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Book: The Wind From a Burning Woman: Six Stories of Science Fiction by Greg Bear
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Authors: Greg Bear
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came so true and whole to me that I had to rush to the stand of cottonwoods and tell the old people. I took my lunch box and walked rapidly down the road.
They werent there. On a piece of wire bradded to the biggest tree theyd left a note on faded brown paper. It was in a strong feminine hand, sepia-inked, delicately scribed with what could have been a goose-quill pen. It said: Were at the old Hauskopf farm. Come if you must.
Not Come if you can. I felt a twinge. The Hauskopf farm, abandoned fifteen years ago and never sold, was three miles farther down the road and left on a deep-rutted fork. It took me an hour to get there.
The house still looked deserted. All the white paint was flaking, leaving dead grey wood. The windows stared. I walked up the porch steps and knocked on the heavy oak door. For a moment I thought no one was going to answer. Then I heard what sounded like a gust of wind, but inside the house, and the old woman opened the door. Hello, boy, she said. Come for more stories?
She invited me in. Wildflowers were growing along the baseboards, and tiny roses peered from the brambles that covered the walls. A quail led her train of inch-and-a-half fluffball chicks from under the stairs, into the living room. The floor was carpeted, but the flowers in the weave seemed more than patterns. I could stare down and keep picking out detail for minutes. This way, boy, the woman said. She took my hand. Hers was smooth and warm, but I had the impression it was also hard as wood.
A tree stood in the living room, growing out of the floor and sending its branches up to support the ceiling. Rabbits and quail and a lazy-looking brindle cat stared at me from tangles of roots. A wooden bench surrounded the base of the tree. On the side away from us, I heard someone breathing. The old man poked his head around and smiled at me, lifting his long pipe in greeting. Hello, boy, he said.
The boy looks like hes ready to tell us a story, this time, the woman said.
Of course, Meg. Have a seat, boy. Cup of cider for you? Tea? Herb biscuit?
Cider, please, I said.
The old man stood and went down the hall to the kitchen. He came back with a wooden tray and three steaming cups of mulled cider. The cinnamon tickled my nose as I sipped.
Now. Whats your story?
Its about two hawks, I said, and then hesitated.
Go on.
Brother hawks. Never did like each other. Fought for a strip of land where they could hunt.
Yes?
Finally, one hawk met an old crippled bobcat that had set up a place for itself in a rockpile. The bobcat was learning itself magic so it wouldnt have to go out and catch dinner, which was awful hard for it now. The hawk landed near the bobcat and told it about his brother, and how cruel he was. So the bobcat said, Why not give him the land for the day? Heres what you can do. The bobcat told him how he could turn into a rabbit, but a very strong rabbit no hawk could hurt.
Wily bobcat, the old man said, smiling.
You mean, my brother wouldnt be able to catch me? the hawk asked. Course not, the bobcat said. And you can teach him a lesson. Youll tussle with him, scare him real bad show him what tough animals there are on the land he wants. Then hell go away and hunt somewheres else. The hawk thought that sounded like a fine idea. So he let the bobcat turn him into a rabbit, and he hopped back to the land and waited in a patch of grass. Sure enough, his brothers shadow passed by soon, and then he heard a swoop and saw the claws held out. So he filled himself with being mad and jumped up and practically bit all the tail feathers off his brother. The hawk just flapped up and rolled over on the ground, blinking and gawking with his beak wide. Rabbit, he said, thats not natural. Rabbits dont act that way.
Round here they do, the hawk-rabbit said. This is a tough old land, and all the animals here know the tricks of escaping from bad birds like you. This scared the brother hawk, and he flew away as best he could and never came back
They werent there. On a piece of wire bradded to the biggest tree theyd left a note on faded brown paper. It was in a strong feminine hand, sepia-inked, delicately scribed with what could have been a goose-quill pen. It said: Were at the old Hauskopf farm. Come if you must.
Not Come if you can. I felt a twinge. The Hauskopf farm, abandoned fifteen years ago and never sold, was three miles farther down the road and left on a deep-rutted fork. It took me an hour to get there.
The house still looked deserted. All the white paint was flaking, leaving dead grey wood. The windows stared. I walked up the porch steps and knocked on the heavy oak door. For a moment I thought no one was going to answer. Then I heard what sounded like a gust of wind, but inside the house, and the old woman opened the door. Hello, boy, she said. Come for more stories?
She invited me in. Wildflowers were growing along the baseboards, and tiny roses peered from the brambles that covered the walls. A quail led her train of inch-and-a-half fluffball chicks from under the stairs, into the living room. The floor was carpeted, but the flowers in the weave seemed more than patterns. I could stare down and keep picking out detail for minutes. This way, boy, the woman said. She took my hand. Hers was smooth and warm, but I had the impression it was also hard as wood.
A tree stood in the living room, growing out of the floor and sending its branches up to support the ceiling. Rabbits and quail and a lazy-looking brindle cat stared at me from tangles of roots. A wooden bench surrounded the base of the tree. On the side away from us, I heard someone breathing. The old man poked his head around and smiled at me, lifting his long pipe in greeting. Hello, boy, he said.
The boy looks like hes ready to tell us a story, this time, the woman said.
Of course, Meg. Have a seat, boy. Cup of cider for you? Tea? Herb biscuit?
Cider, please, I said.
The old man stood and went down the hall to the kitchen. He came back with a wooden tray and three steaming cups of mulled cider. The cinnamon tickled my nose as I sipped.
Now. Whats your story?
Its about two hawks, I said, and then hesitated.
Go on.
Brother hawks. Never did like each other. Fought for a strip of land where they could hunt.
Yes?
Finally, one hawk met an old crippled bobcat that had set up a place for itself in a rockpile. The bobcat was learning itself magic so it wouldnt have to go out and catch dinner, which was awful hard for it now. The hawk landed near the bobcat and told it about his brother, and how cruel he was. So the bobcat said, Why not give him the land for the day? Heres what you can do. The bobcat told him how he could turn into a rabbit, but a very strong rabbit no hawk could hurt.
Wily bobcat, the old man said, smiling.
You mean, my brother wouldnt be able to catch me? the hawk asked. Course not, the bobcat said. And you can teach him a lesson. Youll tussle with him, scare him real bad show him what tough animals there are on the land he wants. Then hell go away and hunt somewheres else. The hawk thought that sounded like a fine idea. So he let the bobcat turn him into a rabbit, and he hopped back to the land and waited in a patch of grass. Sure enough, his brothers shadow passed by soon, and then he heard a swoop and saw the claws held out. So he filled himself with being mad and jumped up and practically bit all the tail feathers off his brother. The hawk just flapped up and rolled over on the ground, blinking and gawking with his beak wide. Rabbit, he said, thats not natural. Rabbits dont act that way.
Round here they do, the hawk-rabbit said. This is a tough old land, and all the animals here know the tricks of escaping from bad birds like you. This scared the brother hawk, and he flew away as best he could and never came back
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