Amphibious Dreamers: Collected Stories

By S. Stirling Davenport

This collection of stories by Stirling Davenport has evolved over a period of 20 years. The tales are organized loosely by genre, although such designations can be ambiguous. Stories which appear at first to be fantasy are interwoven with reality. A gravedigger sees the ghost of a dead child. A mans obsession with memory leads him into a past life as a voodoo priest. An artist has a recurring experience with a homeless woman who may be his true muse.

Mainstream tales include a childs scrap of memory, a doomed love affair, a possible suicide, and a transformative journey to Tibet. Even the authors science fiction stories explore the classic themes of courage, redemption, love and endurance. Many of Stirlings tales reflect her Buddhist philosophies. As she says, Its tempting to remake the world by writing fiction, but its more difficult to simply translate it as it is, without any judging or forcing resolution. So Ive tried to let the characters find their own way, however that happens. Its how we all live, isnt it? Following the inner voice and seeking a life of integrity and dignity without losing our humor, flexibility or love.

A few of these stories have been published elsewhere. Abbas Mark was published in 1998 by Design-Image Group in a vampire anthology called The Darkest Thirst. Engineering Beauty won a prize in eternity.coms Price of Technology contest in 1999. Dancing with the Shadow appeared on-line at Dark Planet (http://www.sfsite.com/darkplanet) in 2000. The Intercessor was presented in its original form in Dont Forget To Write: A Guide to Building and Maintaining a Lasting Writers Group, published by Xlibris in 2000, a joint venture by the 6 Ferrets Writers Group, edited by D.M. Rosner.

Background notes at the end of the book give a fascinating glimpse into the creative process of a writer, and expose the inspiration for many of the stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 9, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462830824

S. Stirling Davenport

Stirling Davenport lives in Norwalk, Connecticut and writes science fiction, fantasy, horror and mainstream fiction. Her short story “Abba’s Mark” was published in 1998 by Design-Image Group in a vampire anthology called The Darkest Thirst. Several of her stories have appeared in on-line markets. Her web site http://home.att.net/~stirlings/home.htm is a changing collage of poetry, travel photos, journal entries, articles and experimental work. As an artist and writer, Stirling has taught creative fiction, been interviewed on local television, run art therapy workshops, taught art to children, and written software. Stirling is a member of the 6’ Ferret Writers’ Group, and she drew the ferret trucker logo displayed on the group’s web site http://pages.cthome.net/6ft_ferrets/. In her spare time, she is studying Tibetan thangka painting and learning Tibetan. Stirling holds a B.A. from University of Massachusetts, and honors in Literature and Visual Arts from State University of New York at Purchase

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Copyright © 2000 by S. Stirling Davenport.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

TURNING AWAY FROM BROKEN THINGS

ENDLESS KNOT

SIDE ROAD

REFUGEE

MYSTERY

REQUIEM FOR A GRAVEDIGGER

JUST DESERTS

THE SUPERNATURAL

CALL OF THE BOCOR

SALEM’S CHILD

MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE

ABBA’S MARK

THE INTERCESSOR

SCIENCE FICTION

ENGINEERING BEAUTY

DANCING WITH THE SHADOW

FIRST CONTACT

THE RECOVERY ROOM

THE FRINGE

CHIRIK AT NAG’S

ONE-NIGHT’S KISS

DOWRY FOR A BLACKSMITH

BACKGROUND NOTES

BACKGROUND TO THE STORIES IN AMPHIBIOUS DREAMERS

My deepest thanks to all those who inspired and aided in my creative process, and to my writers’ group for giving me the confidence to persist in this lonely profession, especially D.M. Rosner, whose technical assistance was invaluable. Lastly, thanks to my loved ones for their constant understanding.

INTRODUCTION

The stories in this collection are organized loosely by genre, although such designations can be ambiguous. Probably these categories are destined to change, even in an industry that is so market-driven. Many writers who have inspired me are pushing the boundaries all the time. Mainstream stories blur with mystic overtones. Fantasies seem surprisingly real. Science fiction becomes science fact.

