Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 151

By Neil Clarke, Natalia Theodoridou, Nian Yu and 4 more

Clarkesworld is a Hugo and World Fantasy Award-winning science fiction and fantasy magazine. Each month we bring you a mix of fiction (new and classic works), articles, interviews and art. Our April 2019 issue (#151) contains:

• Original fiction by Natalia Theodoridou ("The Last Eagle"), Yukimi Ogawa ("Ripen"), Eric Schwitzgebel ("Gaze of Robot, Gaze of Bird"), Soyeon Jeong ("The Flowering"), Priya Chand ("Social Darwinism"), Nian Yu ("In Search of Your Memories"), and Y.M. Pang ("Skyscrapers in the Sand").
• Reprint by Nick Wolven ("Confessions of a Con Girl").
• Non-fiction by Douglas F. Dluzen, interviews with Jack Skillingstead and Anna Kashina, and an editorial by Neil Clarke.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wyrm Publishing
• Release date: Apr 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781642360806

Neil Clarke

Neil Clarke (neil-clarke.com) is the multi-award-winning editor of Clarkesworld Magazine and over a dozen anthologies. A eleven-time finalist and the 2022/2023 winner of the Hugo Award for Best Editor Short Form, he is also the three-time winner of the Chesley Award for Best Art Director. In 2019, Clarke received the SFWA Kate Wilhelm Solstice Award for distinguished contributions to the science fiction and fantasy community. He currently lives in New Jersey with his wife and two sons

Book preview

Clarkesworld Magazine

Issue 151

Table of Contents

The Last Eagle

by Natalia Theodoridou

Ripen

by Yukimi Ogawa

Gaze of Robot, Gaze of Bird

by Eric Schwitzgebel

The Flowering

by Soyeon Jeong

Social Darwinism

by Priya Chand

In Search of Your Memories

by Nian Yu

Skyscrapers in the Sand

by Y.M. Pang

Confessions of a Con Girl

by Nick Wolven

Talking Cells: Deciphering the Messages in Our Blood

by Douglas F. Dluzen

Syria, Time, and Typewriters: A Conversation with Jack Skillingstead

by Chris Urie

Shadows, Swordplay, and Ballroom Dancing: A Conversation with Anna Kashina

by Chris Urie

Editor’s Desk: An International Journey

by Neil Clarke

Biolight paws at sunset

Art by Arthur Haas

© Clarkesworld Magazine, 2019

www.clarkesworldmagazine.com

The Last Eagle

Natalia Theodoridou

For a city boy, you are terrible in crowds, Beatrice used to say, and she wasn’t wrong exactly, but it was never the crowds that were the problem. It was the open spaces. The too-muchness of air, of movement, of sound. Even here, I catch myself making my body small, as small as possible. The plaza is nearly empty—this is only a village, after all—and yet I feel exposed, worried about the boundlessness of sky, like something up above has been broken open. At least the day is overcast, the clouds low. I find that comforting, somehow. There is a chill in the air.

I see someone walking fast towards me, their step sure, as if they’ve recognized me. A young-man-shaped person, lean and wiry. A full head taller than me, which is hardly a surprise. Sunburned skin and high cheekbones, dark hair down to their ears, arms chiseled and bare, despite the chill.

They extend an arm to greet me. You must be Lucia’s cousin! they say. My name is João. He/him. I’m your promised guide.

Fabiano, I say. It still feels good. He/him. I press my hand into his awkwardly, as if I’ve forgotten how to shake.

Your hands are cold, Fabiano, he says and smiles with his eyes.

He leads me to the village’s only guesthouse, where we’ll spend the night. There is nothing to do here—this village, like every other village in the region, was mostly abandoned sometime during the war, the majority of its inhabitants either dead or vanished—so we sit in our host’s kitchen, next to the stove. She places black coffee and flatbreads in front of us and retreats to a room in the back, separated from the kitchen with strings of beads hanging in a doorless frame.

I am told that we need to start early the next morning, if we want to be at the next village before dark. That’s where you say your friend was last seen, correct? João asks me, his mouth half-full of bread.

Yes, I say. I take a sip of coffee. Its bitterness bites my throat.

What was her name again?

Beatrice. We picked it together. It took us weeks. I kept coming up with lists upon lists, mostly baby name ideas I pulled off the Internet, but she didn’t like any of them. Said it felt weird to have a name; she’d never had one before. Then I showed her a painting by Dante Gabriel Rossetti and she asked me what that redheaded woman’s name was, and that was it. She never told me what it was about her that stuck, and I knew better than to ask.

