Al Sarrantonio - Boxes.pdf - Al Sarrantonio - allforjesus2001

There was the sound of a box opening.

Somewhere behind them, or in front of them, or to their left, or right. A large box with a large and

ponderous lid was being opened. There was a heavy, wheezy breathing. A rattling, dry cough. Another

wheezing breath, and then a whispered grunt and the closing of the box lid.

The man who collected boxes shuffled toward them and lifted his heavy head. His hands were veined

and trembling, his bones gaunt.

He lifted his head, slowly, and looked out at them through the black shadows of his eyes.

Then he tried to speak . . .

SHADOWS 5

Charles L. Grant

INTRODUCTION

In the five years since the birth of the Shadows series, a fair number of changes have taken place in the

fantasy field: vampires have been supplanted by werewolves and like creatures both in print and on film,

Tolkienesque High Fantasy has perhaps inevitably evolved away from its emphasis on dwarves, faeries,

and elves toward a greater magical involvement with human characters, and there is the increasingly

popular use of the label "Dark Fantasy" to mark those stories of horror and terror which contain, at the

very least, a seductive hint of the supernatural. And the more it is used, the more it becomes exceedingly

appropriate—not only does it serve to differentiate that material from High Fantasy, but it also implies

that a great deal more is contained within the story than simply horror.

And in those stories which rise above the hackneyed, that is perfectly true.

From Robert Louis Stevenson to Peter Straub, Edgar Allan Poe to Stephen King, there has been and is a

fascination with all things dark, with all things which inhabit the far side of midnight; and it is less the idea

that there are creatures out there than it is the belief that those same creatures are not necessarily

inexplicable, not completely beyond our comprehension. To cast light on black creates fields of grey in

shades which do far more than show us what's out there; it also shows us that what's out there can just as

easily be found in here —in our rooms, under our beds, in our closets . . . and in our minds.

And that which is in our minds is assuredly no less real than that which is concealed behind our

favorite chair.

Sooner or later, then, most Dark Fantasy writers take a busman's holiday from those "things which go

bump in the night" to attempt in their fiction an exploration of the mind's realm which lies beyond

insanity. An aberration is, after all, just an aberration, and stories about characters who have lost their

minds are stories of psychological terror, not fantasy. The fascination, then, lies not in the insanity itself

but in the possibility that the insanity can be so powerful as to create a new segment of reality—not just

for the afflicted character, but for the others who inhabit that character's world as well.

The creatures of the mind become the creatures that walk the streets, the alleyways, the woodland,

the front porch.

No less real, no less deadly.

And because the writer, in attempting such material, faces difficulties of creation only hinted at in his

usual work, the stories born of such labor, when they are successful, compare unquestionably favorably

to anything written in any other genre.

This is not to say that Dark Fantasy is struggling to lay claim to the designations "Art" or "Serious

Literature." To lay claim implies an outsider attempting to sneak in where he doesn't belong, or where

he once was and from which he has been ousted by the so-called literary mavens. Dark Fantasy has

never been on the outside. The best of it, as in the best of mainstream literature, sets real people

disguised as fictional characters onto a plotted road to see what may be discovered through trial and/or

triumph, discoveries not only about the characters themselves, but also about the readers, and all the

rest of us.

Whether one meets windmills, psychoses, and/or Mr. Hyde along the way should be of less concern

than what happens (in all senses of the word) when these crises complete their developments and the

characters move on—one way or the other.

In that respect, "Dark" itself carries with it much more weight than simply midnight.

And "Fantasy," like a shadow, is not always what we think it is.

Charles L. Grant Budd Lake, New Jersey 1981

Tanith Lee, winner of the British Fantasy A ward for her novel Sabella, has written numerous children's

books, radio and television plays, sf and fantasy novels, all with a dedication and fervor which puts

many of her colleagues to shame. She is meticulous about her work, demanding much both of herself and

her readers. She also understands better than most that shadows of the soul are just as terrifying as

shadows on the wall.

THE GORGON

by Tanith Lee

The small island, which lay off the larger island of Daphaeu, obviously contained a secret of some sort,

and, day by day, and particularly night by night, began to exert an influence on me, so that I must find it

out.

Daphaeu itself (or more correctly herself, for she was a female country, voluptuous and cruel by turns in

the true antique fashion of the Goddess) was hardly enormous. A couple of roads, a tangle of sheep tracks,

a precarious, escalating village, rocks and hillsides thatched by blistered grass. All of which overhung an

extraordinary sea, unlike any sea which 1 have encountered elsewhere in Greece. Water which might be

mistaken for blueness from a distance, but which, from the harbor or the multitude of caves and coves that

undermined the island, revealed itself a clear and succulent green, like milky limes or the bottle glass of

certain spirits.

On my first morning, having come onto the natural terrace (the only recommendation of the hovel-like

accommodation) to look over this strange green ocean, I saw the smaller island, lying like a little boat of

land moored just wide of Daphaeu's three hills. The day was clear, the water frilled with white where it hit

the fangs in the interstices below the terrace. About the smaller island, barely a ruffle showed. It seemed

to glide up from the sea, smooth as mirror. The little island was verdant, also. Unlike Daphaeu's limited

stands of stone pine, cypress, and cedar, the smaller sister was clouded by a still, lambent haze of foliage

that looked to be woods. Visions of groves, springs, a ruined temple, a statue of Pan playing the panpipes

forever in some glade —where only yesterday, it might seem, a thin column of aromatic smoke had gone up

—these images were enough, fancifully, to draw me into inquiries about how the small island might be

reached. And when my inquiries met first with a polite bevy of excuses, next with a refusal, last with a

blank wall of silence, as if whoever 1 mentioned the little island to had gone temporarily deaf or mad, I

became, of course, insatiable to get to it, to find out what odd superstitious thing kept these people away.

Naturally, the Daphaeui were not friendly to me at any time beyond the false friendship one anticipates

extended to a man of another nationality and clime, who can be relied on to pay his bills, perhaps allow

himself to be overcharged, even made a downright monkey of in order to preserve goodwill. In the normal

run of things, I could have had anything I wanted in exchange for a pack of local lies, a broad local smile,

and a broader local price. That I could not get to the little island puzzled me. I tried money and I tried

barter. I even, in a reckless moment, probably knowing I would not succeed, offered Pitos, one of the

younger fishermen, the gold and onyx ring he coveted. My sister had made it for me, the faithful copy of an

intaglio belonging to the House of Borgia, no less. Generally, Pitos could not pass the time of day with me

without mentioning the ring, adding something in the nature of: "If ever you want a great service, any great

service, I will do it for that ring." 1 half believe he would have stolen or murdered for it, certainly shared

the bed with me. But he would not, apparently, even for the Borgia ring, take me to the little island.

"You think too much of foolish things," he said to me. "For a big writer, that is not good."

1 ignored the humorous aspect of "big," equally inappropriate in the sense of height, girth, or fame.

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