If there’s a common theme running through these tales, it’s the classic search for courage, redemption, love, endurance, inspiration, understanding, compassion and transcendence—all the things that we humans have been aspiring to since beginningless time. Some of the stories may reflect my Buddhist philosophies, but I don’t pretend to have any special wisdom. Truth exists like a vast ocean, weaving in and out of all my efforts, whether I swim or drown in its currents. My little craft of fiction may get me to the shore eventually, but somehow I still long for the power to become an amphibian and truly know the tides.

TURNING AWAY FROM BROKEN THINGS

On a farm in north central China, Ningzhi awoke and remembered, as she had every morning for the past two years, that she was no longer in her mother’s house. The room was still in the gray light, and slowly Ningzhi’s eyes focused on the man beside her. His name was Jiang, and he was twenty-six. He had bought her from her parents two years before, when she was sixteen.

The languid colors of her dream dissolved like snowflakes on dark branches, banishing everything but the chores that lay ahead. She had to fetch water and start the breakfast for the old man, his wife and son. But today she had other things in mind.

She glanced once more at Jiang. In his sleep he looked much younger, almost sweet. His light snoring was endearing, and his thin beard was his only sign of maturity. His thatch of black hair was tumbled on the pallet, and he clutched the quilt in his fist in a curiously childlike way. Jiang was deserving of love, Ningzhi thought. Perhaps another woman could have loved him.

Shivering, she turned and slid off the bed, slowly and with as little noise as possible. She pulled on her heavy muslin dress, a red woolen sweater, and two pairs of long socks. She looked at Jiang again, and felt a combination of guilt and resentment.

Was it her fault she didn’t enjoy his embraces, his grumbling, undemonstrative ways? Was it her fault he didn’t resemble her girlhood fantasies? It hadn’t been her idea to come here. Ningzhi’s uncle Dai had met Jiang at a market and had struck up a friendship. Jiang’s village had no marriageable women. He was willing to pay, and Uncle Dai had a pretty niece whose family needed the money.

Ningzhi had argued with her mother for a week, desperately, knowing she had no hope of prevailing. The meager income from their small teashop wasn’t enough to make ends meet, since her brother was going to marry and her family had to pay the dowry for his new bride. Ningzhi had barely said goodbye to her friends before she was packed off, willing or not.

She imagined her ancestors frowning in disfavor. Ungrateful girl. You have a roof over your head. You’re not being beaten, and you’re not starving. What’s wrong with you?

Tears clogged Ningzhi’s throat, and she pushed them down. She tied her long hair back with a frayed, green ribbon, and peered at her reflection in the small mirror over the sink. Her once-smooth skin was wind-burned, and her bottom lip was cracked from the cold. Her eyes, her best feature, had lost their luster. If only she could leave the farm. She was several miles from the village, and hundreds of miles from the nearest city. It was too dangerous to travel so far alone. What if she were kidnapped along the road, or raped by bandits or killed? Her eyes brimmed with hot tears.

She had once dreamed of going to a city, where there were good schools and jobs, and nice places to live. Yet, her cousin Yue, who got a job in a shoe factory in Harbin, worked ten hours a day and lived in one room with six other girls.

Ningzhi pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced fearfully at the colorless walls. The corners were shadowed in the pre-dawn. She blinked as ghostly figures of her ancestors seem to loom above her, threatening her with disgrace and condemnation.

She wiped her eyes with an angry swipe. Leave me alone, she thought. Jiang had paid Ningzhi’s family nearly the equivalent of a year’s income, and she’d had no marriage prospects in her own village.

Carrying her clogs, Ningzhi passed the room where her husband’s parents slept, and for a moment her face lost animation. Jiang’s father was polite to Ningzhi, though stern and quiet, but her mother-in-law nagged and disapproved of everything Ningzhi did. It was clear that there’d be no peace if Ningzhi didn’t bear a son—or even a daughter—to help with the farm work. Ningzhi felt powerless and humiliated that her body seemed incapable of providing her with this form of escape. The ancients were right. It was a terrible thing to be a woman.

She took the bucket from the nail on the wall and left quietly, walking through the morning twilight toward the stream. It was cold, and she could see her breath.

To the right of the path, the fields of winter wheat were laid out in neat, long lines. Her life was like that, on the surface, so cultivated and rational. And, like the rows of wheat, each day was exactly like the last, stretching toward the horizon where the sun was peeping out, its frail beauty curving like a frozen arc under the gauzy sliver of moon. Longing made her steps heavy.

