Fantasy Magazine, Issue 3

Fantasy Magazine Issue 3 Table of Contents Manuel and the Magic Fox by Ekaterina Sedia (fiction) Black Eyed Moon by Darby Harn (fiction) Salt Wine by Peter S. Beagle (fiction) Watch Dog by Hannah Wolf Bowen (fiction) Susano's Comb by Jeannette Westwood (fiction) The Dawn Walker by Marly Youmans (fiction) Boy On A Bicycle by M. Thomas (fiction) There Is No Rice Pudding In the Sea by Anna Tambour (fiction) The Green House by Sandra McDonald (fiction) Trees, Like Candles, Dripping Wax by Resa Nelson (fiction) Fortunate Brave by Leslie Claire Walker (fiction) Hungry Ghosts by M.E. Palmer (fiction) Interview: Peter S. Beagle Book Reviews About the Editors © 2006 Fantasy Magazine www.fantasy-magazine.com Manuel and the Magic Fox Ekaterina Sedia Manuel Lainez walked across the reddish sand of the Playas Valley. The sun almost touched a low mountain range that hid the town of Lordsburg from view, and Manuel picked up his step. He had lingered at the Navajo reservation for too long, in thrall to his uncle’s tales, and now he hurried back home, to the Pueblo, the crisp April air invigorating his every step. His uncle Tobi tried to tempt Manuel to stay at the reservation overnight, and miss the Mass tomorrow morning. He could never resist making a dig at the Pueblo and their love of the Spaniards and the Spaniards’ church. Manuel would’ve agreed, if it weren’t for his fear of his mother’s ire. She was most vocal in her disapproval of Manuel spending time in the company of “that legless drunk.” Manuel did not think his mother cruel — she had been kind to Uncle Tobi when he came home from Germany last year. Manuel guessed that now she was angry because uncle Tobi had lost only his legs in the war, while Manuel’s father had lost all of him. Manuel was determined to get home before dark, but he halted his steps once he noticed tracks on the sand. At first he thought it was a coyote, but the tracks were much too small. They led in the same direction as the Pueblo, and Manuel decided to follow them, as long as he did not stray from his path. The tracks weaved between the sand ridges and circumvented the patches of cacti. This land was so dry that it was hard to imagine the lush farms of Pueblo that lay just a mile to the east. Manuel’s shadow grew longer with every step, but he kept his nose to the ground, following the delicate chain of small four-toed prints. He crested a sand ridge and looked down, into the green of the valley and the scattering of the adobe roofs. From this distance, the village looked like a giant beehive, with its interconnected buildings piled on top of each other, most of them lopsided with the added rooms. Manuel adjusted the shoulder strap of his satchel, and noticed that the tracks ended abruptly. Manuel squinted, hard pressed to believe his eyes. A small fox, his fur as bright as a flame, sat in the shadow of the ridge, smiling at him. The story of the Trickster Coyote and his companion Fox was still fresh in Manuel’s mind. Fox was the only one who was ever able to outsmart the Coyote, and the thought filled Manuel with respect. He knew that the Trickster and the company he kept were not friends of the people; on the other hand, if one encountered any malevolent forces, he should do his best to appease them — that was simple common sense. “Here, Mr. Fox,” Manuel said. “Are you hungry?” The fox wagged his tail and crept closer, the black rubbery lips curled to show his white teeth. Manuel took his satchel off his shoulder, and felt inside. Uncle Tobi never sent him home without a snack for the road, and Manuel took out a half-eaten SPAM sandwich. “You want this?” he said to the fox. The fox approached, in cautious mincing steps, and its white teeth snatched the sandwich from Manuel’s fingers. The fox ate as if he was completely famished — the sandwich was gone before it even touched the ground, and the fox licked his face with a small, red tongue. Manuel laughed. “You want some more, don’t you?” he said. “I know it’s tough being a fox these days. Hardly any livestock around, and all the people going to and fro. It’s war, you see.” He looked for more food as he spoke, and the fox’s eyes never strayed from the satchel decorated with white and black glass beads. “Sorry, Mr. Fox,” Manuel said. “All I’ve is some cornbread, but foxes do not eat that kind of stuff, I suppose.” The fox’s tail drummed on the