Read Online The Wind From a Burning Woman: Six Stories of Science Fiction by Greg Bear - Free Book Online

guards along the beaches and fought them back with wands made of blackthorn. But there was another kind of nightmare, one that was black and rose out of the ground, and those were impossible to guard against. So the children got together one day and decided to tell all the scary stories there were to tell, to prepare themselves for all the nightmares. They found it was pretty easy to think up scary stories, and every one of them had a story or two to tell. They stayed up all night spinning yarns about ghosts and dead things, and live things that shouldnt have been, and things that were neither. They talked about death and about monsters that suck blood, about things that live way deep in the earth and long, thin things that sneak through cracks in doors to lean over beds at night and speak in tongues no one can understand. They talked about eyes without heads, and vice versa, and little blue shoes that walk across a cold empty white room, with no one in them, and a bunk bed that creaks when its empty, and a printing press that produces newspapers from a city that never was. Pretty soon, by morning, theyd told all the scary stories. When the black horses came out of the ground the next night, and the white horses from the sea, the children greeted them with cakes and ginger ale, and they held a big party. They also invited the pale sheet-things from the clouds, and everyone ate hearty and had a good time. One white horse let a little boy ride on it and took him wherever he wanted to go. And there were no more bad dreams in the city of children by the sea.
    I finished the piece of bread and wiped my hands on my crossed legs. So thats why you tried to scare me, I said.
    She shook her head. No. I never have a reason for telling a story, and neither should you.
    I dont think Im going to tell stories anymore, I said. The folks get too upset.
    Philistines, the old man said, looking off across the fields.
    Listen, young man. There is nothing finer in the world than the telling of tales. Split atoms if you wish, but splitting an infinitiveand getting away with itis far nobler. Lance boils if you wish, but pricking pretensions is often cleaner and always more fun.
    Then why are Mom and Dad so mad?
    The old man shook his head. An eternal mystery.
    Well, Im not so sure, I said. I scared my little brother pretty bad, and thats not nice.
    Being scared is nothing, the old woman said. Being bored, or ignorantnow thats a crime.
    I still dont know. My folks say you have to be a hundred years old. You did something to my uncle they didnt like, and that was a long time ago. What kind of people are you, anyway?
    The old man smiled. Old, yes. But not a hundred.
    I just came out here to warn you. Mom and Dad are bringing out my great aunt, and shes no fun for anyone. You better go away. With that said, I ran back to my bike and rode off, pumping for all I was worth. I was between a rock and a hard place. I love my folks, but I itched to hear more stories. Why wasnt it easier to make decisions?
    That night I slept restlessly. I didnt have any dreams, but I kept waking up with something pounding at the back of my head, like it wanted to be let in. I scrunched my face up and pressed it back.
    At Sunday breakfast, Mom looked across the table at me and put on a kind face. Were going to pick up Auntie Danser this afternoon, at the airport, she said.
    My face went like warm butter.
    Youll come with us, wont you? she asked. You always did like the airport.
    All the way from where she lives? I asked.
    From Omaha, Dad said.
    I didnt want to go, but it was more a command than a request. I nodded, and Dad smiled at me around his pipe.
    Dont eat too many biscuits, Mom warned him. Youre putting on weight again.
    Ill wear it off come harvest. You cook as if the whole crew was here, anyway.
    Auntie Danser will straighten it all out, Mom said, her mind elsewhere. I caught the suggestion of a grimace on Dads face, and the pipe wriggled as he bit down on it harder.
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