Something about the sunlight always saddened her, especially in springtime. Perhaps there’d been a moment in her childhood when she’d felt the sun on her strong, young body, and believed that someday her dreams would be a reality. Now, Ningzhi yearned for rain. She wanted something to match her mood, a real, drenching downpour that would leave the fields soggy with broken stalks.

When she was about a hundred yards from the trees that separated her from the stream, she stopped.

She looked back at the shabby, square-built house. A glint of sunlight turned a patch of the roof to pale gold, and an obscure and helpless anger filled her. She wanted to blame her parents and Jiang. But, when she was honest, she could see that they were victims, too, in a certain way. Times were hard and there were few choices. Who could she blame—the gods? No one worshipped them anymore, and their shrines were grown over and forgotten.

When she neared the small utility shed to the left of the path, she stopped, feeling a thrill of fear. Inside was a different form of escape.

The shed had not been used all winter. It took some exertion, but she managed to wrench open the door. She shivered in the darkness, her eyes searching for what she needed. There it was, in the middle of the dirt, its peeling label stained and faded. She noted the strong black characters that identified it. She’d seen the way Jiang and his father handled it, and what it did to the insects in the fields.

Fingers shaking, she unscrewed the top, which was roughly the size of a small teacup, and set it on the floor. She tilted the heavy bottle, her legs splayed to keep it from spilling. Holding her breath, she dribbled the noxious fluid slowly until it filled the cap. She could already smell the choking fumes. Carrying the potion with both hands, she shuffled back to the doorway.

The first haze of sunlight seeped over the horizon. The weight of her life pressed down on her, and she imagined all the dreaded, unlived days being swallowed by the impartial earth.

If she fell down a well, everyone would understand. There would be no dishonor. Sometimes mere existence was intolerable. Her life was a failure, and as the years went on, it would get worse and worse. She felt the silent vigilance of her ancestors pressing in on her. No baby would come to warm her womb, not from this clumsy man or her own hollow yearning. What do you have to live for? they seemed to ask.

If only it would rain, she thought, and the tears came forth at last, washing down her face. She imagined herself encircled by invisible allies who offered their strength to help her in this dreadful task. Trembling, she lifted the cap, still facing the gleaming horizon.

The approaching sunlight was elusive and inarticulate, a caress in the icy morning. She squinted, turning her face, holding her breath against the acrid smell of the pesticide. She could sense her ancestors whispering, Go on. But Ningzhi could not.

She waited with the capful of poison inches away from her lips, as still as a tree. Everything seemed very clear to her for the first time, etched with remarkable detail. The dew glistened on the grass in the chilly morning. A crow called three times in the distance. The rows of wheat danced toward the horizon, their green tips lit by the sunlight. They resembled small stars gently bobbing in the breeze. Something must have moved in the sky, she thought. Or it could have been in her.

She was filled with memories of her childhood, her school years, her chores in the teashop, her marriage to Jiang. Life was measured by time and seasons. Everything was impermanent. All of it changed and faded away into something else. Jiang might die tomorrow, or his parents might die. She might get pregnant next year, or next month, or tomorrow. She could even be pregnant now, at this very moment.

Or, things could get worse. What if every year only deepened her emptiness?

"How will I know what tomorrow will be, or even what I’ll feel tomorrow? She wished she could really talk to someone about it—her ancestors or her parents. Even Jiang.

A crow called from a nearby sycamore and its mate answered from a distance. They were probably looking for food, she mused. There was no freedom anywhere.

The wheat must cling to the ground and the clouds to the sky, she thought. We’re all prisoners of something.

Whatever happens, it’s my life. If it’s bad or good, she whispered to the silent fields and anyone who cared to listen.

She looked back at the house once more. Ancient shadows seemed to hover under the eaves. With a flick of her hand, Ningzhi tossed the insecticide on the grass, where it sizzled in little bubbles that evaporated in the crisp air. She watched the process of disintegration with a sense of fascination. How quickly it was over. The shadows faded as she gazed at the horizon.

She replaced the cap on the bottle, and heaved the door closed. Outside, she picked up a handful of earth and scoured her hands. The clean smell of the dirt made her sneeze. A slight wind ruffled her hair, carrying the scent of spring onions. She breathed deeply of the pungent fragrance, letting it drive away all trace of the poison.