ground, as if he were trying to say, “I’ll tell you what foxes eat.” Manuel offered a chunk of yellow bread on his palm, and the fox devoured it as enthusiastically as the first offering. “That’s it, Mr. Fox.” Manuel heaved the satchel back onto his shoulder. “I know it’s not much. You better stay away from the village. But next time I’m coming this way I’ll bring you something.” The fox backed into the elongated blue shadows of the ridge, and disappeared from sight. Manuel blinked, and realized that the sun had set. He ran down the ridge, toward the scattered lights of the village. His heart fluttered with anticipation of a scolding as he opened the screen door that led to their first-story apartment. He half-hoped that he would be able to sneak to his room undetected and pretend that he was home hours ago, but he heard a female voice that belonged to one of the neighbors, and a low, resonant baritone of the village priest, coming from the living room. Worried, he looked into the shadows of the living room, disrupted by a single flame of a kerosene lamp. “What’s going on?” “Manuel!” the neighbor, an old Zuni woman with a smooth skin and a kindly face, said. “Your mother is not well. Where have you been?” “Visiting Uncle Tobi,” Manuel said, his guilt washing over him like a hot wave. “What’s wrong with Mom?” “The doctor said it’s a stroke,” the priest said. “There’s nothing he can do for her — it just has to run its course.” “Will she be okay?” Manuel said. The old priest steepled his wrinkled hands. “We can pray, Manuel. We can pray.” * * * * Manuel prayed. He prayed to Jesus and to the Virgin, to the ancestors and other benevolent spirits, kachinas. Two days had passed, but still all sounds reached Manuel through a thick blanket of his shock, and seemed far away. With his mother laid up, he found himself caring for the garden and the house. His mother regained consciousness, but seemed to have lost much of her memory. She confused Manuel with her husband, and occasionally with her father. The left half of her body was paralyzed, and Manuel avoided looking into her face, slack and suddenly alien. The neighbors helped the best they could — some brought food over, and one kind soul even let Manuel borrow his radio. The apparatus sat on the living room table, and distracted Manuel from his private, small grief by the reports of large and important events. His mother listened too, frowning every time the news from the front came in. There was also an unrest in the Japanese relocation center at Santa Fe; there was another one at Lordsburg. They were just a few miles west of the Pueblo, and as he swept the earthen floor clean, Manuel contemplated whether it was something he should be worried about. His mother moaned, and Manuel came closer. “What do you need, Mom?” Her right eye stared at him with unexpected lucidity. “What day is it, Manolo?” “It’s Tuesday, Mom.” “Why aren’t you at school?” “I couldn’t leave you alone,” he said. She lifted her right arm and wriggled her fingers in a vaguely dismissive gesture. “You have to be at school. If I need anything, I’ll holler and Mrs. Valdez from upstairs will check on me. Go.” Manuel obeyed out of habit. He sat through an hour of English with Father Domenico. The thick whitewashed walls of the school still retained the chill of early spring. Manuel did not hear a word, too busy worrying. Last Christmas, when they received the news of his father’s death, Manuel bore it like a man. Maybe it was easier because he had died so far away, and in his secret heart Manuel could still hope that a mistake was made, and father would come home one day, when the war was over. Perhaps, they said that he was dead as a cover up; perhaps, he was recruited as one of the code talkers, all of whom were Navajo. He could not pretend the same way with his mother who lay in her room, her left leg and arm as useless as logs, her spit trailing onto the pillow. “Manuel.” Father Domenico stood over him, his long fingers tucked into the sleeves of his brown Franciscan robe. “Are you paying attention?” “No, Father,” Manuel said. The faces of his classmates all turned toward him — everyone knew that his mother was ill and perhaps dying. There were no secrets in the Pueblo. Father Domenico nodded. “I understand. I won’t call on you today, and if you need to miss a day or two, go ahead.

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