João nods. He eats and drinks quietly for a while. His face, illuminated only by the light of the stove, reminds me of that same painting. Golden and warm, like a proper pre-Raphaelite.

We should sleep, he says then, and warns me again about our early start the next morning.

My room is Spartan: a thin-mattressed bed, a stool with a shallow basin filled with water, a small mirror nailed to the limewashed wall. I avoid my reflection and turn off the lamp.

I wrap the itchy blanket around myself and shiver in the dark. Sleep escapes me for hours. I think of Beatrice, of the hole in the side of her neck and the first time she showed it to me. I can still feel the weight of her key in my palm. She told me she was ashamed. And I got it, even as I wished I didn’t. I wished I could tell her there was nothing to be ashamed of, but I wasn’t quite there yet myself, back then.

Am I now?

I close my eyes to the darkness and think of open spaces, the dread of them putting the question to rest.

I wake up frozen. The cold has seeped through the walls overnight and settled on me like a shroud. I shake my body awake enough to give myself my injection and then shave the peach fuzz on my face. I do it slowly, carefully, my little biweekly ritual. I cherish the feeling of the shaving foam on my jawline, my cheeks, my chin, then the pressure of the razor against my skin. I spare only the tiny black hairs on my upper lip. They make me look like a teenage boy, but I don’t care. I love them. I remember the shock that ran through me the first time I realized I loved something about my body. The radical newness of it enough to break the world apart, then put it back together again.

João, full of warnings, has informed me that the hike to Castelalbano will be demanding and will take most of the day. I hesitate briefly before putting on my binder, but I can’t bring myself to go out without it. Much worse than walking out the door naked, it would be like going out without my skin. So that settles it, I guess.

He greets me in the kitchen, his wide smile and his dark eyes bright and alert, as if he’s thrilled to be up at the crack of dawn and looking forward to a day of walking in the freezing cold. Fabiano! he exclaims and points at a small mound of freshly-baked flatbreads and another cup of that coffee, no doubt as bitter as last night’s. Eat, drink, he orders. We have a difficult day ahead. He beams at our host, who’s stuffing wood into the stove. And we might not enjoy such hospitality again for some time.

Really? I ask, and it comes out more sarcastic than I intended. I would not be surprised if I found out later that our host had taken terrible offense. I’m not usually like this. I feel my cheeks burn.

João laughs. The people of Castelalbano are not known for their warmth, he explains, without dropping that wide smile of his even for a moment. I catch myself staring at the shape of his lips, the way his moustache hugs the sides of his mouth, like a permanent frown painted onto his face, so much at odds with his disposition. It makes me want to touch his lips, see if I can wipe that frown away.

When he’s satisfied that I’ve had enough to eat, he leads us out of the village and onto the path to Castelalbano.

We walk without speaking for more than an hour before the sun peeks over the mountains that cradle us. My heart beats hard in my chest, my rib cage hurts, and João’s pace is too fast for me. I keep up for another hour before I have to admit defeat. I’m not supposed to do strenuous exercise, I say. Not in a binder is what I mean, and I almost say so, but then I don’t.

He looks at me, confused. This is not strenuous exercise, he says. He flexes his well-formed glutes, as if to underline the point.

It is for me, I reply, my tone as dry as December skin.

His face drops, but only slightly. I’m very sorry, he says. We’ll slow down. He starts to walk again, then stops and turns around to face me once more. He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. His eyes are warm and not pitying at all and I’m thankful for it. Let me know if it is still too hard. I should not have assumed. His face is flushed, and I know for sure it’s not from the trek.

It’s alright, I say, and when he doesn’t let go of my shoulder I repeat: It is. Really. I try on a smile, and it must work because we’re on our way again the next moment.

I focus on my shoes for most of the journey, even when João points out rare plants or supplies crucial bits of information on the region and vivid details about how the war played out in this ravine or that. I listen to his voice but not to what he’s saying, and all I can think of is the terrifying emptiness that stretches above us and what a miracle it is that we have our feet stuck to the ground, that we don’t all go falling into the sky.

Castelalbano supposedly owes its name to a white castle which turns out to be little more than a limestone watchtower that stands, half-crumbled, at the village’s entrance. It is already dark when we see the top of the watchtower loom in the distance, its windows dark and empty.