Tomorrow she would go to Harbin and find a job in a teashop, or even work in the factory like her cousin Yue. She thought of the berries that grew by the banks of the stream. They were almost ripe now, the way Jiang liked them. She strode off toward the treeline, her figure silhouetted by the band of light spreading over the field.

ENDLESS KNOT

(This story is fictional; any resemblance to real persons is unintentional)

The doorway was twice my height, smoothed by the touch of thousands of hands, its edges decorated with tooled brass. In the center was an embossed brass shield with a tassel of yak hair. I waited before stepping over the six-inch doorsill to the interior of the monastery’s shrine room. Beyond the sill, I could see a patch of stone floor illuminated by wavering candlelight. The smell of butter lamps was rich and overpowering, with a hint of juniper incense beneath. A monk was chanting in a deep voice, and his words soothed me.

This was what I had come for, the moment I had been anticipating with excitement most of my life. Ever since I’d seen my first picture of Tibetans in my mother’s Children of Many Lands, I knew I had to come here. Somehow a pull exerted itself upon me through the barriers of time and space. I could not explain it to her—I could not explain it to anyone. But I knew those children, and I knew that place. I had to return there.

Now, in my late forties, I had finally made the physical journey. With a group of eight other travelers, I had arrived only an hour ago, and I was in love. First there were the scraggly trees, the yaks, the barren landscape, the streams, the sparkle of the sun, the crisp air and the beckoning mountains. Then there were the people, the feeling, and the intangible rhythm of this world. The only risk involved was in revealing how deeply it was affecting me. For, as much as I had expected to fall in love with Tibet, I had not expected to fall in love with a Tibetan.

From across the courtyard, he strode toward me, with insouciant grace. Of medium stature and bone thin, he had wide shoulders and a beautiful chiseled face, the lines etched into his cheeks and the penetration of his black eyes softened by an almost boyish smile.

What was I to do? From the moment I saw him, I was his. I had always prided myself on being somewhat impervious to handsome men, so it was not mere physical attraction. Instead, he had captured my entire being, physical, spiritual, mental, and emotional. I felt a tug at my heart that said, You’re mine.

I walked over the sill, feeling his warmth behind me. Inside, I bowed to the golden Buddha who presided over the altar, and began to move clockwise around the room, following the other pilgrims. The woman ahead of me had her hair done in the 108 braids of the traditional Buddhist. I could hear her mumbling prayers. Tears welled in my eyes.

I glanced into the shadows behind the statues, and imagined a young child playing, chasing a ball. A young monk. Now, where had that thought come from?

Pema spoke quietly, his voice deep and vibrant: You don’t point your thumbs when you pray. Put inside, like this. Belatedly, I recalled that Tibetans feel it’s an insult to point, recalling how Pema always gestured with his whole hand when indicating a mountain or monastery.

I could feel him behind me as I walked beneath the scrutiny of the wise, compassionate statues. At the doorway to the interior chamber, a tall, thin monk watched us enter. His eyes were like glistening nuggets in his seamed, dark face. His eyebrows rose slightly when he saw my tears, but he was silent.

Tashi Delek, I said in the ubiquitous Tibetan greeting, which conveys a host of blessings. He nodded, with a subtle smile. Good luck was something we could all do with more of, particularly the monks, I thought. There had once been thousands of monks living in this monastery, and now there were only a few hundred. Some were still in prison; some were dead; many had fled to India where they could study and worship freely.

Light poured into the room from two windows covered by golden silk. A breeze blew the fabric so that it rippled in waves. The large carpet on the floor was so worn by the passage of feet that the faded red and blue interlocking designs were barely discernible.

The monk sat down and folded his hands, gazing at a statue of Sakyamuni, the incarnation of Buddha. As the monk prayed, I could almost feel his intention that he might be one with whatever occurred in the unfolding of all destinies, even those of such individual beings as Pema and me. Behind him was another curtain with the endless knot worked into its center, symbol of eternal life. His belief permeated the room; all events were harmonious in the grand design. I felt supported in a way that I had never fully experienced before. Here I was allowed to be the composite of all my lifetimes. My entire being felt gripped by a deep sense of wholeness. Somehow I knew I could not go back to being ignorant of my true