.’