The power grid here was destroyed during the war and never repaired, so there are no lights in the streets, and the few inhabitants are probably already fast asleep in their beds. Our guest room for the night will be an abandoned barn.

It is as cold inside the barn as it is outside, so we pick a corner as far from the entrance as possible and make ourselves a nest out of our sleeping bags and fleece blankets. We use a hurricane lamp for light. João opens his arms and invites me to make myself comfortable next to him. For warmth, he adds with a smile when he sees me hesitate. So we huddle together for a while. My chest is killing me, though, and I can’t stay like this forever, so I clench my teeth and ask him to turn around while I undress, slip out of my binder, and put my clothes back on as quickly as I can, my breath coming out in little puffs of steam.

By the time I’m done, I’m shivering. OK, I say, you can turn around again.

He only glances at the bulge of my chest for a second before opening his arms and inviting me into the warm blankets again. Come on, boy, he says. You’ll freeze to death.

It takes me a few minutes to stop shaking, but eventually I do. He seems to interpret that as an invitation of some sort. Tell me about Beatrice, he says.

What can I say of Beatrice? And how much can I tell him?

We met a couple of years ago, after the war had ended, I say. I found her wandering about in the city. She looked so lost. She had no one. Knew no one. So I took her in. I was not Fabiano yet, then. Her name was not the only one we came up with together. She disappeared three months ago. She was my only friend. Taught me . . .  I stop myself.

Taught you what?

Nothing. Never mind, I say and he doesn’t press me further.

Do you have any idea why she left? he asks. Or what she was looking for?

No. And no.

He nods, changes the subject. Lucia said you were a student, before the war. What were you studying?

Religion. Theater.

Both?

I shrug. They are not as far apart as you might think.

I don’t think anything, he says. I have no religion. And I’ve never been to the theater.

So what do you do when you’re not showing city boys around the mountains?

I go where I’m needed.

What does that even mean?

Somebody has to rebuild this country, he says. This world.

His face grows serious for the first time since I met him. Sunny João. I thought his light never set, but here it is, the darkness that had to be there, somewhere. That is always there. How could it not, after everything?

Who did you lose? I ask. In the war.

Does it matter? he asks back—almost snaps, in fact, the way people do when they feel guilty about something. He looks away, and I can suddenly sense the openness again, the massive stretches of space above us, outside the barn, weighing down on us, threatening to crush us. We’re all looking for someone.

It’s my turn to be silent. I always find myself floored when people open up like this, even a little. Even without talking. The slightest sign of vulnerability or kindness and I’m down on my knees, caught, surrendered.

Beatrice used to say it’s my greatest flaw. I haven’t made up my mind yet about whether I agree or not.

Fabiano, he says after a while. I like the way my name sounds on his lips. Do people shorten your name a lot?

Yes, I say. Fabio. Fab. All the time.

He raises his hand with the palm towards me, the fingers close together, as if he’s about to take an oath. I will never shorten your name, Fabiano, he says, so earnest, not a hint of irony in his voice, as if it’s the most important promise he’s made in his whole life.

The people of Castelalbano live up to their reputation of guardedness, but João’s warmth could melt a glacier; these people never stood a chance. He manages to get us directions, a bathroom in which to wash ourselves, even a rudimentary breakfast. Finally, we walk into the village’s only coffee house, which transforms into a watering hole as the day progresses. Three people are seated at the plastic-covered tables, each one on their own. For the first time in a long time, I feel my body scrutinized, my visible queerness a weapon that can be used against me. I start thinking of these people as men, when I know I shouldn’t. I can’t help it. João remains relaxed, his arms at his sides, his face sure and open. It helps me relax a bit too, though I still keep two paces behind him as he approaches one of them. João gestures to the owner to brew fresh coffee for everyone and then motions towards the empty chairs at the man’s table. May we join you? he asks.

The man grunts, and João takes a seat. He nods at me to join them, so I do. The man follows me with his eyes.

The owner brings us the coffee, and we all drink before speaking, as is customary. Good health, João says. The black liquid is so hot it burns my tongue.

To you as well, the man responds. I have a feeling he doesn’t mean both of us.

João pulls out the photo of Beatrice I gave him. It’s the only photo of her I have; she didn’t like being photographed, except that one time, we went to the Luna Park. It had just reopened after the war. Beatrice didn’t really enjoy any of the rides, the machinery of it all